I don’t flinch.
Let it all fucking break.
The door creaks open,and I see the figure appear in the mirror before I even turn around.
Of course. It’s my loving father.
He steps into the room. The tailored black suit clings perfectly to his frame, his tie knotted with surgical precision, and his gold cufflinks sparkle under the soft chandelier light.
His smile is tight, practiced. Just enough to appear calm without revealing the venom underneath.
“Well,” he says, his gaze dragging slowly on the dress he chose. “You look put together. For once.”
I don’t answer.
His eyes drop to the mess on the floor—the glass shards, the dark stain of perfume seeping into the grout—and when he speaks again, his voice is clipped with boredom.
“Was this necessary? The dramatics? The mess?”
I turn to face him. “I’m not fucking doing this.” I take a step forward, the train of my dress dragging behind me. “I’m not marrying him.”
He exhales, the sound laced with irritation.
“The deal is done,” he says, “your whining now changes nothing. So stand there, look pretty, and behave.”
“I’m not property.”
“You’re leverage,” he replies flatly. “There’s a difference.”
My throat tightens, the words knotting in the back of my mouth. “Why?” I whisper, barely able to push it past the ache rising in my chest.
He tilts his head, like I’ve asked something trivial. “Because I needed a bargaining chip,” he says, unbothered. “And lucky for me, I had a pretty, trainable one with time running out in Tennessee.”
The rage surges up so fast it steals my breath. I want to scream. I want to claw at him, tear something down, make him feel what he’s been doing to me. I want to shatter him the way he’s spent years breaking me into quiet, polished pieces.
“You’re a fucking monster,” I say through gritted teeth.
He steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret meant to wound. “No, sweetheart. I’m a man who built a kingdom. And you?” He smiles faintly. “You’re the toll.”
The breath stumbles out of me, shaky and uneven.
“I hate you,” I say, and this time, my voice doesn’t shake.
He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he offers the kind of smile you’d give a misbehaving child—warm enough to seem fatherly, but cold enough to slice. “You always say that when I’m doing what’s best for you.”
Best for me?
The words rattle inside my skull. He’s insane. Delusional. This is what he does—dresses control in care, ties trauma in a ribbon, and sells it as love.
He turns toward the door like the conversation never mattered. He pauses. His hand resting on the doorknob as he tosses one more look over his shoulder. “You’ll thank mesomeday.” With a dismissive glance over his shoulder, he adds, “Oh. And fix your fucking face. You look like a goddamn mess.”
The door clicks shut behind him, followed by the quiet snick of the lock sliding into place.
carter
. . .
The engine hums beneath us, low and constant — a dull, vibrating thrum that crawls up through the metal floor and into the soles of my boots. Some people find it calming. The steady white noise lulls anxious travelers into thinking everything’s fine.
