Chapter 35
Hours pass, and my feelings just keep getting more tangled. Adam didn’t explain what happened, why we came here, or why he’d showed up covered in blood.
Grayson didn’t ask a thing. Not about the mess, not about me. It makes me think this isn’t exactly new territory for him.
He didn’t ask who I am or why I’m here.
Grayson showed me to my room and left me there. No one’s checked in since.
The room itself feels nothing like the rest of the house. Everything out there is dark, almost-black, sharp and modern. In here, it’s all sand-beige and calm, like someone tried to build a little piece of heaven inside a storm.
There’s a huge bathroom and an even bigger closet. The clothes inside are expensive, clean, and picked with actual taste. Whoever stayed here before me knew exactly what they were doing. Or someone wanted them to.
My movements in here are still mechanical, numb even, no matter how surprising this place is.
I took a shower to get rid of the smeared blood Adam left on me, then pulled on a pair of joggers just to feel a little more human.
My mother’s face keeps flashing through my mind. The way she fought for air while his hands crushed down on her throat, the panic in her eyes shifting into something else when she understood what was happening.
I keep wondering if she actually knew. If she felt that exact moment when everything slipped away.
Some moments I hate him for it. He had no right to choose how her story ended. That makes him a sick bastard, no way around it.
Then there are other moments, when he feels like the only person who ever tried to pull me out of the mess I was born into. The only one who reached for me when everyone else stepped back. And the only one who actually did it.
It’s twisted, I know. Like trusting the same hand that ruined everything in the first place. Like biting into something that looks perfect, only to taste the rot underneath, yet somehow still wanting another bite, because for a moment it felt like the first good thing I ever had.
I didn’t cry again. I keep thinking I should have—any normal person would, right? Watching their own mother die and then falling apart for hours after. But nothing comes out. Not even a burn behind my eyes.
All I’m left with is this tight knot sitting in my stomach, like something’s wrong with me for staying dry-eyed. I keep asking myself why I can’t cry, why my body won’t do what it’s supposed to do.
It’s probably the shock, or whatever people say in situations like this—but it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like I’m failing at the one reaction everyone expects.
After hours of lying here, thinking in circles and staring at the ceiling like an idiot, it hits me. If I want answers, I’m gonna have to go to him myself.
I step out of my room and into the long corridor, doors lining both sides. I already know which one is his—Grayson pointed it out earlier, “in case I had to know.” Whatever that means.
I head that way and almost bump into a maid. Out of habit, I keep my eyes down and don’t say a word.
“Welcome, miss,” she says, warm and polite, then continues on like nothing happened.
I freeze for half a second.
Did she … actually greet me?
“Thanks,” I murmur to myself.
I keep going until I’m standing outside his door. My pulse jumps, but I push past it and knock.
“Come in.”
I push the door open, and the room hits me all at once. It’s huge, the kind of space that feels even bigger because nothing’s out of place. Everything is black or close to it, matching the rest of the house. Clean lines and not a single thing that isn’t necessary.
“Hey,” he says without lifting his eyes from the book he’s reading.
He’s sitting on the bed, his back against the headboard, gray sweatpants, simple black T-shirt. The only surprise is the glasses—thick frame, sharp lines, and yeah, he wasn’t joking about wearing them while reading.
They sit on him almost too well, drawing attention to the angles of his face. He looks like the kind of guy who could pass for a superhero trying to blend in, and not doing a great job at it.
I walk closer, and that’s when I notice the book in his hands. The Shining by Stephen King. Of course. He wasn’t lying about his tastes either.
Horror, glasses, and an attitude problem. Figures.
“You’re staring,” he mumbles, his eyes still nailed on the almost-yellow pages.
“And that’s my only crime.” I sneer, doing everything short of waving my arms to get him to react or at least look at me.
Nothing.
He just gives a low hum, eyes glued to the book as if I’m background noise.
I don’t say anything else. I just cross my arms, my fingers tapping against my forearms while I wait for him to stop being an ass and actually acknowledge I’m standing right here.
He finally lets out a smug little laugh. “The guy is handling that axe like it’s gonna break a nail.”
My eyes roll involuntarily. “Are you gonna talk about it?”
“No.”
Anger starts boiling under my skin, and he just keeps feeding it with that whole “I don’t give a shit about you” attitude.
Every second he ignores me makes it worse.
“You killed my mother!”
“Mm.” He turns the page. “Yeah.”
“Testa di cazzo …” Dickhead …
“That face is because of that?” he asks, lifting his eyes over the glasses to look at me. Finally.
“Yeah! What do you think?”
“My bad. I was under the impression she was a manipulative bitch who treated you like garbage.”
His words hit like a knife in my back, but they’re true. And somehow that part hurts even worse.
“Yeah … I mean …” I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at anything but the floor. “I don’t know if I’m sad. I feel like I’m supposed to be, but I’m … not. Not really.”
He hums quietly, eyes drifting back to the book. “Then you’re one step closer to figuring out your own damn peace of mind.”
“Why did you do it?”
“You don’t wanna know.”
“Of course I do,” I say, crossing my arms.
“You don’t.”
In an instant, I’m on my feet. I snatch the book right out of his hands, and he actually looks a little surprised for once.
“I do.”
He lets out a long, tired sigh, his dark eyes fixed on me like he’s sorting through all the things he probably shouldn’t say.
Is there a greater reason for what he did?
“Your father wanted to sell you to Anderson.”
I just stare at him, my mind stalling out. “I … I must’ve misheard you. What did you say?”
He rests his head against the headboard, expression flat, almost annoyed he has to repeat it.
“Your father wanted to sell your virginity to Anderson,” he says, clearer this time.
… What?
For a second, I honestly think I misheard him, because the room doesn’t feel real anymore.
A tight breath slips out of me. I don’t mean to make a sound, but there it is.
“Your mother knew exactly what was happening.”
“My … My m-mother?”
He scoffs. “Hell, she even fucking paraded it,” he spits. “Right there while I had my hands around her fucking throat. Like it was something to be proud of. Like dying with that filth on her tongue made her special.”
He tilts his head, eyes cold.
“Crazy bitch really thought that’d stop me.”
I think I’m gonna be sick. The room spins and my fingertips are numb.
“I … Uhm.” I swallow hard. “What?”
“Yeah. That happened.”
“You’re lying.”
“Sure. I made up the worst story imaginable just to ruin your day.”
“No—no, this isn’t—” I stand, shaking, tears spilling hot down my cheeks.
“You lied about your name. You lied to me. You’re a liar—I can’t trust you, I can’t—” My heart’s beating so hard it feels like it’s trying to break out of me.
“You said it yourself! You’re a liar! You’re a manipulator! You twist everything!”
He doesn’t even flinch. If anything, my panic sharpens his focus on me. He pushes up from the bed and pushes his hands into his pants pockets.
“Yeah. I manipulate people. I lie when I need to.”
He takes a slow step closer, eyes locked on mine.
“But not to you. Not about this. I don’t twist the truth when it comes to what’s yours to know.”
He holds my face, forcing my gaze on him, but I slap his hands away. “Don’t touch me!”
It doesn’t deter him. He grabs my face again and shakes me slightly to bring me back to reality.
“Listen to me, little orchid. If I wanted to screw with your head, you wouldn’t even realize it was happening. But I’m not doing that to you.”
This can’t be happening.
My father is a monster, I know that.
He’s corrupt to the bone. He’ll betray, threaten, or break anyone if it gets him what he wants, and family isn’t an exception.
He doesn’t feel fear, or guilt, as long as he walks away with more power, more money, or another reason for people to fear him and his pathetic reputation.
But my mother is …
Was …
My mother was supposed to protect me. That’s a mother’s job! To protect their kids … That’s the bare minimum—protect your fucking child.
And she knew … She stood there and let it happen like my pain was acceptable, like I was expendable.
She didn’t guess, she didn’t miss it, she didn’t misunderstand it. She knew exactly what was happening and she let it continue.
That’s why Adam asked her how much I was worth. Like I was property. Like I had a price tag.
That’s why my father kept everyone away. Not out of protection or out of care. He isolated me because I was some investment he didn’t want contaminated. No friends. No boys. No freedom.
He needed me untouched.
For whatever sick, perverted thing he was building toward.
My breathing turns rapid and unstable. Sobs boil up in my chest, stealing my breath, and tears finally streak down my cheeks.
His hand clamps around the back of my neck, dragging me in until my cheek is forced against his chest. His fingers move through my hair, and the tenderness only makes my breath fracture. I break against him, sobs tearing out of me as I finally give in.
I can’t control it anymore.
“How can he—?” The rest of the thought shatters, and a louder sob rips out of me before I can stop it. “Why? Why?” The word scrapes out of my throat.
Adam’s jaw locks, teeth grinding as his grip cinches around me, pulling me tight against him. “I’ll kill him,” he breathes quietly. “I swear to you I’ll make him pay for what he’s done.”