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“I’m not going to fight with you.” I turned to leave but he grabbed my arm again, pulling me back toward him.
“Then I suggest you don’t walk away from me!”
I snapped, “Then stop screaming at me,” trying to stay calm in a situation where I wanted to lose my shit on him. “How dare you speak to me like that?”
“Listen, Cami, I can speak to you how I damn well please. Last time I checked, you work for me.”
“My name is Camila,” I stated, emphasizing each syllable in my Spanish accent.
“I don’t even know how to fuckin’ pronounce that.”
“Here, repeat after me … Ca-mi-la.”
“Now who’s been watching who?” he countered, referring to his argument with his staff at the hospital.
“At least I can admit it.”
“Oh, I can admit it, Cami. I’ve been wondering how long you’ve been off the pole.”
“Sabes que…” My eyes widened, taken back. “Eres un puto cabrón!”
“The fuck does that mean?”
“It means you’re a fucking asshole!”
“I’ve been called way worse, sweetheart, but maybe it’s time I wash your mouth out with soap?”
“Wow. How much have you been watching me?”
“Whenever Doctor Daddy needed to fuck his fist, yeah? Isn’t that what your friend said?”
“His name is Dan—”
“I know what his name is.”
“Then learn how to use it.”
“How cute, you actually think I give a damn about what you want. I think you’re forgetting who works for who. Do I need to remind you, Cami?” He stepped toward me and I instinctively took a step back, missing the coffee table this time, but that didn’t stop him.
“All you’ve done is disrespect this house, my home, the one my wife and I…” He paused, halting his steps. Just as quickly as the thought came on, he shook it off. His broody demeanor coming toward me again.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Until my back hit the door.
He swiftly caged me in with his arms, eyeing me up and down with an expression of authority. Hovering over me, making me feel so small.
“Hiding things about our kids, coming to my hospital, prying in our bedroom, fighting with our son, and let’s not forget you shaking your ass like you’re a goddamn whore in front of our daughter.”
“That’s not—”
“I don’t want to hear your pitiful excuses. My kids deserve better.”
“You’re right. They deserve their parents. Where is their mother, huh?”
