Page 25 of Captured

It was a telling moment, a wistful glance into the very reason I needed Emily in my life. She was exactly like me, the raw passion she exuded as her love of music flowed, her body swaying to the intense vibrations as the orchestra helped to bring the concerto to life the most powerful experience of my life.

In those few moments I knew the choice I’d made had been a lifetime coming.

All the torture I’d been put through, the agony of physical, mental, and emotional pain leading to this one spectacular moment.

Emily Rose Martin had always belonged to me.

CHAPTER 8

Emily

Disgust.

My father didn’t need to highlight his anger and disappointment more than he already had inside the SUV that had brought us to the concert. He’d brought me roses, something he never did, tossing them in my face, his first words of utter disbelief that I’d made three mistakes.

I never made mistakes.

I’d been punished for making one during the years of forced practice; three would have meant being locked in my room for a solid week.

I’d never felt so small or so inept in my life, my blasphemous performance something I would never forgive myself for.

It didn’t matter I’d received a standing ovation, both Mr. Romero and the conductor conveying how thrilled they’d been. I’d fucked up. I wasn’t good enough.

I’d never be good enough.

Not like my mother had been.

My father stormed into the house, tossing his jacket on the chair in the entrance foyer. Our housekeeper would be forced, as usual, to hang it up in the morning for him.

I hung mine up like a good girl, taking my time doing so before heading to his office to find out whatever my punishment was going to be.

He was pacing the floor like he did when he was furious. I was forced to wait for a full three minutes before he finally walked to his bar, yanking one of the crystal glasses into his hand. He slammed it onto the bar, which made me jump. As he grabbed the bottle of scotch, he threw me a look over his shoulder. Then he laughed as if I was nothing but a trivial interruption.

There was nothing I could say without evoking more of his wrath. After he powered down half the glass, he finally turned toward me.

I’d known for years my father hated me but, on this night, I sensed the man despised me. Why had he bothered to keep me in his house, to feed and clothe or educate me? My aunt had offered to allow me to come live with her, especially after my… episodes of anger and depression, my father still traveling every week. He’d refused. Why? Maybe because to him, I’d been nothing but a possession my entire life.

“What the fuck did you think you were doing?” he asked. While his voice was quieter than normal, his anger was ripe and right under the surface.

I brushed a strand of hair from my perspiring face, trying to figure out the right way to answer him. “I was trying to do my best, Father. To make you proud.”

He laughed as he always did when someone made what he considered to be a stupid statement. “You failed.” His hateful glare remained and it was one of those times I couldn’t imagine what my mother had seen in the man.

He’s your father. Show some respect.

No. I was over that.

“Well, I’m so sorry you disagree, Daddy dearest, but sometimes pressure can get to even a girl like me.”

“Show some fucking respect,” he snarled, suddenly acting almost sheepish, which my father never did. “What do you mean a girl like me?”

“I mean,” I dared say to him as I walked a little closer, feeling as if I’d entered the den of a viper. Maybe I should take my father’s lead, turn into a cold-hearted bitch. “Finally accepting my father doesn’t give a shit about me. That will make all these… disappointments that much easier to handle instead of worrying what the great Gideon Martin thinks. You don’t care about me, Daddy. You never have. I’m just a reminder of everything you lost, the only thing you could possibly love other than yourself.” Although I wasn’t certain about that.

I could swear the man was going to backhand me, but I stood my ground, refusing to kowtow to his hatred or violence. No man was ever going to terrify me again.

He took a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds. When he exhaled, the sound wasn’t like anything I’d ever heard from him. If I didn’t know better about the glorious man, I’d say he had a sense of remorse in the strangled sound.

Nah.

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