Page 1 of Protected By Her Daddy

Chapter 1

Wren

The library lights flicker as I gather my books and stuff them into my backpack. This is my last semester at Clark Community College, with its modern classrooms, labs, libraries, and student services buildings. Thanks to the first-dollarprogram, the tuition fees for my associate business degree are covered, leaving me free to put the additional financial aid I receive toward other materials.

In a few more months, I’ll have my degree. Then the plan is to get a full-time job. Working part-time at the diner is the only thing keeping us above the poverty line. Barely. I arrive every morning at 5 AM and serve breakfast to the regulars before heading to classes. After school, I return to the diner until 8 PM and then put in a few hours of study at the college library.

I check the cracked screen of my phone. It’s late, almost 11 PM, and the campus is starting to empty. I should've left an hour ago, but this is the only time I can get any real studying done.I’m exhausted. Four hours of sleep every night is catching up with me, but I can’t afford to waste time in bed, tempting as it is. Sleep is a luxury.

Mrs. Campbell, the librarian, gives me a kind smile as she turns off the last row of lights. “Good night, Wren.”

“Good night, Mrs. Campbell,” I reply, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. Heavy with textbooks, it weighs me down, but not as much as the anxiety of going home does.

The school library is the one place I find solace. Mrs. Campbell’s warm smile, the musty smell of old books, the whisper of pages turning—it's a different universe to the chaos of home.

Outside, the autumn air bites at my exposed skin. I pull my jacket tighter, my breath steaming in the chilly night. The campus is eerily quiet at this hour, the usual daytime chatter replaced by the distant hum of traffic and the occasional rustle of leaves. The walk home is only fifteen minutes, but each step feels like a mile, and I dread what I might find when I get there.

And each step brings unwelcome memories. The time Gregory stole my money to buy booze, the nights he screamed at Mom until she cried, and the days he spent drinking away our grocery money. Or snorting it up his nose.

As I walk, my mind wanders to the past few days. Assignments piling up, endless shifts at the diner, and the constant worry about money. Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to have a typical family and parents who cared. Filled with love and laughter instead of anger and fear. But those are dreams, and reality is harsher.

I pass by a row of well-kept houses, each one proudly displaying fall decorations. Pumpkins with carved grins, wreaths made of autumn leaves, and warm porch lights invite memories of a different time, a happier time. A pang of jealousy hits me—it’s been years since I felt festive or safe. I increase my pace, hoping the chill in the air will numb the ache in my heart.

Sirens blaring in the distance make me flinch. It's probably nothing, another sign of the city’s chaos, but they set my nerves on edge.

My house appears in the distance, a stark contrast to the cheerful homes I passed earlier. My home is small and run-down, reflecting years of neglect. The exterior is faded and peeling, with a weed-infested lawn and broken fence. The inside isn’t any better: dimly lit with clutter in every corner, a physical manifestation of the chaos within our lives.

Gregory’s car is in the driveway, a beat-up Honda that hasn't seen a carwash in years. I clutch the straps of my backpack tightly, bracing myself. Every night is a gamble—will Gregory be passed out, or will he be waiting, angry and volatile?

I push the door open as quietly as I can. The living room is dimly lit, the TV casting flickering shadows on the stained walls. Empty beer bottles clutter the coffee table, and the smell of stale cigarettes hangs in the air.

Our house used to be warm and inviting, filled with the aroma of Mom’s cooking and the sound of laughter. Now, it’s like a tomb, each corner harboring the ghost of happier times. Every inch of this house holds a memory—some bearable, most painful. The living room, with its old, stained furniture and scattered remnants of better days, is a testament to how far we’ve fallen. The worst parts are the reminders of what used to be, like the family photos now faded and gathering dust. Dad's smiling face stares out from one, so different from the somber reality we live in now.

Dad died when I was six. Mom may as well have died with him because she checked out of life in every way that mattered.

I navigate the piles of laundry and empty bottles and head for the stairs. Each step is a minor victory, a testament to my will to survive in this hostile environment.

“Wren, that you?” Gregory calls from the kitchen.

I don't answer, hoping to slip up to my room unnoticed. I grip the worn banister as I start upstairs, each tread creaking under my weight. But before I make it halfway up, I hear another voice from the kitchen—one that sends chills down my spine.

I hesitate, my heart pounding. What is Jerry doing here so late? The man makes my skin crawl with his greased-back hair and wandering eyes. He always carries a briefcase and wears wrinkled suits, like some kind of high-flying exec.

I keep moving, inching closer to my sanctuary.

“Where are you going, Wren?”

I freeze as Gregory's heavy, uneven steps start toward the stairs. His frame fills the bottom of the staircase, a sneer plastered on his face, his eyes bloodshot.

“Get down here. Now.”

Gregory's presence has always cast a long, dark shadow over our lives. My fists clench instinctively as he starts up the stairs toward me. My stomach churns, but I force myself to turn. The air feels thick and suffocating as I descend. Gregory always seems more threatening when Jerry's around, and tonight is no different.

Jerry sits at the kitchen table, leaning back in his chair with his signature sleazy grin. I swallow hard, trying to muster some courage.

Gregory motions for me to sit. I ignore him, choosing to stand, poised to bolt. “We need to have a talk,” he says, his voice dangerously smooth, the tone he uses when hiding something.

“What's going on?” I ask, my voice steady despite the tremor of my muscles.

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