Chapter 41 Theo
I can’t shake the image of Lexie’s devastated eyes. I’ll give her space—for now—but this isn’t over. I refuse to let her erase me that easily.
Rage consumes me when I think about the other problem I have to deal with. He did this. My father has built his legacy on destruction and pain. On fucking with people. With women. With my mother. With me.
It’s the one thing he’s ever been good at.
And I’m done letting him get away with it.
I head back to my condo, where he’s leaning against the building, watching traffic like this is nothing, like my whole world didn’t just collapse. I’m going to fucking kill him. My fists curl into a fierce, tight ball. “How could you?”
My dad simply crosses his arms with a sick, twisted satisfied smile.
His gaze swipes at my hands, the smile never leaving. “Are you planning on assaulting me?”
“Fuck you.” My father is a sixty-year-old man who I outweigh by at least forty pounds. No matter how bad I want to hit him, he knows I won’t. “What sort of sick sociopath are you? What do you gain from this?”
“From pushing you to look at your own behavior?” His voice is maddeningly calm. “I would be failing my duty as a parent and one of the leading psychologists in the field if I didn’t teach my own son that choices always have consequences.”
I try to push past the sickening suggestion that he’s a caring father, a mentor.
“It may not feel like it now, but this is for the best,” he continues. “Annabelle is about to become your wife. She must be your priority, and I’m simply helping you to understand that. I do this because I love you—and because I want to protect your future.”
White-hot heat fills every piece of my body at the mention of Anna’s name on his lips.
I see through the lie. This has never been about protecting me.
It’s about protecting the family name—about what the Barlowe association will add to his already greedy sense of prestige.
It’s the same patronizing lecture he’s given me my entire life.
The same justification used when he locked me away for twenty-four hours at a time to “test my mental dexterity” or deleted my coursework so I’d be forced to redo it—pain masquerading as discipline, cruelty rebranded as character building.
“You don’t love me.” My gaze hardens, sharp as glass. “You never have, you sick fucking bastard. The only person you’ve ever loved is yourself.”
My words don’t faze him. I didn’t expect them to. His mind, his prestige, his reputation, are the only things he values.
“We are done. You and me,” I say with finality. “Stay away from Anna and me.” I want to also add Lexie’s name, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of exploiting my weakness even further. “You are not allowed to contact us ever again. That includes the wedding.”
This finally gets a reaction from him. Not because he cares about my wedding, but because people will talk, and my father cannot stand losing control of the narrative.
The displeasure he’s trying to hide only fuels me further.
“I want you to listen to me very fucking carefully. You may have scared Olivia away. But you forget one thing.” I don’t blink.
Don’t breathe. “I’m your son. And the worst monsters are forged by the ones who teach them.
” I watch my threat land and hit its mark.
The faintest twitch in his eye gives him away.
A slip in the mask. “So, I won’t stop,” I continue quietly.
“Not until I expose you for exactly who you are. I will take you down piece by piece. I won’t stop when you beg.
I won’t stop when you deny it. I won’t even stop when you’re dead.
” My words are sharp and humorless. “Your precious legacy will rot. People will learn your name only to curse it.”
For the first time in my life, I see fear cross his face. “You don’t mean that.”
I take a step towards him. “You’ve studied people your whole life. You’ve built your entire career on it. So do it now. Look me in the eye. Read me. Do you think I’m bluffing?”
Another first in my life happens—my father is rendered silent. I step back and walk away from him for good.
I’ve called Lexie twenty, fifty, maybe a hundred times by now, and it keeps going to voicemail.
I said I would give her space but I’m a selfish prick.
The worst. I know this. I always have been.
But Lexie has taken an axe to my dark, demonic shell and somehow cracked it open.
Flickers of light seep through because of her.
She’s angelic. Pure. And so many things I’ve done in my life are fucked up and wrong, but with her, everything felt right.
I have no right to ask her not to leave.
The end is coming, the wedding is happening, but still…
she has to stay. She fucking has to. My life cannot be without her.
Not ever. And fuck, fuck, she deserves more than watching me belong to someone else, more than the moments I can spare when I’m not playing the part of Anna’s husband, but I swear we could figure something out.
Acid floods my gut thinking of my life without her.
All of this started as a way to keep an eye on her while I investigated my father—to make sure she didn’t interfere, didn’t ruin anything.
I needed to maintain some illusion of control while everything spiraled.
But deep down, in my vile, rotten soul, I know the truth.
It wasn’t because of the investigation. It’s always been for me.
Fuck, I hate myself. I can’t believe I touched her with hands this dirty.
And it’s wrong, it’s so fucking wrong, but I still need to keep her here. Just a little longer.
Even if it means trapping her in my hell with me.
I can’t be in my place anymore. She wasn’t here that often, yet every corner feels empty without her. I decide to go for a run around my neighborhood instead. Am I running to her? Am I running away from what I’ve done?
I need her to understand. Maybe she’s had time to calm down. Maybe she’s realized that what I did back then was for her.
Fuck. It wasn’t.
It was for me.
How could I have done this? I honestly didn’t think that she wouldn’t be able to transfer school after the expulsion, but does that even matter? Or is that just another excuse I’m feeding myself? What the fuck is wrong with me?
And still… I had to save her. Those girls… what happened to them… if that had happened to Lexie, I would’ve died. Fucking died.
But she has to talk to me. Doesn’t she see this? We’ll talk, we’ll make up, we’ll fuck, we’ll spend the night intertwined, she’ll sleep on my chest, we’ll be okay. All she has to do is talk to me.
I keep running, my lungs on fire, sweat dripping down my face.
Maybe I should confess to her how much she’s haunted me all these years.
That from the moment on the quad, as she stood with her wide, beautiful green eyes, haloed like a sun fire in the golden afternoon, she seeped into my hallowed soul and altered me.
For better or worse, she’s etched herself permanently into my heart.
I’m finally forced to slow, and as I walk, her broken sobs replay in my head.
For the first time in my life, I turn to an unknown entity to take away her pain.
Even if she never speaks to me again, even if I can never touch that porcelain skin, or kiss those plush lips, or hold her, I pray for her to stop hurting.
I walk without direction in the city, street after street, carried forward by nothing but a foreign, inexplicable helplessness.
And I think—about how different my life looks now than it did a few months ago, how different it will look in two weeks.
I once believed happiness was a myth, an emotion people pretended to understand.
Until her.
Pain—what remains when the happiness you once tasted is gone. I didn’t know it until now.
A crimson-haired angel infiltrated the devil’s lair and showed me a slice of heaven that I never earned. I will never forget her. And as I walk until my legs give out, until the streets are unfamiliar, until exhaustion claims me, I keep praying.