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And when he told me the cost, I thought the price was too high.
So the bastard pulled out his phone and threatened to make a call to the judge and tell him that I’m refusing part of the agreement of my release.
I knew I was caught, and I listened to him ramble on about what a disappointment I turned out to be, how I should have been a stain on the sheets, how he wished my mother had followed his wishes to terminate her pregnancy.
Well, I love you, too, Dad.
That’s when he’d said the unforgivable thing about mom, called her a nasty four-letter word I refused to even think in conjunction with her memory and said he should have known she’d strap him with a kid he didn’t want, and he thought she got the last laugh, dying and leaving me with someone who never wanted me.
I know the face he presents to the rest of the world, but I also know the truth about him. The part that he doesn't let anyone else see. I know enough secrets I could sink his empire, but I’d rather blow it all up with dynamite instead.
They will cover the floor to ceiling windows that offers a stunning view of the city and the mountains far off in the distance. Even though my father likes to say that I didn't earn this place, I put in a lot of work and hours to get my penthouse, and his abuse should count as a full-time job.
Planting my hands on a metal tabletop decorated with my favorite Pinstripe Calathea that stands beside the taller leaves of my Monstera that rests on the floor beside the table, I stare out the window at the twinkling lights of the city.
But the beautiful view does not erase my father's words, and I turn around and head to the kitchen, where I pour myself some whiskey. I don't drink very often, but on particularly bad days, it's nice to feel warm and fuzzy for a little while.
I'm sure it's not healthy for me to need something to calm my nerves and drown out the sound of his voice in my head, but it’s an option and I’ll take it.
He feels like I'm throwing away everything he built for me, that I'm ungrateful and irresponsible. He even had the nerve to say that I'm breaking his heart as if he hadn’t spewed such vile thoughts.
I’m not sure the man even has a heart, and if he does, it’s probably not his. I’m sure it’s in a jar on a shelf somewhere and belonged to someone important so he can show off his power and ability to get what he wants.
I’ve lived a lie my whole life, and just when I thought I could break free, I dug myself in deeper. At least Emma wanted to understand and asked questions. My father acted like this is all I’ve ever been or done, totally discounting how good of a child I’d been for so long in a pathetic attempt to garner his life, affection, and time.
One thing is clear; he owns me and always has. I’m just another possession, though I’m the one that embarrasses him. That thought curves the corners of my lips up, and I gulp down my whiskey before pouring another.
The pleasant burning down my throat offers little comfort but the knowledge that soon I’ll feel warm and happy.
See, my father and Emma have me all wrong. It's not that I don't want to build a life; it’s that I want to create something that’s mine. Something he hasn’t touched. Something he can’t claim credit for. Even though I’m sure he’ll find a way - he always does.
I grew up and moved out, but I never escaped him.
My phone chimes to warn me someone is on my floor. I'm not expecting anyone and have no plans. Pulling my device out of my pocket, I glance at the screen to see who might be in my hall. My first thought is that my father must be here, but I see blonde hair, a blue blouse, and black skirt.
Great. He sent his terrier to do his dirty work. Of course he did.
With every intention to ignore her, I sit on my couch, facing the city lights, stretch an arm across the top of the cushion. With a deep breath, I take another drink.
She knocks again, but louder, then seems to realize I have a camera on her. “I know you’re in there, Clifton.”
Sure, she does.
“Your car is parked in your spot. Let me in.”
Not going to happen, little lady. If I want to get bit, I’d stick my hand in a pit of vipers.
“I know that you know I’m here. Just let me in.” She sounds annoyed, which further solidifies my need to not let her in.
With my drink in one hand and my phone in the other, I watch her through the camera. Despite the anger in her face and the frustration written on her features, I see something else there, too. Concern? No, that couldn't be right.
"Clifton, open the damn door!" she yells.
Obviously, she has no patience. How does she manage being a lawyer with that much of a short fuse? Then again, I’d seen her in court, and she was always so calm, cool, and collected. I didn’t know how she could keep under such tight control and not give away anything.
“I think you’re lost. My dad lives across town.” As the words are relayed through the security system, I see her cross her arms and strike a defensive pose.
“I’m not here for your father, I'm here for you.”
