I see him hear it.
I see the way he tenses. And I am trying — I am fighting to get back into my body, to get out from behind this glass, to find the version of myself that moves forward and opens his mouth — and my father's voice is there every single time I get close to breaking free.
Do you understand what this looks like.
Do you understand what happens.
Everything you've built.
Everything I built you for.
Don't.
Stop looking at him like that.
It’s disgusting.
You’re disgusting.
Be different.
I see Rhys absorb it alone. I see Bennett beside him not knowing what to do.
I see Marcus across the room watching with an expression that turns my stomach — not surprise, not shame, just this flat resigned watching, like he expected this.
And I am standing ten feet away.
Ten feet away.
And my mouth is closed.
And my father is dead and his voice is the loudest thing in the room.
And I hate him.
I hate him.
I hate him so much I can barely breathe around it.
For the first time in my life I let myself feel it completely — the full clean burning hatred for a man who called fear discipline and called cruelty preparation and carved shame into me so deep that I am standing ten feet from the person I love while he is being humiliated and I still cannot make my body move.
He's dead.
He's dead and he's still here.
He's still in this room with me.
Still reaching his hands into my life and taking things from me.
He's still winning.
And I am so furious I can barely breathe.
I open my mouth.
Fuck you.
Rhys's voice.
