Chapter 28 #2
"He didn't stop there," I continue, my eyes flashing.
"He brought his mates in. He let his friends participate in the rape, all just to break her—to make her beg him to be the only one to fuck her.
She was pregnant with his children, and he didn't give a toss.
He wanted her to submit through pain. He kept her bruised, naked, and starving in the dark. "
I can feel my heart hammering against my ribs, the words pouring out of me like blood from a fresh wound.
"Then came the birth. Marguerite was too weak to even stand, but she was carrying triplets. She begged him—begged him to take her to a hospital. But he refused. He knew the police would take him away from her. He’d rather watch her suffer in agony than lose his grip on her.
He delivered the babies himself on that cold basement floor...
and Marguerite bled to death right there.
He watched her die, as then he documented the whole thing for some sick, twisted fantasy. The entire 9 months of captivity."
The silence in the room is absolute now, save for Thomas’s whimpering.
"He kept her body in a box in the attic. No burial. No peace. Just rotting in the dark. And then, there was us. Cordelia, Rosalind, and I. We grew up in his shadow until our twelfth birthday. That night, Thomas decided three mouths were too much to feed. He decided he only needed one."
I pause, the image flashing in my mind—the smell of copper, the sound of screaming.
"He went out drinking, then came back with a butcher's knife.
He killed my sisters right in front of me in the living room.
No mercy. Just slaughter. And then... the fucking audacity.
He hid the knife, held me while I was soaking in my sisters' blood, and called the police, pretending to be the grieving father coming home to a tragedy.
I only survived because I was his 'favorite.
' No... that's a lie. He couldn't even tell us apart.
He just killed the first two he saw. I was simply the last one left. "
I feel a tear slip down my cheek, but I don't wipe it away. It feels like a baptism.
"The case went cold. No leads. Nothing. He spent the rest of the years neglecting me, forcing me to work in the toy shop and drop out of school just so we wouldn't starve, while he slept all day and drank all night.
I lived in a fucking nightmare. I couldn't look in the mirror without seeing my sisters' ghosts staring back.
I couldn't look people in the eye because I saw my own reflection in his eyes the moment he murdered them. "
I glance at Rhys, and for a second, the darkness in the room feels warm.
"When Thomas got drunk every night he called me a ghost. He told me I was haunting him when he was drunk, making me hate my own face even more, only to apologize the next morning when he sobered up.
I became the town freak. The girl who wouldn't speak, the girl who couldn't look at the world. Until Rhys Castellan found me."
I look back at Thomas, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper but loud enough for the entire room to hear.
"I found them. I found my sisters' bodies in that box with my mother. My mind had erased his face to protect me, but the veil is gone. I remember everything. I remember the knife. I remember the blood. And now, you're going to pay for every single second of it."
As the last word leaves my lips, a wave of liberation crashes over me.
For the first time in my life, the void in my chest isn't empty—it's full of a cold, shimmering purpose.
Telling the story didn't make me feel weak; it made me feel like a goddess of vengeance.
I am no longer the victim; I am the executioner.
The guests erupt. They aren't horrified—they're excited.
"Take your time with him, darling!" a woman shouts, her voice manic. "Torture the filth! Make him scream for every drop of blood!"
The crowd is practically salivating, eager to see a monster dismantled. Thomas is shaking so hard he's practically vibrating on the stage, his face a mask of snot and tears. "Ophelia! Please! Forgive me! I love you! Please, my sweet daughter!"
"Shut your fucking mouth," I snap.
Three more women in plain masks glide onto the stage. I hand the axe to the one who is empty-handed, my eyes never leaving my father's terrified face. From the second woman, I take the whip. I run my fingers over the leather, feeling the wicked, sharp spikes embedded in the ropes.
I turn to Thomas, the whip trailing on the floor behind me like a snake. A slow, psychotic smile spreads across my lips.
"Time to start the lesson, Papa.”
I don't wait another fucking second. I snap the whip, and the sound is like a gunshot echoing through the chamber.
CRACK.
The spiked leather bites deep into Thomas’s shoulder, tearing through his thin shirt and ripping a jagged furrow into his skin.
He lets out a scream so loud it vibrates in my teeth, a raw, guttural sound of pure agony.
I don't feel a shred of pity; I feel a surge of electricity racing through my veins.
"That's for Mummy!" I scream, swinging again.
CRACK.