special note for ghost readers: This chapter is super important (you'll see why) so I'd really appreciate everyone who's reading's feedback on it. I don't want to know if it was "good", "loved it", "nice chapter", or "enjoyed it", I'm requesting y'all to be detailed. It doesn't have to be an essay or a paragraph. A couple of lines should suffice. Try to, it'd help me a lot. 

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You shouldn't linger in the darkness. It's where predators lurk. Hiding and waiting to pounce on you, shred you, until there's nothing left but blood. Pool of blood as remnants of your existence.

That enigmatic guy in the exquisite dragon mask had told me. 

I was a hollow shell. 

Existing. But not living. 

The darkness that kept attached as a consequence of my past refused to unshackle from its restraints so I could move on. Not that I wanted to. 

Why would I have moved into a future that did not have Areston De L'Aquila in it? 

So, I kept existing. Breathing for the sake of existing. Loathing the darkness within. 

Until the night outside Devil's Den when I found my benediction. The answer to my tearful prayers. 

Benediction came in the form of a predator that treated darkness as its dominion—the same I'd never fallen out of love with and for whom I'd have gladly waited all my life regardless of zero hope.

He seduced me without even touching me. 

Casted a spell upon me that night with soulless eyes, his intimidating presence towering over me like a shadow one can never escape. Exhilarating and terrifying me all at once.

He stripped every layer of my defense the very moment. The mere sight of him had ignited a twisted mix of something deep, primal, and terrorizing stirring inside me. 

I became his, right then. Utterly and completely. There was no turning back. All the attempts I made to escape him afterwards were my weak pretense and futile attempts to fight the inevitable. 

I'd never felt so vulnerable, so exposed, and yet somehow so alive like I hadn't felt in the decade.

He lured me with an illusion of freedom from my self-inflicted dark cage. Only to tempt me to walk into another one—his very own. A cage that was a mirage of freedom. Million times darker. The kind that swallows everything and everyone like those supernova black holes. The kind where my comprehension failed. 

I accepted it. I embraced it and him, with all conditions. Fell for him more and more. Harder than ever. 

My predator is a beast. A monster. A hero with every aspect of anti-hero perfectly amalgamated to make him who he is.

I grew up wanting Disney kind fairytale love. He was my fairytale love eleven years ago. It's still a fairytale, but a dark one. His love is no longer tender. It's a storm. Chaotic. Violent. Consuming. The kind of storm I'd rather be ruined by than live without. I just don't want him—I need him. My survival depends on him. He's the gravity my earth needs.

I have to take a pause from my silent musing to remind myself that he's mine and that this isn't a dream. He's truly mine in every sense possible and I'm his, and this is a reality. I can't help but smile at affirmation. 

Standing at the threshold of the rooftop, slick from sweat, my breath ragged from the morning jog, I watch–no strike that. I consume my husband like a crack addict inhaling the much-needed dose. 

He has a domestic touch right now, although god knows there's nothing remotely domestic about him—he's a savage barbarian in every sense of the word. A dark force. 

He's sitting under the small gazebo he had constructed for me because he knows I love those. It has become our favorite breakfast spot and whenever it's raining, it's our sex spot. 

My skin burns crimson as memories flood me. Of how he bends over the same breakfast table and fucks me raw from behind. Or he'll just spread me on top of it, eat me, and then fuck me with his eyes never leaving mine.

RNN Business is playing in the background on his iPad as he reads The American Observer the old-fashioned way. No digital version on iPad like I do—he reads actual paper. He dedicatedly spends half an hour going through the newspaper, page by page, snorting the content. 

My husband is an old-school snob like that. The very British side of his lineage makes him stick to maintaining his traditional and consistent routines, unlike the Americans who love exploring. 

Every morning, he'll have his fixed breakfast. A bowl of McCann's traditional steel-cut Irish oatmeal mixed with equal amounts of muesli and granola. Five blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, and cranberries each, and two bananas perfectly diced into ten cubes. A protein shake. A cup of black coffee. The same menu every day. I tried to give him variety but realized he didn't prefer it but would consume it to make me happy, so I stopped bothering him.

He's a living embodiment of dominance and raw power dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a white shirt that unfailingly clings to his intimidating physique, accentuating the powerful muscles and hard lines beneath. He radiates the kind of formidable, intoxicating power that can make anyone subjugate at his whim. The fabric worships his body, outlining every curve and ripple with every slightest movement. 

My mouth waters at the sight and the dull throbbing in the middle of my legs registers itself once again as my eyes helplessly trace over his broad shoulders and trails down to his strong, masculine hands. 

I had never known I could be so attracted to the prominent veins that stand out on the back of a man's hand until I became obsessed with his own. I love tracing it with my fingers, feeling it. I might as well have a fetish for it.

His eyes, intense and dark, meet mine. 

He has a look I recognize very well—the one that pierces past my layers and defenses, observes everything, understands everything, knows everything. He loves observing me, memorizing every detail about me—something he's quite unapologetically proud of. 

The primal force of his gaze heats my skin and makes my pulse race. It doesn't matter, I'm used to these eyes and this look. It'll always have the same effect. 

I am the willing prey to his predator, the dark to his darker, and the Icarus to his sun. I crave... no. I need his all-consuming intensity. It frees me.

"How many men's eyeballs do I have to carve out this morning?" He says quietly, folding his paper neatly and placing it on the table. Snob with a major case of OCD.

"A few." I play along, grinning.

"Hmm," he murmurs, yanking me into his lap with a not-so-gentle tug. His gaze darkens with disapproval as it roams over my bare taupe color plunging, wraparound style sports bra. "I do not approve of this outfit, wife."

"Well, good, considering you don't have to wear it. I do and I approve of it, your highness."

His fingers wrap around my throat and his other hand settles on the center of my waist, pressing me to him. "You're asking for it with this bratty attitude, tesoro. I'll be persuaded to fuck you every morning in a way your morning runs will become a distant memory."

Tugging me forward with his hand on my throat, his grip firm yet tender, he crashes his lips onto mine with a ferocity that I am not new to but it steals my breath away as it did the first time. The taste of coffee lingers in his mouth, mingling with its heat. His tongue invades my mouth, marking his claim on me as he does with every kiss and an intensity that leaves me breathless. Each flick of his tongue is a masterful blend of raw desire and control. My fingers dig into his hair as jolts of pleasure erupt in my body. I arch against him–needing more. Craving more.

Quantum's announcement Pill Time, Your Highness, makes him break the kiss to trail his mouth along my chin, jaw, and down my neck. 

It's also a part of routine. The announcement and his hyper vigilance to personally ensure that I've swallowed the damn pill at the exact time every morning, regardless of wherever we are without a single minute's delay.

I scowl at him while still panting. "I hate it when she embarrasses me like that. Why can't you set a normal fucking alarm like a normal person? Better yet. Why do you have to take care of it at all? I am fully capable of taking care of my own birth control pills, Ares!"

"Language and I love taking care of you." He remains completely unbothered as he accepts the pill packet from Gravity who slides in out of nowhere, carrying it on a tray, and extracts one out of it, returning the rest. Gravity wheels away. "Open your mouth."

"Oh, my goodness. You're such an obnoxious man," I huff, obliging to his quiet command and swallow the pill with the glass of orange juice he feeds me. "I am tempted to pay a visit to my obgyn and ask her to get me on depo shots. My periods have been better so it doesn't make sense I continue taking them anyway."

"No." He wipes my mouth with a napkin with an eerie sense of calm. "Those deliver high doses of hormones all at once, which may cause greater side effects. Pill is good. I researched a lot of materials and had a couple of ob-gyns, including yours, give me their expert guidance."

His obnoxiousness is so annoying. "Why bother with any side effects at all? Let's just start wrapping your trouble maker in condoms!"

A ghost smile twitches on his lips. "Trouble maker?"

"That's what it is. A colossal trouble maker," I swat at his chest when laughter bubbles out of me. "Don't make me laugh when I am mad at you."

"You always brighten my mornings," he teases, kissing me, and settles me on the chair next to him. Instead of yelling for a staff to serve me like they serve him, he does the job himself. Every morning. He really does love taking care of me. "Eat. And finish off the entire croissant and omelet. I know you have a lunch date with your mother today, which I do not like just so you know. You'll pretend to eat the food you hate because she loves it and leave with an empty stomach until you come home and I feed you. So, eat and then I'll eat you up."

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"I have asked Gabe to send over Pappardelle ai Funghi Porcini, Brasato al Barolo, Caponata Siciliana, and Tiramisu for lunch. Don't eat crap just to make your mother happy," Areston instructs, his voice a deep, authoritative husk that rumbles from deep within as he expertly navigates his favorite hypercar, La Voiture Noire, which he often refers to as his second wife just to get on my nerves, along the panoramic stretch of Southampton's Meadow Lane with sea glistening on one side and trees lined on another.

My husband looks like a dark lord behind the wheel. So irresistible, I am unable to tear my gaze off him. Even when he's sporting something as casual as a mint green t-shirt and casual jeans, he is effortlessly striking and exudes an aura of controlled power. The way the fabric clings over his broad shoulders and chest highlights his muscular physique. The faded jeans do nothing to hide his powerful male thighs and legs beneath. His dark hair is tousled, a rarity from his thanks to the open sun roof, and they glisten underneath the sun. The dark sunglasses add an extra layer of enigma to his whole enigmatic personality, camouflaging those intense, piercing predator's gaze that hold the powerful to melt me with just one stare.

"Stop eye-fucking me and focus for once, wife?" He smirks, maintaining his attention on the road ahead.

I grin, warmth spreading through me. "I am focusing on what's important to me."

His smirk deepens. The beautiful jerk is an epitome of lethal elegance. "Is that so?"

"Mm, hmm. That is so. You look so damn sexy all the time. I cannot get enough of you, your highness," I hum as he pulls inside the automatic front gates of the Rothschild Summer Palace, my family's waterfront mansion, that open upon our arrival.

He tilts his head to face me, his gaze dark and unwavering, the sharp angles of his jaw relaxed and yet taut. "In that case, why don't you take a raincheck on this so-called lunch date with the Satan and go home with me, tesoro? We could focus on me. Considering that's more important to you."

I smack at his chest, laughing. "Don't call my mother Satan. Only I get to do that."

His eyes glint with a mix of mirth and something darker as he leans in, curling his fingers on my nape and yanking me forward, slamming his lips on mine in a fierce, demanding kiss. His tongue parts my lips and invades it like a savage raider, skillfully dominating mine with each stroke leaving me feeling like a marionette to his adept hands. My fingers tug on his hair strands, each tug only fueling his intensity and roughness, transforming the kiss into a frenzied, intoxicating storm. The sensation is so profound, I shiver against it, millions of electric currents exploding in my body. His fingers splaying on my nape dig deeper into my skin, his touch tender and possessive and commanding.

I am well-aware of his not-so-noble intention. He's trying to seduce me, kissing me with a feverish control, every flick and movement deliberate and precise so I'd give in to the needs of my body and senses that's a hoe for him, and abandon my plans to see my mother.

"Stop," I murmur against his mouth, parting from him, my voice a breathless whisper. "I know what you're doing, baby. You don't want to spend time with your family. I am not going to be the reason you back out from the lunch invitation. It's already terrible that I cannot make it. So, you will see them, be a decent son, and participate in conversations even if it kills you. No scratch that. You can't get killed because if you die, I die too, and I need a long life." I shake my head, annoyed by having distracted myself. "You know what I'm trying to say. You'll have lunch with your parents while I have it with my mama."

He sighs, a rare sign of exasperation. "I don't want her to feed all kinds of mess into your overthinking brain, Belle. She has done that unfailingly every time you've met her for a long lunch."

I brush my fingers against his cheek and unbuckling my seat belt, I climb on his lap, straddling him. "I'll be fine, your highness. I have you to keep me sane. I trust you to keep me sane. All the time. Regardless of the mess that stirs in my head. It's just lunch, don't worry. You'll be fine too, you know? You'd be grateful when your clingy wife isn't around latching onto your arm like a koala bear and hogging all your entire attention."

He doesn't smile, but his eyes slightly soften, as lowers my head to kiss my nose. "I love having my clingy wife hogging all my attention. She's the only one worth the attention, my little koala bear."

"Now, go. You can come inside but mama will force you to stay and you would agree just to have me in your vicinity. I don't want that." I press another kiss to his mouth, relishing the brief moment of our precious connection.

Just when I'm about to slide off the seat with the frappe that has been sitting in the holder when the cup tips, spilling the entire content onto my lap. I gasp, panic setting in as I watch my silky white dreamy Rodare gown now ruined.

"Oh, no! I cannot go inside like this." I exclaim, fumbling for a napkin. "What would mama think? How could I have been so reckless?"

I am on the verge of crying when my husband unbuckles his own seat belt, opens his side of the door, climbs out of the driver's seat.

"Where do you think you're going? It's because of you. You did not want me to go so you did some voodoo magic shit and now look what has happened."

He royally ignores me as he extracts something from the trunk and returns with three Brioni leather duffle bags. "Pick one and stop crying."

I scowl at him, accepting one bag. "Oh my goodness, Areston! You have been carrying a collection of spare custom haute couture for me?" I marvel, my eyes wide as saucers as I rummage through the contents. "That's not how you keep these precious clothes, stacked like a bunch of pillows, but oh god! This is a lifesaver!" I sequel in delight, launching myself at him in a hug.

His arrogant mouth curves into a smug smirk, watching my excitement. "Well, I am perpetually set for a Belle Crisis."

I shake my head in disbelief, grinning like an idiot, picking a figure-hugging yellow Versace number. "I cannot believe you call my dilemma Belle Crisis. Why five?"

His shoulders lift in a nonchalant shrug. "To be prepared for the worst case scenarios of the Belle Crisis. Can't let mishaps cramp my little ogre's style," he reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his touch both tender and possessive.

I lean forward and kiss him. "I love you, your highness. Not just because of this. In general," I grin, pointing at the remaining bags. "What's in there?"

"Five pairs of Roger Viviers to match in one. Accessories to match in another."

I watch my husband in awe. He just... he takes care of everything. And what's more? He loves doing so. He wasn't messing with me when he said the first time that he loves maintaining me.

"You're unreal. You know that? Have you by any chance stashed my stylist Marylenne back in the trunk too?"

His eyes darken with a wicked gleam. "I could, but two things. She won't be able to fit in there. And even if we manage that by some miracle, she'll hear your sex noises every time I fulfill my wife's demand for car sex. Can't allow that. Your moans are for my ears only. Now, change before I change my mind and kidnap you. Lunch with parents be damned."

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Sergeant Atkinson: I know you're panicked. Don't be. Just relax. I am assuring you that no one would harm you if you coordinate and your privacy will always be ensured no matter what.

Girl: Thanks. I am willing to help you. Just please don't let anything happen to me.

Sergeant Atkinson: You're safe. So, tell me. When you met this guy, Nikolai Christakis. How old were you then? And where did the two of you meet?

Girl: I was 16. I was losing myself in drugs after my mother's death so my stepfather had admitted me to this private rehab. Dr. Ronald Morgan was my therapist. It had been a week since my joining when one day, Dr. Morgan introduced me to Nikolai Christakis. My stepfather had cut me off money and I needed drugs badly so Dr. Morgan said that he was willing to help me get the drugs I need if I do something for his friend in return. A favor.

Sergeant Atkinson: And this favor would be sex?

Girl: Yeah, but not sex per se. I mean. In the beginning, I was told I'd have to be his sex slave. Nikolai Christakis used that term to call us. But I found out later that it wasn't what I was thinking.

Sergeant Atkinson: Us? There were others? Girls your age? And what did you find out later?

Girl: Others, yeah. There were about 5 other girls and 3 guys apart from me in his secluded mansion. I don't know the address because they would blindfold us. 2 guys out of the three were from the same rehab and so was 1 girl. Rest I don't know. He would have sex with us. Have us pee on him."

Sergeant Atkinson: Nikolai Christakis prefers both genders?

Girl: Yeah, he would blow him and they'd top him. He used to give us money to buy drugs cheap from a supplier who was his friend and he would come to the rehab. Good quality coke and cheaper rate.

Sergeant Atkinson: Who was this friend? Do you know his name? Can you describe him?

Girl: He was this good looking guy in his late 50s I think? He was a lawyer I think. Martin Williams was his name.

Sergeant Atkinson: Tell me more about what would happen during your trips to his mansion. Did such things take place back in rehab too?

Girl: That's pretty much what happened in the mansion. We would call it a sex dungeon. We went there twice each week except when he was not available. Yes, rehab too. Ronald and Martin would often have us strip for them. They used to love putting stuff in us.

Sergeant Atkinson: Putting stuff?

Girl: They had a lot of collections of sex toys. They were weird. They wouldn't make us suck them but they were sadists really. They would hit me in exchange for more money and drugs and they would putt those heavy sex toys in me and torture me. It was painful but I let them do it. I needed the drugs so I allowed it. They would make me sit and watch them having sex in front of me. It's the same as Nikolai would do in the mansion. The three of them will have sex and I will watch.

Sergeant Atkinson: Nikolai, Ronald, and Martin would have sex?

Girl: That's right. Nikolai would also have sex with this girl. He would tell us to watch fuck her and then pee inside her. He said he loved it. I am sorry if I'm being too graphic. You wanted it.

Sergeant Atkinson: That's fine. Tell me about this girl. Do you know who this girl was? Or her name?

Girl: Um, no. He used to call her Lily. She was young... around 25 or something.

Sergeant Atkinson: This woman was a regular?

Girl: Yeah, I mean she was his assistant. She would be there all the time and she knew everything. Like everything. Whatever that happened there... she would be there to see it all.

"Juliette?" Ben's voice comes through the speaker phone as I re-read the transcript he mailed me. "You okay?" He asks in a concerned voice.

"I am fine," I swallow, feeling numb inside, my eyes glued to the screen of my phone. Lily was involved with Nikolai? "Where did you get this from?"

"Sergei's Atkinson's place. All the copies had been destroyed along with the original clip on the same day on the instruction of his seniors, but he unofficially kept this clip with him. The girl in the testimony died a year after she testified. Drug overdose is the official cause of death."

"Nikolai killed her." It's not a question. I know he did.

"Yeah. And this girl Lily is Fletcher's cousin. She passed away a decade ago in a car accident. Drug overdose. She used to be Nikolai's right hand and was involved in solicitation of minors along with Fletcher. Was an integral part of his sex and drug trafficking operations. A crack addict herself. Her family had admitted her to a rehab four times since she was 15 but she would keep relapsing and eventually gave up. Fletcher doesn't openly associate himself with her though or their family either. His father disowned him nine years ago after he caught him in an orgy with his wife, Fletcher's step-mother and her daughter and son. His step-siblings so to speak. Divorced her as well."

I am not even listening to him talking about Fletcher. My mind is stuck on Lily. I am glad that I'm sitting right now or my knees would've buckled and I'd have fallen down. 

I came looking for mama in the garden when my phone rang. I've been here since. It has been about ten minutes.

Is he talking about the same Lily I knew? 

The same girl who took such good care of me and consoled me when I was a mess following my breakup with Areston? The same girl who agreed with me that regardless of the suffocation I felt, I should mend my relationship with him because it was rare to find someone who loves you so much and whom you love back equally. She would tell me on several occasions that I was one of the lucky ones and I mustn't fuck it up just because of some issues. She was the reason I didn't touch drugs despite Fletcher's constant persuasion until one day I broke down and did some coke. She had said she was disappointed in me. She had seemed so reluctant when I'd forced her to do some too.

"Now, the matter of your importance. Ekaterina replaced Lily Wilson as Nikolai's right hand. Still no clue on her identity, but we now know she was associated with them."

Darina was associated with Nikolai. He bribed that witch of East to keep Areston away from me. She's also involved in solicitation of minors. Lily was associated with Nikolai and doing the same thing. So was Fletcher.

My hand travels to my chest as my suspicions feel like turning to reality. 

Could Darina really be Ekaterina? 

"What's the update on Darina's background, Ben?"

"Still looking into it. Need a couple of more days."

"What's going on, pumpkin?" My beautiful mama's voice interrupts us.

She's standing in front of me, her arms crossed, in her trademark aristocratic style. A beige classic shift tweed sleeveless piece that ends a little above her knees. I have no idea how long she has been here for. 

My eyes haven't moved away from the transcript. 

As usual, mama's appearance is completed by a statement necklace, diamond bracelets and stud earrings that shimmer under the sun, and a pair of Roger Vivier to match. Her ultra-glossy, old money blonde hair, the type that the TikTok generation splurge on trying to replicate and still fail, is neatly tied in her signature slick bun. The same color she passed on to me, along with other things that make people compliment her that I'm her clone–except for my eyes and their color that are the only thing my father's genes passed on to me.

One can never spot her in a casual outfit of summer dress or perhaps pants or shorts or something. Not even for the weekends that she flies to spend at the Rothschild Summer Palace on Meadow Lane where Bubbeh lives. She sticks to her wardrobe of dresses and Chanel suits, regardless of the day. Anything that comes with a pair of pants or shorts is blasphemy. 

Mama commands the world in her dresses. She proves that women do not need to wear a pair of pants to rule in a men dominated world. Our supreme monarch, Bubbeh, is of the same belief. So were the female predecessors of our family. It's like a tradition. The only time they deflect is when they've to wear jodhpurs for polo or wide-flared khakis for gardening or yoga pants for workout. 

I don't either. I'll never be caught wearing a pair of jeans or shorts or pants in public except for the time I go for morning runs in my yoga pants. It's not that I strictly abide by the tradition, though I used to. It's just that I do not like it. I'm an unapologetic girly girl who prefers skirts and dresses.

I end the call with Ben and sigh, placing the phone beside me on the bench and shoving my hands between my thighs, my shoulders slumping as I stare at the green grass beneath my feet. 

"Are you aware Lily was involved with Nikolai, mama?" 

"I wasn't at that time."

"But you have been. For quite a while."

"Yes," she answers with supreme cool.

"Did you know Lily had been addicted to crack since she was 15 and admitted to rehab four times?"

"Yes."

"Is that why you kept insisting that it wasn't completely my fault she was high at the time of her death?" I look up.

"Yes."

"Was it true when you said that her original toxicology report said that they'd found cone snail venom in her body that was administered almost an hour before her death? The poison took effect at the time of her death?"

"Yes."

"So, the numbness she said she'd started experiencing in her feet and hands, making it tough for her to control the car. The difficulty in breathing... it was not because of coke but the poison?"

"The small amount of coke you administered could have only escalated what was inevitable."

"Her death, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Is it true that she died from respiratory failure before the crash? Not injury."

"Yes."

I always thought they made all that up to make me feel less awful and guilty about what I'd done.

Tears cloud my eyes in front of her for the first time. I don't know why. 

I have never cried in front of her or anyone except Areston. 

Never. Not even a single drop of tear. Not even when I was in my worst phase.

"It's possible Nikolai planned all that to... to get to me." 

"Yes," her tone remains the same. Cold. Calculated. Stripped of any form of emotions. So is her face.

I can no longer help my tears from running down. "Why me, mama? Why did he have to put me through that hell? Why did it have to happen to me? What wrong did I do to deserve that?"

Her face remains taut as he meets my teary eyes with her ruthlessly hard ones. "You did nothing wrong. Just like his other victims and all the victims who've been through similar or even worse kinds of treatment have done nothing wrong to deserve what happened to them. It has been eleven years since. You've grown mature since. Represented and won cases for such victims since. Is this the lesson you're giving them? Pity yourself. Cry over what happened and what cannot be changed and ask stupid questions like why me? The world is full of bad people. Things happen. Life goes on. People move on and everything bad fades into the background."

"How can I move on when that past continues eating me all the goddamn time, mama?" I end up snapping at her, my voice coming out as a yell.

"Not the past, pumpkin. I am not a fool and neither are you. The fear of what if Areston finds out the truth has been eating you all this time. Not the past. The solution is simple. Tell him the truth. I am certain the man who commands the world with an iron-fist isn't so faint-hearted to know there's someone who can sacrifice their life to protect him. If he is, then good riddance. You'd be doing a favor to yourself."

"Stop it! Why do you never have to see things the way I do? Why does it always have to be what you think? Why can't you fucking empathize with me for once? Why can't you just be a mother for one fucking time? Why can't you just hold me and let me cry my heart out about what happened for one fucking time? Why can't you listen to all the things about the kinds of torture the 19 year old me was put through and wanted to tell her mother, but couldn't because her mother is a fucking cold stone? Why can't you be a normal parent and just let me grieve the part of me that I lost forever to darkness instead of asking me to be strong and pretend it'll all fade away someday?"

I keep yelling and sobbing, but mother stands like a marble statue carved by gods themselves. In the same intimidating pose. Her hands crossed, her eyes condescending, her face still bare of emotions. Not even a tick in her jaw. It irks me more.

"Why can't you except your role that you fucking pushed me and pushed me so much to be your perfect daughter that I ended up snapping out of control and lost the one person who actually cared about me. Why have you never once cared for how I feel when I've spent all my fucking life thinking about you. I force myself to eat what you like. To behave how I am expected to. To do all the fucking things you expect me to. And I have aced it all with flying colors. Why can't you be just my mother for once and not the perfect and inevitable Jennifer Rothschild? Why couldn't you have not kept me at home under your supervision? I had done coke only one time. I didn't deserve such a serious punishment, did I? You knew me. After witnessing what happened to Lily, I'd never have touched it again. Why did you have to send me to a rehab and trust strangers to take care of your most precious asset, mama?"

No answer.

I stand up in defiance and bridge the gap between us so that we're face-to-face. "Do you even know what they did to your precious asset, mama? No. Because you never bothered asking. You just know what Selene or Claire or Bubbeh or Chase have told you based on the non-graphic details I shared with them. Or whatever you found out on your own and on the basis of what doctors told you from the burn wounds and injuries in my vagina and fresh welts on my skin that they'd inflicted upon me the morning of the day I escaped that hell. I'll tell you what they did. Maybe that will gain me a fucking shred of sympathy from you."

I show her my arms where I remember marks once existed. There's no evidence of them anymore on my skin, but it's engraved in my memory forever.

"They would burn me with cigarettes here. Hit me with their belts, canes, whips, or whatever they could find just because they loved hearing my screams. They would traumatize me in scary masks in the middle of the night and make me run to give me an illusion that I could escape them if I succeed. They'd catch me and hit me and burn me and then they'd shove all kinds of painful objects in me as punishment. They did it until I got used to it. Until I started getting used to the orgasm it would bring me. I did not enjoy it a bit. I wanted to tear my skin off in bath every fucking time after I'd orgasm and they'd have Paul clean me up. I did not like it. It kept traumatizing me every fucking second. I had no means to escape."

She still doesn't say anything, which makes me break down harder.

"Areston would have never left me to strangers, mama. He would have never trusted me with anyone but himself even if I'd have turned into a raging lunatic who was a threat to his existence. You should have done the same. Why didn't you? You did not bother finding out about the people you had trusted your precious asset with and I pretended everything was fine for the sake of the man I loved. Here's the thing, mama! Nothing was fine. I was violated again and again and again until I accepted it as my fate because I knew there was no saving. I would trick myself into believing that I was orgasming every time they'd fuck me with those sex toys so it was equal to me whoring myself out, but deep down, I've always known the truth that I was unwilling to accept. You failed to protect me from those monsters because you didn't trust me or have zero sense of what was going on behind the scene because you fucking lacked empathy to hear my silent cries for help. You put your faith on those monsters instead of me and emboldened their audacity. They kept raping me over and over again because my own mother..."

A tsunami-like force of realization hits me, cutting me off in the middle of my rant. Mama's unreadable mask slips and her lips part into a gasp as a premonition of what's about to happen to me. I realize this was her goal all along. She remained silent so I would snap out of the control I've held onto myself for so long and crush the denial I've been clung to for eleven years. There's no sense of triumph in her features. Just sadness, for the first time ever. Crushing guilt. She wanted me to unravel and she has succeeded.

It's as if I've been doused with icy chill water. So chill it scalds my skin. A wave of nausea sweeps over me as every memory from my time in the rehab starts flashing before my eyes and my chest tightens. The fortress of denial and careful illusion I'd constructed for all these years to protect myself crumbles. Every cry, every pain, everything comes crashing down on me. It's like someone has trapped me in a nightmare I can't escape from.

My breath traps itself in my throat, my knees buckle. Gasping for air with my eyes on mama, I collapse on the grass on my knees. My mother, horrified for the first time, reaches out to me, but in a knee-jerk reaction, I shrug away her touch. The idea of anyone touching me makes my stomach churn. I feel overwhelmed by fury and shame. 

I WAS RAPED. I was fucking raped. 

Just because I accepted the orgasms doesn't mean I wasn't rape. 

It was rape. 

They raped me. Over and over again.

Oh, my goodness.

I want to scream. Tear at my skin. Cry my heart out. Purge.

I want Areston.

How was the chapter?

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Thoughts on Jennifer?

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