5. Ingrid
Chapter five
Ingrid
Iclosed the door with a heavy sigh, resting my forehead against the cool wood. My mind reeled, replaying the day in pieces—the morning, the afternoon, my father’s call… and Tristian.
I hoped I hadn’t bothered him. Or scared him off. The way he brought me home so abruptly—had I crossed a line? Had I upset him by trying to understand his art?
My stomach tightened with anxiety. God, what if I ruined things?
Gosh, Ingrid, you just met the guy not even a week ago, I chided myself, squeezing my eyes shut. I think I’m losing it here. But, he left you his hoodie. That’s got to mean something… right?
Hanging my coat on the hook and placing my shoes neatly by the door, I paused, then slipped off Tristian’s hoodie.
My abuelita wasn’t around, but I didn’t want a repeat of her questions after last time Tristian brought me home.
And I didn’t want to run into anyone else who might ask, either.
Carefully folding it, I tucked it into my bag and made my way toward the staircase.
I had barely taken two steps when the distinct sound of something falling in the kitchen echoed through the hall, followed immediately by heavy, purposeful footsteps thudding against the floorboards, coming straight for me.
I looked over my shoulder and felt the blood drain from my face. My father was marching toward me, his expression a mask of fury.
I trembled, turning fully to face him, though I kept my gaze fixed on the floor.
Once he reached me, he didn’t hesitate. He grabbed my arm harshly, his fingers digging into my flesh, and yanked me forward. Tears pricked my eyes, his grip tightening until the skin turned white around his fingers. I held back my gasp of pain.
“Where the hell were you?” he seethed, enunciating every word hard into my face.
I gulped, my throat dry. “I-I was just out at a café—”
“For four hours?” His voice thundered up the staircase. “Four hours at a damn café?”
Biting my lip, I tried to open my mouth to speak, but the words died in my throat.
My mother stepped into the hallway, a delicate cup of tea in her hand.
She drifted past as though we were not even present—as though my father’s fingers weren’t driven into the flesh of my forearm—then through the lounge door, to the sofa in the corner where she sat, her gaze fixed on the steam rising from her cup.
She was just like my father in a sense. Cold and distant, but she didn’t treat me with the physical aggression he did. However, her silence was its own kind of weapon against me.
Papa pulled me closer, shaking me as he squeezed my arm even tighter. “Do you know how many people know who you are? I don’t need another fucking Camila out in these streets. All of my businessmen know I’ve disowned her already… Do you want me to do the same with you?”
My heart hammered against my ribs. A few tears slipped free, tracing hot paths down my cheeks.
“No, Papa.” I had never disobeyed them before, and I knew that if I did, the consequences would be dire.
“I give you the slightest bit of freedom you ask for, and you take advantage of it like this? You get a set time, and you must obey when I tell you to. If I give you two hours to yourself, then that means I give you only two fucking hours.”
I nodded quickly—anything to stop the pressure on my arm, anything to keep his voice from rising further.
“I have a reputation to uphold, and you being out in those streets doing God knows what is not permitted. Do I make myself clear?” He whispered the last part, his voice dropping to a terrifying register as he squeezed my arm one last, burning time.
I nodded. “Y-yes, Papa.”
He pushed me away from him with a look of disgust and adjusted his suit jacket, smoothing the fabric as if nothing had happened—as if he hadn’t just terrified me for the rest of the night.
“I have the dates for the meetings and events that you will be attending with me soon. Influential acquaintances and partners I have scheduled for you to meet. That internship may be an exciting opportunity for you—” his eyes narrowed “—if you learn to behave yourself.”
Rubbing my arm, which was throbbing and likely already bruising, I gave another submissive nod. “OK,” I responded softly, waiting to be dismissed.
He waved his hand at me carelessly and turned away. “Out of my sight,” he muttered.
I scrambled toward the stairs, only glancing back for a second to glimpse my mother, who was gazing anywhere but at me as she sipped her tea. Then up I went the rest of the way, fighting to keep my composure.
The moment I closed my bedroom door, I couldn’t help the sobs that racked my chest.
I peeled my shirt off and stared at the dark mark forming on my upper arm. If I had thicker skin, this wouldn’t have fazed me; I would be over the pain already. Yet everything about me was sensitive. The growing bruise throbbed, hot to the touch, and it stung when I grazed it with my fingertips.
Moving on autopilot, I changed into a white cami and some black leggings before pulling on the pink fuzzy bunny slippers that my abuelita got me last Christmas. She must be out; my father was usually more cautious around her, his own mother, curbing his temper when she was near.
My study books and laptop called to me from the desk. I had disappointed him, so now I should study, be a good daughter to him. It was what he would expect.
Instead, lip quivering, I found myself sinking onto my bed.
Trying to blink back my tears, I picked up my phone, opened it, and scrolled through the contacts.
Tristian’s name blinked alongside his number.
I’d saved him to my phonebook after that first night clashing with my father and Camila, but hadn’t dared to reach out.
The encounter with my father had left me feeling hollow and shaken. I wanted to speak to Tristian. I just wanted to hear his voice—something grounded and safe to wash away the fear.
My finger lingered over the call button.
Call him, a desperate part of me pleaded.
But then the doubt crept in. I bit my lip, staring at his name.
What if I was reading this all wrong? What if he was just being polite, and I was the desperate girl projecting a romance onto a simple friendship?
I remembered the way he looked at me, the way he touched me, but was that attraction, or just pity?
And what about his hoodie? Guys did that in romance stories, gave them to women they liked.
Was that Tristian’s angle? Or had he just given it to me simply because I was cold, and after I upset him he felt too awkward to ask for it back?
Maybe I’d even tainted it somehow by wearing it.
Maybe he didn’t want it back—didn’t want me. Maybe I ruined everything…
It’s late, and he’s probably busy, I told myself, my thumb pulling away. He has a life, Ingrid. He doesn’t need you calling him crying about your daddy issues.
Besides, even if somehow the brooding man could still my anxious heart, the thought of him answering and hearing the wobble in my voice was too much. I didn’t want him to know how broken things were here. I didn’t want him to see the baggage… see me and decide I wasn’t worth the trouble.
With a heavy heart, I locked the phone and set it face down on the desk. He probably wasn’t attracted to me like I was to him, anyway. It was better to stay silent than to humiliate myself even more than I already did.
A sharp knock at the door made me jump.
“Come in,” I called out, quickly wiping a stray tear from my cheek.
The door opened, and my abuelita came in. She had a few health issues and often had to use her cane or walker, but today she carried a couple of bags instead. Seeing her stable always brought a small sliver of joy to my day.
“Hola, bebita,” she greeted, then moved to accented English. “How was your day?”
I stood and walked over to her, needing her warmth. Giving her a hug, I sighed into her shoulder.
“It was… OK,” I whispered, trying not to break down.
She slowly ran her hand up and down my back, soothing me. She could probably imagine exactly how my day had gone; she knew what Papa was like.
“I got you a few things while at the mall.”
“Really?” I asked, my voice lifting just the tiniest bit.
She nodded against me. “Mhmm. Come see.”
I pulled away from her and sat on the edge of the bed. She sat beside me, her eyes twinkling as I opened the first bag. I pulled out a soft, light pink sweater. Looking into the bag, I saw the exact same sweater in burgundy, white, black, and yellow.
“Did you really need to buy all of these?” I asked, a genuine smile finally touching my lips.
She rolled her eyes playfully. “Why can’t I make sure my nieta is warm?”
I laughed, and she joined me, a sweet sound that filled the room. But as I leaned down to grab the next bag, the movement caused my cami to shift. Before I could move the sleeve back down, my abuelita’s face shifted instantly. She grabbed my elbow softly, her eyes glued to the bruise on my arm.
She looked up at me, her expression shifting to deadly seriousness. “Did your father do this to you?” she asked, instinctually reverting to Spanish.
Shame washed over me.
“I-I’m sure he didn’t mean to…” I said quickly. I didn’t want to cause a scene or get in trouble with him again.
She stood abruptly, her movement defying her age. She speed-walked toward the door with a fury I rarely saw. For an old lady, she could move… fast.
I scrambled up and went after her. “Abuelita, wait,” I said, reaching for her hand, but she shook me off.
“Good-for-nothing bastard putting his hands on my granddaughter again! My granddaughter of all people!” She unleashed a stream of curse words, voice shaking with rage. I tried to block them out, tried to pull her back, but she was on a warpath. Small, furious, absolutely unstoppable.
She reached Papa’s office door and threw it open without knocking.
My father stood in the middle of the floor with a file in his hand. He looked up, startled.
She walked right up to him, her hands balled into fists.
“What is wrong with you!?” she yelled in his face. Then she whirled and grabbed me, pulled my hand forward to extend my bare arm. “Look at this! Look what you’ve done!”
He glanced at the growing bruise for a second, indifferent, before looking back at his mother.
“Samuel, she’s a twenty-year-old girl! You don’t run her life!”
He slammed the file onto the desk with a crack that made me jump, my breath catching at his anger. “Don’t you tell me what to do with my daughter, dammit!”
My abuelita didn’t flinch. She stepped into his space and shoved his head back with a single, decisive hand.
Small, wrinkled, but unyielding. Then she let loose.
The Spanish came in such a rapid flurry that it was hard to keep up—though I could see from my father’s enraged face that he caught it all.
He roared back at her, throwing out his hands in wild gestures which my abuelita only matched.
Heart hammering, I hurried out of the room. There was nothing I could do now; best to just get away and hope my father didn’t take out his anger on me again when she was through with him.
Of course, he would. He always did.
I retreated to my bedroom and closed the door, twisting the lock into place.
My whole life felt like a mess. My parents, my father especially, Abuelita who tried her hardest with the best of intentions. As I lay on the bed, the faint sounds of shouting filtering to me down the long hallway, I cried.
God, I wished I had the courage to call Tristian.
Just to hear something steady.
Something real… something that wasn’t… this.