Page 155 of Sinful Desires
It was love when he yanked me by the arm hard enough to leave fingerprints. Love when I couldn’t hear out of one ear because he had screamed too close. Love when I’d woken upwith dried blood on my lips and wondered if he was still mad at me.
But for some reason?…?I kept coming back.
I kept waiting for his voice to sound different, for his eyes to soften, for one damn moment where I didn’t have to earn being looked at like I wasn’t worth the floor I was bleeding on.
And I knew it was fucked up.
I knew it made me disgusting, the way I craved his attention even when it came wrapped in violence.
But that’s what happened when you were raised on fear and silence—you started thinking the bruises meant you belonged to somebody. You started mistaking pain for proof. You started believing that if it didn’t hurt, it couldn’t be real.
That was the curse of a daughter.
You took whatever scraps he threw at you and tried to shape them into love.
You twisted yourself into something smaller, something quieter, something that wouldn’t make him angry. And when that didn’t work, you bled a little louder, hoping this time your father might actuallyseeyou.
I didn’t want to admit it. Not even to myself.
But there was a part of me that was grateful when he exploded.
Because at least then I wasn’t invisible.
At least then, for five seconds, I wasn’t some useless daughter taking up space in his perfect life.
I was the reason he felt something. Even if it was rage.
“Come on,” my mother said, drying my cheeks. “Go to the bathroom, freshen up, and join us for dinner.”
I nodded as they left, but I stayed behind, piecing myself back together with what little was left.
A heavy sigh left my lips.
Between Luke’s death, the cameras breathing down my neck, the fans who wanted more than I could give, and my father’s never-ending wrath, I felt like I was splitting.
I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know what I wanted. Most days, I didn’t even know if I cared.
So, I drank and did lines.
Lately, that had been the only thing that quieted it.
A butler passed carrying a gold champagne bottle just as I stepped out of the room. I took it from his hands and walked through the hallways, heels clicking against the stone, the bottle already cold against my palm.
Outside, I drew in a breath as winter’s air bit at my skin. I was wearing a sleeveless black Schiaparelli dress, tight at the corset and flowing down my legs with a slit.
I was already freezing.
My eyes darted around before the maze called to me. The garden. The hedges. The silence between things.
I kept walking, drinking, the sweetness sinking down my throat and softening everything that hurt.
I didn’t stop until I reached the fountain at the center. Angels and devils carved into marble, staring down at me. Like they knew how far gone I already was.
And maybe they did.
Maybe they’d seen every version of me I was trying to drown.
I drank the last of the champagne and tossed the bottle without thinking. My heels clacked against the stone as I stepped into the fountain, freezing water rushing up my legs. It stole my breath.
