Page 87 of Once A Villain

“I’m trapped in a relationship with a man who’s a total psychopath—abusive, manipulative, controlling. But the worst part? He doesn’t even want me. He hates me as much as I hate him.”

I pause, but he stays silent, so I push on.

“The only reason he’s hurting me is to get back at my dad. But he doesn’t know my dad couldn’t care less. He stopped loving me the second my mom died.”

The truth hangs between us, heavy and suffocating. His arms wrap around me, pulling me in, and I let him. Soaking in the comfort I’ve been starved for.

“He puts on this big show, pretending to be a caring father, but it’s all bullshit.” I sigh. “He blames me for her death. He hasn’t looked at me the same since. If what I’m about to say doesn’t make you hand over that wine, then you really don’t have a heart.”

I force a laugh, trying to dull the pain with humor.

Why the hell am I telling him this?

“I was there,” I whisper, “when she was murdered. I was only ten.” The memory crashes over me, as vivid and horrifying as the night it happened. Fear, panic, helplessness—it all drags me under. “Her screams woke me. I didn’t know what was happening. I tried to get to her, but my door was jammed. I was trapped.”

My voice shakes, the weight of it clawing at my chest.

“I heard everything they did to her. Her screams, the gunshots, her final breaths. I pounded on that door until my fists bled, but it wouldn’t budge. And then…they came for me.”

I swallow hard, his fingers combing gently through my hair.

“Two men kicked in my door. One of them was covered in her blood. He was hysterical, screaming about taking me, but the other man stopped him. They argued while I screamed for her, for my dad, for anyone. But no one came. The neighbors called the cops. When they heard the sirens, they ran. Left me alone…with her.”

My voice cracks. I see it all again—her body, her empty eyes, the blood on my hands. I shut my eyes, willing the images away.

“The police took me, and after that everything is just a blur of sirens, doctors, and therapists who couldn’t fix any of it.”

More silence.

“But that’s not the worst part,” I say, the alcohol loosening my tongue. “The worst part is my father blamed me. A few nights later, I woke up to him pacing in my room, crying. He was drunk; I could smell it. He pulled out a gun, pointed it at me…and pulled the trigger. It didn’t fire. Just a click. And I froze.”

The pain is still raw, still bleeding, even after all these years.

“I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. We just stared at each other. I thought he was going to kill me. But then...he just left. And the next morning? It was like nothing had happened. He acted normal, so I did too. Didn’t want to set him off.”

My voice wavers, but I push through it.

“A few days later, he shipped me off to boarding school. That was it. I was gone. He stopped being my father the moment she died. I lost both parents that night.” I swipe at a tear that escapes, frustrated.

The alcohol makes it worse, not better. It’s like…all the anger, the pain, everything I’ve buried is clawing its way out.

“But my dad? He’s a real piece of work. An Oscar-worthy performance, and no one sees through it.” I scoff, a bitter laugh slipping out. “So, there you go—the tragic tale of the woman screwing a stranger while being stuck in a relationship with a psychopath. If that doesn’t earn me the rest of this bottle, I don’t know what will.”

The humor is as hollow as I feel, but it’s the only defense I have left against the vulnerability I’m feeling. I glance at him as he silently offers the wine bottle.

“Thanks,” I murmur, taking a sip. The burn of the alcohol dulls the edges of my confession, but it doesn’t erase it.

I can’t believe I just unloaded all that, but weirdly, it feels good. Like ripping off a bandage.

“I haven’t talked about that in...well, ever.” I wipe away another tear. “Sorry, that was a lot.”

In his arms, I feel small, exposed—but safe. The kind of safety that makes you reckless. I shift, pressing back against him, feeling his hardness. His hands tighten on my hips, a low groan rumbling from his chest.

“Please,” I whisper, my voice raw. “I need this.”

His hand slides up my back, fingers threading through my hair before giving it a sharp tug.

“Ow,” I hiss, but the sting ignites something in me.

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