Chapter 23
Chapter twenty-three
Ingrid
Returning home after my night with Tristian felt wrong in a way I couldn’t name, even more so knowing my father was angry at my indiscretion.
The silence of the house was heavy. Letting go of his hand in the car had been physically painful.
My hand still felt the shape and warmth of his.
The absence of it made everything worse.
Now, back within these walls, all I wanted was to be with him again. But I had to wait.
I retreated to my room, seeking solace in the mindless task of straightening the books on my shelf. I lit a vanilla candle, watching the flame flicker, but I couldn’t relax.
The quiet was shattered by a sudden commotion rising from the foyer.
I froze, my heart hammering. I knew I should stay hidden, but a stupid curiosity drew me toward the door. I crept to the top of the stairs. The voices were clear now, echoing off the marble floors: my father and Camila.
“I asked you several times. Where the hell have you been for the last four days?!” Papa bellowed.
Camila’s response was a sharp, biting scoff. “None of your fucking business.”
“You think you’re not any of my fucking business? Do you think I like watching my daughter whore herself out and ruin my reputation on these damn streets?!”
“You’re already whoring the other one out so you can make a few extra dollars with your business partner! How am I any different?”
My hands went clammy. The word whoring felt like a physical slap.
“You keep your fucking mouth shut,” he seethed.
Camila laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. “Or what? Are you going to discipline me, or do you only hit the daughter you like to control—”
The sound of a hand striking flesh cracked through the air like a gunshot. The silence that followed was suffocating. I winced, pressing my back against the wall. A moment later, footsteps stormed toward the stairs.
“Fuck this shit,” I heard her mutter.
She ascended the steps, her hand pressed to a reddening cheek. Halfway up, she stopped. Our eyes met. For a heartbeat, I saw a flicker of something—pity, maybe, or shared exhaustion—but she didn’t speak. She simply continued past me and slammed her bedroom door shut.
I looked back down to the foyer. My father was standing at the base of the stairs, staring up, shoulders rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths. His dress shirt hung open at the throat, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, forearms taut and veined like he’d been clenching his fists in anger.
He didn’t yell. He simply raised his hand and beckoned me down with two fingers.
I debated running back into the safety of my room, but the command in his gaze was absolute.
Every step down felt heavier than the last. I reached the bottom, fidgeting with my fingers, as he poured himself a glass of whiskey.
“Sit,” he said stoically.
I sank onto the edge of the sofa, keeping my head bowed. He took a slow sip of his drink, watching me, measuring how to handle me after the outburst from Camila.
Finally he spoke. “How are things with Locke’s son?”
I bit my lip, my voice a mere thread. “T-they… they’ve been fine…”
He hummed, leaning casually against the wall. “It seems they have been. You’ve been spending quite some time with him. I do hope his behavior is meeting his father’s standards.”
The thought hit me again—the “babysitter” theory. Was I just a tool to keep Tristian in line? Camila’s words echoed in my head: Whoring the other one out. What did she know that I didn’t? She never lied to me, even when she was being cruel.
“You went to a club last night,” he said suddenly, “with your friends. Didn’t you?”
My stomach did a slow, sickening roll. How did he know? The room felt like it was closing in… I couldn’t breathe.
Putting down his empty whiskey glass and slowly approaching, he loomed over me. “And… just where did you spend the rest of the night, Ingrid?”
I shook. My lip trembled.
“ANSWER ME!” he roared. His fist slammed down on the table, another gunshot crack that reverberated through the house.
Before I could even think of which way to handle this, which way to navigate my father’s rage in the safest way possible, a door rocked on its hinges upstairs and slammed into the wall. Footsteps clattered down the stairs.
Camila marched into the hallway, a packed tote bag slung over her shoulder.
Papa rounded on her instantly. “And where the hell do you think you’re going?”
Camila looked at me, her eyes darting to my trembling hands. She knew exactly what was about to happen if she left. I was at his mercy. Part of me screamed for her to stay, but I couldn’t ask that of her.
“Wherever I damn well please,” she shot back.
My father looked at the two of us, a dark sneer curling his lips. “I see… It seems like the two of you have finally grown up, hmm? Making your own decisions, going to clubs, scheming together to defy me…”
Before I could react, his hand shot out, tangling in my hair. He yanked me off the couch with a sharp tug. I cried out as I hit the floor, the impact jarring my bones. I was back in that familiar, humiliating position on the carpet.
“Remember when I used to give a damn about you, too?” he spat at Camila. “Used to discipline you like this, to make sure you didn’t end up like the little whore you are now? Before you decided to make yourself worthless to me.”
“Fuck you,” Camila snapped. “You’re a weak, pathetic man whose only way to show authority is by beating little girls.”
His hand tightened in my hair as I cried, my hands finding his wrists.
“I’m weak?” he repeated angrily.
The front door swung open. I looked up through my tears to see my abuelita. She was pale. An emergency room band circled her wrist, and she held a sheaf of papers.
She took in the scene—the bag on the floor, Camila’s defiance, and me on the ground. A terrifying, cold anger ignited in her eyes. My father finally let go of my hair.
“Camila, lleva a tu hermana a su habitación!”
I had never heard that tone from her. It was a command that left no room for argument.
My father went still as Camila grabbed my arm and hauled me up. She marched me up the stairs in a daze of silence until we were safe inside my room. She sat me on the edge of the bed and pushed her hair back from her face, her breathing heavy.
“W-where are you going?” I whispered.
She glanced at me, her face void of emotion. “Away.”
“For how long?”
She shrugged. “However long I want.”
“Where you’re going… is it at least better than here?” I whispered, searching her face for any sign of hope.
She thought for a long moment, her eyes dark.
“No.”
With that, she turned and walked out, slamming the door behind her.
I woke later to the sensation of a soft hand caressing my face. I opened my eyes to find my grandmother sitting on the edge of my bed. She was watching me sleep, quietly dabbing tears from her eyes.
“Abuelita?” I whispered.
“Sorry, mi nieta. Go back to sleep, my love…” she whispered.
I reached out for her. “Why were you in the emergency room?” I murmured in Spanish.
“Don’t worry about that right now… Get some rest, my love,” she said with a sad, tired smile.
“What happened to Camila?”
“She left. I talked to her. She’ll be back soon.”
“And Papa?” I asked, a fresh wave of fear washing over me.
She groaned, a sharp, weary sound. “Hush and go back to bed, girl. If your father touches you again, he’s going to prison.”
“Abuelita—”
She held up a hand, silencing me. “No,” she said, hard.
“I almost broke his arm today. He has a family and a business to take care of. He has lawyers, he has connections. So he won’t be going now.
There would be no point. But… if he does anything to you again…
anything. He’s going to be happy to go to prison, because I will murder him. ”
The conviction in her voice was terrifying and comforting all at once. I reached out and took her hand. “I love you, Abuelita.”
She smiled through the dark. “I love you, Ingrid.”
Those were the last words I heard before I drifted back into a dreamless sleep.