I did the same thing.

Note to self: cracking one’s knuckles is very soothing.

“I’m about to fuck your ugly face up even worse than you did, Fitzy.”

I smiled, feeling blissfully numb. “Give it your best shot, Oliver Twist.”

Andrew ended up filming some of his abuse, probably to stash it and remind himself it happened.

But he wasn’t an idiot and was careful to never show his face.

It was one of the very things we’d been taught. Never film anything incriminating. The infamous Bullingdon Club had cost Oxford University enough embarrassment, and nobody at fine British institutions wanted their reputation to be stained by a bunch of teenage dirtbags.

The abuse wasn’t one-sided.

In fact, during our first fight, I’d noticed when Andrew beat me up, I stopped feeling. The tics had stopped. And so, I sought Andrew out. Went to his room on a weekly basis. Goaded him into fighting, abusing, and messing with me.

Andrew took over. We crossed the lines many times.

Broken bones. Permanent scars. Cigarette burns.

I grew stronger and more indifferent each time.

And he? He cried when he did those things to me. Cried like a baby.

Going through the trials and tribulations of being bullied—burned, waterboarded, slapped across the face each time I stuttered or hit myself, each time I twitched—proved to be highly effective.

By fifteen, the year when I’d found out Andrew Arrowsmith wasn’t going to complete his education at Evon, I was free of symptoms.

Outwardly, anyway.

I still popped my knuckles.

Still breathed deep and slow to lower my heart rate.

Still resisted any type of feelings, smashing them whenever they tried to rise above the surface.

The more I controlled the tics, the worse they had become. Fortunately, I always unleashed them when I was in the privacy of my room.

I kicked, screamed, hit myself, broke walls, tore furniture, and devastated everything around me. But I did it on my terms, and only when I felt I was ready. That was how successfully I managed to suppress my emotions.

Until one day, the tics stopped completely.

Feelings were so far away from my realm of existence that I didn’t have to worry anymore.

But the tapes were still out there, and Andrew had them.

Like the one of me lying in a puddle of my own vomit.

Or the one where I sat at the bottom of the pool for a minute at a time until I was blue. Every time I miscalculated the time and rose to the surface too quickly, he’d strike me.

One thing was for sure: Andrew wanted revenge, I wanted complete control, and we both got what we wanted.

By the time we parted ways, his job was done, and so was mine.

I thought we were even.

I thought we both got what we deserved.

I thought I was immune to feelings ever again.

Turned out, every single one of those assumptions was wrong.

The third time I ran to the bathroom to throw up, I threw in the towel and shut my laptop, stashing it under my bed, like the videos could haunt me. I had enough of seeing my husband—then a teenager—abused.

Beaten.

Smashed.

Broken.

Stuttering.

Crying.

Laughing.

Losing it.

Finding it.

I wanted to kill Andrew Arrowsmith with my own hands.

And knew with a confidence that frightened me that I was capable of doing that, too, given the opportunity.

Andrew’s face wasn’t on the tapes. But his voice was there. So were his motives to do what he did.

At six thirty in the morning, I rose to my feet and walked over to the shower. My eyes were puffy from crying all night.

There were two things I knew without a shadow of a doubt:

One—I was going to make sure Arrowsmith was ruined, even if it was the last thing I did in my life.

Two—Cillian was truly incapable of feeling anything after everything he’d been through. But even the unloving deserved to be loved. Even he deserved peace, belonging, and a home.

From now on, I was going to let him have me on his terms.

Even if it slayed my bleeding heart.

“Sir, you have a visitor.”

I didn’t look up from the screen, still typing out a message to my legal team regarding Green Living.

“Do you have eyes, Serena?”

“Sophia,” she corrected mildly as though the mistake was her fault. “I do, sir.”

“Then I suggest you make use of them and look at my planner. It is wide open for a reason. I do not accept visitors at this time.”

She was still standing on my threshold, wondering how to approach her new boss. At times, I was certain the definition of hell was new personal assistants going through orientation. Sophia needed to be spoon-fed everything, and her only saving grace was that, unlike Ms. Brandt, she wasn’t a world-class bitch who looked like a half-melted Barbie

“It’s your wife.” She physically cringed, bracing herself for a verbal whipping.

I resisted the urge to look up from my laptop and steal a glance at Flower Girl through the glass wall.

To tell Sophia to let her in.

Nothing good was going to come out of this.

She was probably here to give me the third degree about threatening her ex-husband at gunpoint. Or maybe she finally realized how much of a fuckup I am and decided to help Andrew with his lawsuit. To testify.

My wife knew my secret.

Sam had told me about her little stint at Andrew Arrowsmith’s place as soon as he walked out my enemy’s door. I knew Persephone had seen the videos.

She had no right.

No right to butt into my business. No right to uncover what I wanted to keep a secret. No right to peel off the layers I’d refused to shed when she tried the nice way.

“Turn her away,” I ordered, my eyes still on my monitor.

“I’m afraid she can’t and won’t do that. Also, don’t take that tone with her. She is your assistant, not your servant.” I heard a throaty, sweet voice from the doorway. This time, I did look up.

Flower Girl stood at the doorway. She wore a sunny dress and a stern look. I wanted to take both of them off her.

“You’ve fired Ms. Brandt.” She closed the door on Sophia, stepping into my office. “Why?”

“That’s not any of your business.” I closed the laptop.

“Try again.” She crossed her arms over her chest.