Page 42 of Claiming Pretty

My father teaching me to tie a tie for the first time, his hands precise but detached. His stern voice guiding Ty and me through fencing stances in the garden. The pride in his eyes—faint but real—when I’d managed to memorize the Latin names, both genus and species, for all the different kinds of lilies that he grew.

There was a time I’d wanted his approval more than anything. A time long before Ma died, when I believed if I worked harder, performed better, maybe he’d look at me like I mattered.

But I’d learned, far too late, that no amount of effort would earn what he simply didn’t have to give.

And then Ava.

My grip tightened on the teapot lid in my hand.

He’d stripped away her innocence, her trust, her safety—all for what? Power? Pleasure? Control?

A part of me screamed that he didn’t deserve the title of “father.” He’d desecrated it with his actions.

But another part—a quieter, stubborn part—whispered that no matter what he’d done, he was still the man who had brought me into this world. The man whose blood ran through my veins.

Could I live with myself if I did this?

And yet, could I live with myself if I didn’t?

Ava’s face flashed before me—her trembling hands as she brewed the tea, the haunted look in her eyes when she’d fled the kitchen, the fear she tried so hard to hide.

She’d been forced to act because I hadn’t been there for her. Because I had failed to protect her.

My father was a monster, but Ava wasn’t. And I wouldn’t let her become one.

This was the only way.

My hands shook, but my resolve was steady as I turned and carried the teapot out of the kitchen. It felt heavier than it should, like it carried not just the tea but the burden of what I was about to do.

He would never hurt her again.

Not after tonight.

I would carry this stain on my soul so she didn’t have to.

I’d become a monster… for her.

I exhaled slowly, the confession leaving me raw, like an open wound exposed to the cold.

For a long moment, I couldn’t bring myself to look at Ava, sitting next to me on the bed, our legs stretched out in front of us.

My eyes stayed fixed on my hands in my lap, fingers knotted together like they could somehow tether me to the present, keep me from unraveling completely.

Would she see me as a monster now? Would she hate me for what I’d done? For the punishment I let Ty take for me? For everything I didn’t tell her?

Finally, I forced myself to look up, bracing for disgust, for judgment, for the slightest flicker of rejection in her eyes.

But what I found wasn’t anger or revulsion. It was love—pure, unwavering love that etched itself into every line of her beautiful face.

It gutted me.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” she asked, her voice soft but tinged with something I couldn’t quite place—hurt, maybe. Sadness.

A bitter laugh escaped me as I leaned my head back against the headboard, the weight of it all pressing down on my chest.

“I wanted to,” I admitted, the words dragging out of me like stones. “But Ty… he fucking confessed out of nowhere. Then he made me promise not to tell anyone it wasn’t him.”

Her brows furrowed, her hand finding mine, her touch grounding me in ways I didn’t deserve.

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