Page 58 of Fractured Future
The distance between us hurts like a bitch after growing up so close, but every time I look at him, all I feel is anger. Pure, out of control rage for all the precious years and memories that were stolen from us.
If I give in to that righteous anger, I’m terrified of what I’ll do. And if I’ll be able to ever switch it off again.
“Listen, Em.” He gifts me a reassuring smile. “I’ll be there today as your legal counsel, and we’re going to take this at your pace. Their questions can still wait.”
“I want to get it over and done with.”
“Of course, I understand that. I’m just saying that if it’s too much or you need to rest some more, I have no problem telling them to bugger off.”
More fury licks at my insides, turning my blood to molten ash. All I want is to set him at ease. To tell him that no one hurt me like he’s imagining. Why can’t I do that?
Because it’s not true. It doesn’t matter how they hurt me or how any of us were forced into subjugation. The injustice is that I’m here—safe and breathing—while others are not.
Others like Gracie.
While those bastards still run free.
“Ember?”
Teeth grinding together, I try to speak past the enraged storm crawling up my throat. “I need to do this.”
“You’ve barely said a word since we got home.” His emerald gaze brims with concern. “I know you’ve been through a lot. I’m trying to protect you from more pain.”
“Avoiding the investigation isn’t going to help.”
“Perhaps not.” He gently squeezes my bicep. “But if you can’t even talk to me, how will you be able to tell them what happened?”
Typical Tom.
He’s never been one to beat around the bush.
“I want to talk to you,” I make myself admit. “I’m just trying to make sense of everything first. I lived in survival mode for so long, I didn’t stop to process it all.”
He sighs, sliding on his charcoal-grey suit jacket. “Which is precisely why we should postpone.”
“Time won’t make this any easier.”
“Then what will?” He stiffens, his posture carved from nervous tension. “Please tell me what I can do. Let me in.”
“I don’t think you can help.”
“Try me, Em.”
Unable to look at him, I stare down at the shiny, polished floor. His weekly cleaner came yesterday while Tom took work calls in the living room. I heard them trading polite conversation from the spare room.
I wanted to get up, try to socialise or even show my face. Yet something held me back from taking that first step into the world again. A paralysing fear that came out of nowhere and stole my breath.
I thought I’d feel safe here. Warner even assured us that he would post around-the-clock security outside the building. But in truth, I don’t think an entire army outside would make me feel any better.
I’m not scared of Gael and his men.
Rather, I’m petrified of the person he made me into.
After losing the studio I worked so hard to build—shut down years ago without me there to make rent—I have no purpose. No direction. Nowhere to go.
All I have left are my cardboard boxes of clothes and knickknacks belonging to a different woman. My vivid nightmares, jolting me awake in a cold sweat. And the constant threat of another attack forever looming.
How do I tell Tom that although I’m here, it feels like I left a part of myself in the ring? Perhaps the scraps I’ve brought homeare the worst parts of me. The parts I don’t want him to see. Parts far too jagged and ugly to create a whole person.
