Tess

I flip through my Torts notes, trying to make a dent in my class work now that I finished emailing Declan all the documents he needed and wrapping up my phone call with the judge’s clerk. Good Lord, the Montenegro case has been brutal, and my law school work just as demanding. If it weren’t for Curran, I’m not sure I’d know anything but stress.

I miss him. Since he started attending his peer counseling group on a regular basis, his superiors have allowed him to return to the station one shift a week. It’s desk duty, which he gripes about, but it’s a step forward.

While I’m happy he’s moving toward something positive, it’s hard being away from him. The other police guards I have are nice. But they’re not him. They’re not who I love.

My fingers idle on the keyboard. As much as I think counseling has been good for him, I’m not blind to how hard it is. The stories his peers share have a profound effect. For a time, Curran’s nightmares worsened. I worried he’d stop attending, but he hasn’t, demonstrating his commitment to his well-being and our future.

The first night he shared his experiences was the hardest for him. I met his shattered expression at the door, saying nothing, only reaching for him. Although he was emotionally battered, it was the first time in months he seemed to sleep peacefully.

Curran’s progress remains slow. He continues to wrestle with his regrets and the uncertainty of whether he can be the cop he once was—the one who won’t hesitate, and the one his fellow officers can depend on. But each session he attends reinforces that he’s not alone.

A sharp rap to the door jerks me back to reality. “Contessa.”

Oh, God.

I barely manage to push away from my dining room table before he knocks again.

“Contessa. I know you’re in there.”

I mutter a few curses as I stomp toward the door and wrench it open. “What took you?” he demands. “I haven’t all day.”

My jaw tightens. “I was working—”

“Is that what you call entertaining men I haven’t approved of?” he asks, scowling.

His bluntness and accusation cement me where I stand. Panic overtakes me as he storms past me, appearing to take everything in and searching for something to throw in my face.

“Farrington Blake phoned me. You remember Farrington?”

He’s not asking me, although I do remember that idiot. My grip on the door handle tightens. Any other woman wouldn’t cower. She would face him and remind him that he’s asking questions that are none of his damn business. A braver person would ask him to leave and not return until he learned how to treat someone like a human being. And a stronger person wouldn’t put up with such disrespect.

But when it comes to my father, I’m not brave, or strong, or grown. I remain that fearful child battered by his words, terrified he’ll hit me, and reduced to nothing.

My mother’s voice rings in my head. Don’t cry. You’ll make your father mad, it tells me.

I don’t want to think about her, or what she did to herself because of him, or that she left me when she left him and never looked back. So I think about my father, because he’s here, and awful, and hurtful. Just as he’s always been.

Get out, I want to say. You ruined me. Get the fuck out of my home.

“Farrington Blake,” Father repeats, growing more irate. “My former investment partner.”

But this isn’t your home, I remind myself. And he’s the one who can kick you out. Sweat slicks my palms. Two months. You’re free in two months.

“I asked you a question, Contessa.”

Two more months.

“Are you that dense?”

Just two more.

“Contessa.”

Jesus. Two months seems like an eternity. I shut the door, not bothering to flick the deadbolt. “What do you want?”

His hideous scowl, the one that ages him, deepens at my words. My tone is feeble, but hits him as if I shouted. “How dare you?”

“How dare I what?” I slap my hands against my sides. “Question your behavior? There’s clearly something you want, or need, or desire. Tell me what it is, but don’t treat me this way.”

He storms up to me, his fury darkening his complexion. “Do you remember Farrington or not?!”

I want to tear my hair out. “Yes. What about him?” I mean to scream, but his looming presence has me shrinking away.

Although he’s angry, a certain satisfaction plagues his sharp features. He enjoys watching me squirm, and it makes me sick. “He saw you last night, stumbling intoxicated out of some pub downtown,” he accuses. “He said you were clinging to a man, barely able to keep your feet under you.”

I blink back at him, stunned. “I wasn’t drunk. I was laughing and—”

“That’s not what it looked like to Farrington—nor to the other investors in Spencer’s campaign he’d been dining with.”

Like I give a damn what those men think of me.

“Who is he, Contessa? Who is this man you chose to parade before my associates and embarrass me with?”

Father and his “associates” are everywhere. Even when he isn’t with me, there’s no escape from his presence. My mouth tightens. Curran is the one thing I have that’s all mine. Our relationship is sacred—no, he’s sacred. I don’t want my father to know anything about us.

Yet as I take in his anger, and sense my own flare, I know I may no longer have a choice.

“Was it that police officer—the one who watches you?” He scoffs when I keep my mouth closed. “Will you bed the trash collector next? Or is he too good for a woman of your repute?”

My breaths release in painful bursts, and my body turns unbearably rigid. I can’t take his verbal thrashing. But I also can’t stay quiet. “His name is Curran. He’s Declan O’Brien’s brother.” Father straightens. “He makes me happy,” I admit, my voice shaking. “And he makes me laugh. Last night, he made me laugh so hard I could barely walk.”

“Declan O’Brien has a brother?”

He doesn’t care what Curran means to me, and he still doesn’t appear to remember him. His thoughts fixate on something else, not that it should surprise me.

My happiness doesn’t matter to my father. It never has. “He has several brothers,” I answer. “All professionals who have invested wisely.”

Oh, look. He’s not impressed. The distaste puckering his lips makes that clear enough. “But aside from Declan, none are known, have sought prominence, or engaged among the elite. None. Correct?” he points out.

Curran’s brothers Killian and Finn are well known in the mixed martial arts circuit, but that won’t impress someone like my father. “No,” I answer, quietly.

His face twists, in that same way it did the last time he beat me and called me worthless. “You’re such a fool,” he tells me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, the blood coursing through my veins pulsing hard against my ears. I should be used to his cruelty. But my father’s words never fail to claw at my soul.

He circles me, like I’m his prey, probably because I am. After all, he’s spent years making me so. “The future king well within your grasp, Contessa, and you choose to bed the court jester, simply because he makes you laugh.” He walks away then, speaking with each controlled step. “Consider your last semester of law school unpaid—and consider it a charitable punishment. I tire of your incompetence.”

I startle when the door slams shut behind him, the sudden movement causing the room to spin and nausea to engulf me. I race into my bedroom and into the bathroom, throwing the lid to the toilet open as I fall into an awkward crouch.

I’m sure I’m going to be sick, the pain crawling from my stomach and to my throat burning like liquid fire. But despite the agony, I can’t escape my father’s judgment or his words.

It doesn’t matter how hard I’ve worked, or what I’ve achieved. To him, I’m nothing more than a drunken slut, far too inept to ever evolve into more.

The pain increases as his cruelty consumes me. I don’t want to be so weak. But when it comes to my father, I always have been.

Tears drip from my chin. How is it possible for him to defeat me with only words? Wasn’t he supposed to be the first man to love me?

The pain takes its time to dissolve until I’m finally able to stand and wash my hands. Slowly I walk out to my bedroom and lower myself to the edge of the bed. I glance down, realizing for the first time how hard I’m trembling.

I stare at my shaking hands. This time, misery doesn’t cause my tears. But hate does.

I hate my father.

It should hurt to think it, and I should feel some guilt. Yet all I feel is numb.

There are women who worship their fathers. Women who seek their advice. Women who easily express affection to the men who gave them life.

I was forced to worship.

I was told to idolize.

I sought advice to pacify him.

And I was expected to show affection.

But I never meant any of it.

One memory. I rack my mind for one moment that would hint at a true gesture of love or kindness. I find nothing.

I hate him. But I realize then that perhaps he hates me, too.

I’m not sure how long I sit there, only that it’s long enough for my trembling to subside and for darkness to claim the room. I finally stand and return to the bathroom, stopping short when I see my reflection.

My mouth falls open. Am I really this pale, or is this how my interactions with my father leave me—an apparition of what I could be?

I startle again when someone knocks, two beats followed by one, then two.

Curran has arrived.