He hummed, leaning casually against the wall. “It seems they have been. You’ve been spending quite some time with him. I do hope his behavior is meeting his father’s standards.”
The thought hit me again—the “babysitter” theory. Was I just a tool to keep Tristian in line? Camila’s words echoed in my head:Whoring the other one out.What did she know that I didn’t? She never lied to me, even when she was being cruel.
“You went to a club last night,” he said suddenly, “with your friends. Didn’t you?”
My stomach did a slow, sickening roll.How did he know?The room felt like it was closing in… I couldn’t breathe.
Putting down his empty whiskey glass and slowly approaching, he loomed over me. “And… just where did you spend the rest of the night, Ingrid?”
I shook. My lip trembled.
“ANSWER ME!” he roared. His fist slammed down on the table, another gunshot crack that reverberated through the house.
Before I could even think of which way to handle this, which way to navigate my father’s rage in the safest way possible, a door rocked on its hinges upstairs and slammed into the wall. Footsteps clattered down the stairs.
Camila marched into the hallway, a packed tote bag slung over her shoulder.
Papa rounded on her instantly. “And where the hell do you think you’re going?”
Camila looked at me, her eyes darting to my trembling hands. She knew exactly what was about to happen if she left. I was at his mercy. Part of me screamed for her to stay, but I couldn’t ask that of her.
“Wherever I damn well please,” she shot back.
My father looked at the two of us, a dark sneer curling his lips. “I see… It seems like the two of you have finally grown up, hmm? Making your own decisions, going to clubs, scheming together to defy me…”
Before I could react, his hand shot out, tangling in my hair. He yanked me off the couch with a sharp tug. I cried out as I hit the floor, the impact jarring my bones. I was back in that familiar, humiliating position on the carpet.
“Remember when I used to give a damn about you, too?” he spat at Camila. “Used to discipline you like this, to make sure you didn’t end up like the little whore you are now? Before you decided to make yourself worthless to me.”
“Fuck you,” Camila snapped. “You’re a weak, pathetic man whose only way to show authority is by beating little girls.”
His hand tightened in my hair as I cried, my hands finding his wrists.
“I’m weak?” he repeated angrily.
The front door swung open. I looked up through my tears to see my abuelita. She was pale. An emergency room band circled her wrist, and she held a sheaf of papers.
She took in the scene—the bag on the floor, Camila’s defiance, and me on the ground. A terrifying, cold anger ignited in her eyes. My father finally let go of my hair.
“Camila, lleva a tu hermana a su habitación!”
I had never heard that tone from her. It was a command that left no room for argument.
My father went still as Camila grabbed my arm and hauled me up. She marched me up the stairs in a daze of silence until we were safe inside myroom. She sat me on the edge of the bed and pushed her hair back from her face, her breathing heavy.
“W-where are you going?” I whispered.
She glanced at me, her face void of emotion. “Away.”
“For how long?”
She shrugged. “However long I want.”
“Where you’re going… is it at least better than here?” I whispered, searching her face for any sign of hope.
She thought for a long moment, her eyes dark.
“No.”
