Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
The same straitjacket Grandpa tried everything to save me from—even hiding the truth from Dad.
I smile and my jaw hurts.
Ah, fuck. Looks like I’m not keeping my promise to him after all.
I’m sorry, Grandpa.
The laughter draws my attention, and I stare at the flicker of light. Projected images dance across the wall, crude and distorted at first, but then clearer.
That’s when I see them.
Kayden and her. Cassandra.
It’s a loop of videos. The first one is homemade, where she’s laughing, her voice soft as she films Kayden asleep, his face relaxed.
“Darling, wake up.” The camera zooms in on his lips as he stirs, and he smiles at her, a lazy, affectionate grin that’s all for her.
Only her.
My breath catches and I stand up, ignoring the throbbing pain in my chest, stomach, and face as my feet carry me closer to the wall as if I’m floating on air.
I can’t breathe.
My inhales are small wheezes, like I’m choking on the air.
But I keep watching. Video upon video of him hugging her at an event, her kissing him in public, both of them swaying to music.
Things I never had.
Will never have.
The videos go on and on and on, and I lift my hand to scratch her, but the straitjacket restricts me.
Binding me.
Forcing me to watch without acting.
Each image stabs me worse than a knife, tearing me apart.
And I can’t look away.
Or breathe.
I’m drowning in the rawness of their intimacy, the connection he never had with me.
Cassandra is the normal woman that fits him, and it’s something I’ll never be.
Normal. Or a woman.
Or a fit for him.
Because he loves her, and I’m only a vessel for revenge.
The laughter echoes again—this time, it’s not coming from the video, but from me.
I can’t stop the hollow sound as I hit my head against her. Cassandra. And the wall.
The louder she laughs, the harder I hit.
Again.
And again.
Until my vision is red, blood dripping down my lashes, over my nose, and into my mouth, but she won’t stop laughing.
And calling him darling.
And laughing.
And kissing.
And hugging.
And dancing.
Even as my blood drips on the ground at my feet, he’s still there.
Inside me.
In my head.
In that beating heart that wouldn’t purge him out.
And I can’t get him away from her, because she’s inside him and will always be inside him, and I can’t do anything about it.
Not like I did with Mr. Laurent or Harper.
I have this tendency to get too attached to people I like, too often, and in different ways. It’s not romantic or anything, I don’t think.
It’s my brain’s way of prioritizing people in my life.
Like Dad. He’s my role model, the person I’ve always wanted to be like. I studied law because he’s a lawyer. I dress like him and even adapted his manner of speech. He truly fascinates me. He’s the normal version of me that I strive to be, so when he started dividing his attention between me and Kill, I wanted to remove the hazard—Killian. But I didn’t, because that would make Dad sad.
Besides, at the time, I had Kayden, who muted my destructive thoughts and even reminded me that he’s both my and Killian’s dad, so sharing wouldn’t kill me.
That was okay, I guess. Maybe because I’m older now, so I have more self-control. Besides, Kill is also one of my things, so it’s not like I would hurt him consciously.
Mr. Laurent was also one of those people I thought belonged to me. I was attached to him and I liked him. He was smart and well-read and had a beautiful French accent. I liked listening to him talk and being in his company.
Not in a romantic way, but like with Dad, I respected him. A lot.
But when I found out he’d used me, I wanted to get rid of what took away what was mine—him. As Aunt Rai hugged me after I saw his dead eyes, I pushed her away. She thought I was in shock and wanted Mom, but, truly, I was a little mad that she was the one who got rid of what was mine.
I wanted to do it myself. Carve his eyes out with my own hands.
Those thoughts were ten times worse with Harper.
She was my one serious girlfriend. We started going out at fifteen. She had a crush on me for a while, so I agreed to go out with her because of her eyes.
I don’t know how to describe it, but she had these very sad eyes, almost lifeless, and I wanted to know the story behind them. Harper was super popular in our high school, but no one seemed to see beyond that image.
She had a façade like me and I saw through it. I saw how she flinched around men who had loud voices. How she secretly went to the bathroom to throw up her lunch.