I watch TV. I know how it works.
Almost the best part of this is my father probably thinks I’d accepted my fate and moved on with life.
Wrong.
Wrong, wrong, wrong, motherfucker.
My net worth is ten times his. The narcissist was more interested in his fans and walking red carpets, while I was amassing my billions and biding my time.
Impatiently.
It’s only the boys who kept me out of jail in my twenties. We all did it for one another.
But I still spent nights wondering if Leo ever regretted what he did. Was there any part of him who cared for the small boy whose mother had just died and desperately needed love and comfort?
I never got it.
Or rather, not in the way that was loving or safe.
What I would have done to be invisible to him in the end.
The first time was the most shocking. I was five and asleep. The feel of his hands on me was confusing. I knew it was my dad, but his hands were in places, and doing things, that didn’t feel right.
Then the horror set in, and his hand covered my mouth.
He told me what would happen if I told anyone, as I whimpered and cried.
I was scared.
That fucking cunt.
Most of the week he went to work, and I attended school, so everything was normal. I thought—hoped—he’d never do it again.
Then the weekend arrived, and Sofia, my nanny, tucked me into bed and headed to her wing in our Los Angeles mansion in Beverly Hills. As she did every night. Friday night he brought a woman home, as he’d started doing just weeks after Mom died.
That was confusing and made me sad.
But it was Saturday, when he returned home alone, drunk and banging around, that my hopes were shattered.
The door clicked open, and I began trembling as the covers were shifted.
“No, Daddy,” I whimpered and got a smack over the head for it.
The sound of a door clicking open still triggers a PTSD reaction within me. I don’t talk about it or show it, but it’s there. Sending a slither of terror through me.
Understandably. This went on for five fucking years.
Night after night, I smothered my cries in the pillow, disappearing into the safe place inside my head. Essentially shutting down my emotions and senses.
It’s how I do it now as an adult.
Then one night, after I’d had a fever that day, Sofia came to check on me. She found my father standing beside my bed with his cock in one hand, the other gripping my face, forcing my mouth open.
Not that he had to force by that point. I was trained like a fucking monkey.
The shame of which I still live with today.
The next day, she was gone.
