Chapter 21 #4
Daniel, who had been watching with a detached pity, now straightens. He uncrosses his arms, his gaze narrowing on our joined hands. I can feel his mood shift—from resigned spectator to something pricklier.
“Who the hell is this?” my father barks, his voice dripping with contempt.
“Leo,” I whisper, the tears finally breaking free and trailing down my cheeks. “I told you not to come.”
He doesn’t say a word. He just reaches out and brushes a tear away with his thumb, his gaze never leaving mine.
My father lets out a dry, ugly laugh. “Oh, I see. That’s what this is about.” He leans back, a cruel smirk on his face. “So this is what you’ve really been doing. Not finding yourself, but running around the streets of Manhattan like some kind of modern day Jezebel.”
“Graham!” Mom snaps, her voice sharp.
I go still. My heart isn’t just pounding; it’s echoing in my ears.
“I’ll give it to you, Annemarie,” he says, raising his wine glass in a mocking toast. “I knew you were a disappointment. I didn’t take you for a whore.”
The word hangs in the air, vile and shocking.
Mom shoots up from her chair. “Graham, that is fucking enough!”
But before my father can draw another breath, Leo moves.
I’ve never seen him move that fast. He’s a blur of charcoal wool.
One second he’s beside me, and the next, he has my father by the collar, hoisting him up and pinning him against the ornate wallpaper with a sickening thud.
The wine glass falls from my father’s hand, shattering on the floor in a burst of crimson and crystal.
I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. My father is sputtering, his face turning different shades of purple, his eyes bulging as Leo’s hand wraps almost entirely around his throat.
He may be in good shape for his age, but Leo has at least three inches on him and twice the muscle, and right now, he looks like he could snap my father in two.
“You will never,” Leo says, his voice a low, terrifying snarl, “use that word in her presence again. Not while I’m breathing.”
I’ve never seen Leo like this. The quiet professor is gone. In his place is a man filled with a primal, terrifying rage.
“Fuck…you,” my father wheezes, his hands clawing at Leo’s wrists.
Leo slams him harder against the wall. The sound is dull and heavy. Daniel is on his feet, running a hand through his hair, looking absolutely horrified before he simply turns and walks out of the room. He’s done.
“I don’t think you heard me properly,” Leo says, his grip tightening.
“Dear God, let him go!” my mother cries, but she’s frozen behind her chair.
“Apologize,” Leo commands. He doesn’t look away from my father’s eyes, but he jerks his head toward me. “Now.”
My father’s expression is pure, venomous hate. But he’s starting to gasp, his feet scrabbling for purchase. “S-sorry,” he squeaks out, the word strangled.
“I didn’t hear you. Louder.”
“I’m…sorry!” my father gasps out, his face mottled.
He stares at him for one more long, agonizing second before he lets go. My father staggers forward, clutching his throat, sucking in ragged, greedy breaths. Angry red marks are already blooming on his skin.
Leo turns and walks back to me, his expression still hard, but his eyes finding mine. He takes my hand. “Let’s go, Annie.”
I look back one last time. My mother is hovering over my father, one hand on his arm as she tries to help him stand up, but her eyes are on me. She looks terrified, heartbroken, and so, so small.
The night air hits me like a slap, cold and wet. It’s started to rain—a fine, misting drizzle that glazes the sidewalk and catches in the glow of the streetlights. I’m shaking, but I’m not sure if it’s from the cold or the aftershock.
Leo doesn’t say a word. He just lets go of my hand for a second, shrugs out of his suit jacket, and drapes it over my shoulders.
The wool is still warm from his body and smells like him—like clean laundry and that faint, spicy scent of his soap.
Then he pulls a small, black collapsible umbrella from his pants pocket, flicks it open with a practiced snap, and holds it over us both.
He finds my hand again, his fingers lacing through mine. His grip is firm, grounding.
We start to walk. The only sounds are the soft shush of tires on wet pavement, the distant wail of a siren, and the quiet tap of rain on nylon above us. I don’t know where we’re going. I just let him lead.
A sob rises in my throat, choking and sudden. I try to swallow it, but it comes out as a ragged gasp. The tears I’d been holding back in the restaurant break free, hot and silent, streaming down my face and mingling with the rain.
Leo doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He doesn’t tell me not to cry. He just tightens his grip on my hand and shifts the umbrella, angling it more over me as he guides us toward the glowing entrance of the 86th Street subway station.
We descend into the brighter, grubbier light of the underground.
The familiar smells of concrete, stale air, and electrical grease wrap around us.
He finds us a spot on the downtown platform, away from the small cluster of late-night commuters.
He leans his back against a tiled pillar, and without a word, he pulls me into him.
I bury my face in the soft cotton of his dress shirt, right where his shoulder meets his chest. His free arm comes around me, holding me close. The umbrella, now closed, hangs from his other hand.
The train rumbles in, a jarring noise that feels worlds away. We get on. It’s mostly empty. We sit in a two-seater, and I curl into his side, my head on his shoulder. He rests his cheek against the top of my head.
I cry the whole way home.