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We even picked a name for him.
Braiden.
We had dinner and he requested to watch cartoons while I called my friends to find the best doctors and everything else we might need to adjust our lives around a child. Maybe I should be more concerned with the responsibility we’re about to take on, but I’m not. I have wealth and power, and most importantly, I understand what it is like to be a five-year-old who needs love and doesn’t know how to ask for it.
He finally crashed thirty minutes ago, and we decided to leave him at the main house for now but brought monitors to watch out for him.
Antonio stayed behind as well, deciding to guard his door, and I found it hilarious as fuck.
Braiden doesn’t need his protection because he has parents who actually give a fuck for once.
Which brings us to now.
I never shared my story with anyone. However, I know this marriage would never work if I don’t do it because shutting Isla out from my past will hurt her.
And I don’t want to ever hurt her again.
“They say we become orphans when our parents die.” She nods, although her brow furrows. “I became an orphan the first time Wayne hit me.” A beat passes. “I was five years old.”
A shocked gasp slips past her lips as she steps back when I go farther into the garden, taking a deep breath to continue. I need to have some space because I don’t want my past to taint her in any way, and that’s how it feels speaking about it. Rolling in dirt all over again. “Pamela just accepted Wayne’s rules, and whenever I cried out to her, she ignored me.” A hollow chuckle coming from my throat rings in the air followed by thunder. “I would have never known how much she didn’t give a fuck if it wasn’t for Wayne. He always needed for her to watch me bleed. He took pleasure in knowing that she allowed for Keneth’s son to be treated like shit.”
“I’m so sorry, darling,” she whispers, and I notice how she quickly wipes away her tears. She shouldn’t cry for me.
It was a long time ago.
Why the fuck does my voice grow so hoarse and the words are akin to needles bruising my vocal cords then? “Over the years, her indifference stopped mattering, and sometimes I wondered if we even were her children. She showed no love toward Estella either. She abandoned us and lived in the mansion, enjoying all the riches and welcoming the endless jewelry he brought her. She’d drink heavily and still fucking watch.” I stop, sucking a breath through my teeth while Isla stays silent, and Lampos roars as if sensing my turmoil. “No empathy, no remorse. Nothing. Sometimes I think her anger or disgust would have been better than what she gave us.” I pick up the whiskey bottle and drink from it, welcoming the burning sensation as my physical discomfort numbs my internal one. “When Wayne died, Estella was thirteen so she got sole custody of her. I was willing to wait five more years to get rid of her, but Pamela found herself a new guy.” This woman couldn’t exist without a man. “He was rich and wanted to live abroad, so she started preparing all the paperwork for it.”
“Was she allowed to do that? I mean…legally she had custody, but don’t you guys have some stipulations considering forty-nine percent of shares belong to her?” Isla shivers once again when a gust of wind slaps us and she burrows deeper into my shirt. “I’m sure there was some protection in place.”
“Wayne wasn’t stupid, so while Estella inherited her shares, Pamela got nothing. One of the reasons she wanted to get married again. That woman does not like to work.” I take another sip and lick my lips. “I couldn’t have that, so I offered her a deal.”
My wife blinks. “A deal?”
“Yes. I paid her a generous amount to sign away her rights.”
“So that’s how you got custody.”
“Yeah.” I could finish this at that and never say another word. She wouldn’t question me on it anymore, understanding my resentment. However, the familiar self-preservation doesn’t kick in, and instead, I continue, “I gave her the benefit of the doubt.”
Isla cocks her head to the side, studying me, and whispers, “The offer was a test?”
“Over the years, I read so many books about abuse victims, their psychology and behavior. I wanted to find justification for her actions and could even pretend that maybe…just maybe her trauma consumed her so much she couldn’t imagine freeing herself from it. Or taking a stance for her children.” I gulp some more whiskey, wiping off my mouth with the back of my hand. “All she had to do was refuse to sign that fucking thing, and I would have forgiven her.” A bitter laugh escapes me. “How pathetic is that?”
“It’s not pathetic, Octavius. We always hope for the best. And our parents…we crave to bond with them or understand why they did what they did if it affected our life.”
“They say we have to be grateful to our parents for giving us life because we wouldn’t exist without them. And that’s true. I’m grateful to be alive and have a sister. To me, she’s mine.” I drink some more, but the drink does nothing to extinguish the hurtful fire spreading through me. “But even parents have no right to waltz back into your life and expect forgiveness just because they changed. Some things are unforgivable.” I look at my wife, her gray eyes full of tears, and my soul aches.
Her pain serves as a balm over my old wounds. She cares about the monster that’s her husband, and this makes the said monster bleed because he never expected for anyone to welcome him with all this baggage. Women deserve princes, not villains.
“I can’t stand my reflection because I see all this every time I look in the mirror.” I motion with the bottle over my form, the whiskey sloshing inside it. “Countless scars serve as a reminder of her indifference and his cruelty. So to predict your next question in case you have it, I don’t want closure. I got all the fucking closure I needed when she put her signature on that damn document.”
The rain slowly starts to fall on us as I breathe heavily and stare at her, physically hurting from saying all of this. I still when she comes to me and gently removes the bottle from my grip.
She places it on the ground and steps into my arms, my hands locking on her back and pressing her hard to my chest while she palms my head, her thumb caressing my scar, and I close my eyes, loving the contact.
No one touched it before her. I never allowed it, and thank God for that.
My scars, just like everything else of mine, belong only to my wife.
