Page 72 of Ravage

Chapter 25

Damon

After I leave Christopher's office, I make a beeline for the door that separates our prison from the hungry leech in designer suits.

He should send me a Christmas card—who knows how much of my money has been spent on his luxury items.

It's obvious my father pays him a pretty penny. From the few times I met Arthur before Lilydale was created, he was a polar opposite shell to his current self. Hideous polo shirts and khakis that belonged in the dumpster instead of the golf course. The type of man who would slosh food and drink all over himself because he was making jeers at people and expressing himself with his hands wildly to seem larger than life.

Now, he's living up a lavish lifestyle thanks to my family.

Sometimes the world is unforgiving. It would be nice to believe that karma is a sure thing, but truthfully, bad guys always win. That made it easier to become one myself—the need to win and succeed drives me further than anything else.

I distinctly remember my parents fighting one day about Arthur. My father spent most of his free time at country clubsand golf courses with his college buddies. Just like now, Arthur was the leech who glued himself to my family's side—money is shiny, after all.

As much as she hated it, Mom heard gossip from the blabbermouths dressed in Louis Vuitton and Chanel. The wives and girlfriends were just as bad as their husbands—obsessed with the money and social ladders they could climb. Any excuse to be higher up than other people. They didn't care who they had to stand on to get there.

Someone let it slip over too many Long Island iced teas that Arthur was cheating on his wife. I had only met her a handful of times with him, but it was clear she was nothing like the snakes in designer clothing. She was the one person my mom got along with, without the need to pretend for the sake of being polite.

They got into a huge argument—Mom was adamant that Mrs. Whittingham should be told about her husband's infidelity. But my father, in his alcohol-fueled toxic masculinity, disagreed.

"He's a man. He can do what he wishes."

"Perhaps she should have spent more time taking care of him as a housewife should do."

"Without him, she'd be worthless. She should feel privileged that she has this lifestyle because of him."

When our maker was handing out cups of morality, my father was last in line. He was of the belief that women were beneath men, there to serve and bear children.

Despite Mom coming from old money, she still loved to work. It gave her a sense of purpose helping others. But my father quickly nipped it in the bud, forcing her to have me and leave the workforce.

To make himself look good, he allowed her to assist him with minor company duties—such as planning and hosting events. You know, jobs designed forwomen.

It was clear from a young age that I only existed to continue his legacy. Even when I was a toddler, he would tell me that it was lucky I was born a man.

I was the product of pain and suffering—but she still loved me. She devoted all her time to my needs, being hands-on unlike the other country club princesses who would pay someone to change their child's diaper.

The only good thing to come out of that mess was the fact that Mrs. Whittingham divorced him. Mom paid for her attorney, and in the end, Mrs. Whittingham walked away with half.

Arthur was furious. My father too.

And it still haunts me that it happened six months before my mother's death.

I don't believe in coincidence. I would wager every single dollar to my name that the grand Whittingham divorce was the beginning of the end for my family. But that's just who my mom was—always the savior, never the saved.

The last time I saw freedom was her funeral. The former Mrs. Whittingham was there—with a male guest—and my father tried to kick her out. I refused, putting him in his place.

Two weeks later I was sedated, placed in a temporary mental health involuntary hold. That part of my life was a blur after her death, and they used that to take advantage of me. At the end of the hold, Lilydale was created—and I was patient number one.

It wasn't just my father's revenge and need to overpower me… it was retaliation for Arthur.

Mom wasn't around to protect me anymore, and why would anyone believe a grieving eighteen-year-old? Especially one that punched his own father repeatedly in the face after a funeral.

He's psychotic. He has Intermittent Explosive Disorder.

He's a danger to society.

They can falsely diagnose me however they want. The jokes on them.

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