Page 96 of Because I Liked A Boy
“He erased him,” I whispered.
Penelope hovered in the doorway. “I didn’t—he said I could use it if I wanted, but I never—”
“This was his,” I said, tears burning. “His whole life was in here. And now…” My hands shook as I took in the emptiness. “Now it’s like he was nothing.”
“I don’t want to take anyone’s place, Bella,” she said softly. “Not yours. Not his. I didn’t ask for this.”
Grief mixed with fury until I thought I might split apart. “Then don’t let him turn you into proof he never loved us.”
Her eyes shimmered. She nodded.
I glanced around one last time, grief clawing through me. I should have fought harder. I should have come back sooner.
But it wasn’t too late now.
“I’m not going to let him erase us,” I said, my voice low and steady. And I meant every word.
Nothing
The hall yawned longer than it had when I was a child, stretching out like something meant to break me before I reached him. My boots sank into the runner; the sound vanished in the heavy hush. Every step carried ghosts — Mum crying behind a closed door, Nathan slamming his bedroom shut, me slipping downstairs to steal one breath of freedom.
My hands trembled as if the wallpaper itself could reach out and drag me back. I could still taste blood from the last time I stood here, copper sharp on my tongue, his palm print burning into my cheek. Whore. The word had rung in my ears for weeks after, louder than Nathan’s voice, louder than Mum’s sobs. Even now, seven months later, the phantom sting flared hot as if he’d only just struck me. Fear begged me to turn around, but rage shoved me forward, step by step.
Portraits glowered from the walls like judges. Once my face had been there. Nathan’s too. Mum’s smile frozen in oil. Now only the new ones remained: Penelope, polished and posed, my father’s arm around her, a trophy in a tailored dress. A hot coil of rage tightened under my ribs.
Penelope’s slippers whispered behind me, too small and fragile for this house. For him. She shouldn’t be here. Neither of us should. But I wasn’t running this time.
A memory rose, ugly and immediate the last time I’d stood outside hisoffice his hand had cracked across my face. I’d tasted blood and humiliation; he’d spat the word whore like spit. The sting hadn’t gone away. It could still land the same again. The thought should have made me step back. Instead it sharpened me.
“Bella… don’t,” Penelope breathed, so soft it might have been a prayer. The sound anchored me.
“For us,” I whispered, and pushed the handle down.
The door shut behind us with the finality of a verdict.
The office was exactly as I remembered: glass and chrome, a throne at the far end, the city sprawled below like something he owned. He sat behind his desk as always, shoulders squared, scotch catching the light. He didn’t need to look for us he knew we’d come.
The smell hit first—oak and smoke, the bite of expensive scotch. He pivoted slowly, chair legs scraping the rug like nails down a chalkboard. His gaze slid over me, clinical, stripping flesh from bone until I felt fourteen again, braced for the slap before he’d even opened his mouth. My body betrayed me with every shallow breath, every pulse that thudded in my throat. Seven months away, and still he owned this room. Still, he expected to own me.
“Dad.” My voice cut through the room like a blade.
He turned slowly, eyes landing on me first, then sliding to Penelope in the doorway. Irritation flickered and vanished as he smoothed his face back into its habitual mask.
“You’ve come back,” he said, flat. No surprise. No warmth. Just the certainty of ownership. “I wondered how long it would take.”
The memory of his last slap burned along my cheek. I tasted copper. I remembered hunters’ teeth and a laugh that wasn’t kind. I swallowed the bile and demanded, “Why? Why erase Nathan like he was nothing?”
He smiled like a man enjoying his sermon. “Nathan was nothing. A drunk. A liability. Weak. I gave him everything and he wasted it. He couldn’t carry the Ashbourne name.” His eyes flicked to me, cold and precise. “And neither could you.” He stood and stalked forward, each step a blade. “You—what are you? Some saint? No. You’re filth. You open your legs for gutter trash and call it love.” The contempt in his voice burned me. “Hunter Hayes? Do you think I didn’t know? He told me everything.”
My stomach dropped. The bunny, the file — the proof of everything. The word cracked through me like glass. My ears rang, heat flashing across my cheeks as if his hand had landed already. Penny’s soft gasp behind me made the insult echo louder, her innocence shattering in real time. Shame clawing up my throat, but I swallowed it down, locking my eyes on him. If he wanted me broken, he would have to work harder.
“He was your son,” I said, because the word felt like the only thing left that could hold me together.
“He was a disgrace,” he snapped, voice hard as ice. “And you — you killed him. Behind the wheel, wasn’t it? You walked away while he bled. That’s what you are, Isabella. The ruin of this family.”
Tears stung hot, but rage was hotter. “No. You destroyed us. Mum. Nathan. Me. And now Penelope. You’re still destroying us.”
He moved in a slow circle, a predator assessing a trapped animal. The room smelled of cedar and expensive scotch and control. He stopped a foot from me, close enough that I had to lift my chin.
