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“See you later!”
32.
Rogue
After calling a stylist and organizing a suite of dresses to be sent to Bellamy, I jog down the stairs. I’m whistling a happy tune as I head to the kitchen to make coffee.
I don’t think I’ve ever whistled before.
Is this what contentment feels like? Maybe even happiness?
“Make me an espresso.”
“Fuck.” I exclaim sharply, almost jumping out of my skin.
My sperm donor is sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, his arms casually resting on the armchairs as he looks at me. He’s wearing a three piece suit, immaculate as always.
He was here only a couple weeks ago, and the same before that. His visits are increasingly frequent and unwanted in equal measure.
“Make it yourself.” I answer, pressing the button on the machine and turning towards him with crossed arms as the coffee begins to pour behind me. “You got my messages then.” I say, matter-of-factly.
“I got your pathetic calls and texts, yes. I’m only here for the opening tonight.”
“That’s all you have to say?” I spit out. “She’s dead. She’s been dead this whole time. You never looked for her.” I accuse him.
He stands up as I speak, buttoning his suit jacket as he slowly approaches me.
There’s nothing overtly threatening about his movements and yet violence is palpable in the air. His muscles are pulled tight beneath his thousand euro suit as he levels me with a hate-filled glare.
I expected a punch so this time when it comes flying towards me, I’m prepared.
I duck, narrowly avoiding the blow. Air whistles against my ear as his arm goes past my face.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He hisses at me, recovering his balance. His brow is furrowed in anger and confusion.
Usually I just take, but not anymore.
“I want answers.”
He pretends to right his suit cuffs, momentarily pulling my attention and distracting me.
It’s enough of an opening.
His right hand snakes out and connects with my stomach in a brutal punch. All the air leaves my lungs as I bend at the waist, clutching my abdomen. Cupping the back of my neck, he brings his knee up into the same place.
I fall to the ground, struggling to catch my breath.
“You’re so fucking useless you worthless piece of shit. I should have killed you when I killed your mother.”
The world stops and ringing sounds in my ears as his words land.
At first, I think I’m hallucinating.
There’s no way he just casually said those words after ten years of non-answers. Naively, there’s also shock. Robert Royal is a terrible, abusive man who up until a few days ago I was sure had driven my mother away ten years ago, but the thought that he might be her killer had never crossed my mind.
I didn’t think he was a murderer.
“What did you just say?”
