Page 37 of Cinderella and the Daddy
The sobs come in waves now, each one ripping through her small frame. Her shoulders shake so violently I think she might fly apart. This isn't manipulative crying or angry tears. This is grief. Raw, bone-deep grief that speaks of old wounds torn fresh.
"I tried so hard," she gasps between sobs. "I tried to be good. To be what you wanted. What he wants. What everyone wants. But it's never enough. I'm never enough."
Each word is a knife between my ribs. Because I know that script. Know what it means to never be enough for the people who should protect you. Know how it feels when trust becomes just another weapon to be used against you.
It's the first time I've ever seen her cry. After everything I've put her through, she's never once broken down like this.
And I did it. I'm the one who finally broke her.
The rage drains out of me so suddenly that it leaves me hollow, replaced by something that feels suspiciously like shame. I stand there watching her fall apart. All I can think about is how small she looks, how utterly defeated.
I turn and walk away. Behind me, I can hear her crying. Each sob feels like a nail being driven into my chest.
I return to my study.
My hands are shaking.
Luka Markovic's hands are fucking shaking because I made a woman cry. Because I threatened to kill someone who's done nothing but love my son and try to survive in the hellish situation I forced her into.
I pour myself a glass of vodka. A whole fucking glass.
I don’t know why, but I have to see if it was bullshit. Did she turn on the waterworks to try and deflect?
I walk to the monitor and turn on the screen. I had cameras installed so I could keep an eye on her. She’s in bed now, still crying.
I sip my vodka, watching her like the fucking stalker I've become. Five minutes pass. Ten. She's stopped crying but hasn't moved from the bed. Just lies there, curled around that ugly mutt like he's the only thing keeping her anchored.
I should turn off the monitor. Give her privacy in her pain. Instead, I pour another drink and keep watching, catalogingevery shudder, every hitched breath. This is what I am—a man who watches suffering he's caused and does nothing to stop it.
At the fifteen-minute mark, she finally sits up, wiping her face with the heel of her hand. She looks directly at the hidden camera—or seems to. My hand freezes halfway to my glass.
"I know you're watching," she says to the empty room, voice raw but steady. "You always watch."
My chest constricts. Of course she knows. She's too smart not to have figured out my surveillance. Too observant to miss the tells.
When Leo pushes open her door five minutes later, I'm already on my feet. He pads across the room and climbs into bed with her.
"Cindy? Why are you crying?"
"I'm okay, sweetheart. Just had a sad dream."
"About dragons?"
A watery laugh. "Something like that."
"Want me to slay them for you? Papa taught me how to punch really hard."
"You're so brave, Leo. So much braver than me."
I listen to them settle back into sleep, her breathing eventually evening out, though I can still hear the occasional shaky inhale. I realize something that terrifies me more than any enemy I've ever faced.
I'm not afraid of her betraying me.
I'm afraid of losing her.
11
CINDY
