Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 131916 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131916 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
I inhaled a jagged breath, and I pressed the back of my hand to my nose to try to staunch the burning of emotion. When I couldn’t stop it, I crossed the short distance to my bedroom.
As soon as I stepped through the threshold, I peeled off the shirt of my scrubs. The long-sleeved tee followed it. I dropped both to the floor as I fumbled to the en suite bathroom where I flicked on the light.
Wearing only my bra and scrub bottoms, I lifted my arm so I could stare at the words that read backward in the mirror.
In grief we must live.
I shifted enough to the side so I could see the scars that scored my back, the skin puckered and forever red.
And the sadness I’d felt turned to rage.
To a hatred so fierce it made nausea curl in my stomach and bile rise to my throat.
Sorrow battered against it. A vicious storm that swelled and seethed from the darkest depths.
Why I tortured myself, I didn’t know, but I grabbed my phone and searched his name.
Frederick Winston.
I knew what I would find. I always did.
His bright, shining smile that gleamed with straight, white teeth.
Salt and pepper hair and an expensive suit.
In every picture, he was shaking hands.
Schmoozing.
The entrepreneur.
The philanthropist, such a good fucking guy donating chunks of his billions.
The CEO of Pygus Software.
The man who had been my father’s boss and the one who’d stolen everything from me.
And I’d never wished more that one person could be dead.
SIX
CHARLEIGH
SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD
“Mom, it’s fine.” She tried to duck out from where her mother was fiddling with her braid from behind. Her mother watched her through the mirror with an anxious expression on her face.
“I know. This is just a big deal for your father. I want to make sure everything is perfect. It’s not every day the big boss comes to your house for dinner.”
Her mother had been fretting the entire day. The whole week really.
Frederick Winston was coming here.
“Dad’s going to do fine,” she said, smiling at her mother through the mirror. “He already has this promotion in the bag.”
“I hope so, that is if I don’t burn the chicken.” Her mother gave a soft, ribbing tease at her own expense.
She wasn’t known to be the best cook.
“It’ll be perfect.”
“You’re perfect,” her mother whispered, then she sighed out her affection as she held her by the outside of the shoulders. “Look how pretty you are in this dress. I can’t believe how grown up you are. My sweet wallflower in full bloom.”
Shyness splashed her cheeks, but still, she gazed at her own reflection, feeling that way in the floral knee-length sundress.
She had always preferred hiding in the corner of the library with a book, wearing an oversized sweater with her nose stuffed in the pages of a young adult fantasy, rather than having to sit at a big table with her father and his boss and carry on a conversation.
But it was important to her father, to her mother, to their family.
Her father had worked hard for this, and she was truly proud of him, so she’d be happy to do it for him.
But she didn’t know…she didn’t know.
None of them did.
“That was delicious.” Frederick Winston rocked back in his chair where he sat at the head of the table sipping from a glass of the expensive red wine that her father had brought home that afternoon.
Her mother glowed. “Oh, well, thank you. It really wasn’t a big deal. And Sweet Pea helped.”
All eyes turned to her as her mother said it.
She fought the urge to crawl under the table and hide.
“I don’t often get home-cooked meals, so it was a treat,” Frederick Winston said, turning back to her mother.
“It was my pleasure to host.”
“The pleasure is mine. It’s great to spend time with you this way. Outside of the office.” Mr. Winston lifted his wine glass, tipping it toward her father.
Her father adjusted his tie. “I’m grateful for the opportunity.”
It was clear they were beginning to shift the conversation toward work, and her mother cleared her throat as she stood. “Let me get the table cleared so you two can talk. I’ll bring out dessert in a minute.”
She bit back the annoyance because that part seemed a little patriarchal to her, but she stood to help her mother, anyway, clearing the dishes from the table and carrying them through the swinging door that led into the kitchen.
Her mother released a ragged breath behind her. “How do you think it went?”
“Great,” she told her, meaning it, because it truly had. Her mom had pulled off that stuffed chicken in a big way, and Mr. Winston had genuinely seemed pleased, engaged in conversation with all of them.
She had to give Mr. Winston credit since he’d taken the time to ask her questions about her goals for the future and had actually seemed interested.