Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 79749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
I fight the burn of tears as they sting the backs of my eyes and inside my nose. Crying won't help. If anything, it'll only make all of this so much worse. I don't have to look over at him to know that he's staring at me, probably considering what else he can pile on top of me so he can watch me break.
I've tried to be as strong as possible, but the weight of my life grows heavier and heavier every day.
I hate the choices I've made in life, ones that keep me locked away here like a prisoner with no bars on the doors or windows.
"We have a shipment coming in on Thursday," he says, as if we have normal conversations like this all the time.
My father never spoke of much business in front of me unless he needed to prove a point to someone. Damien doesn't involve me in business either, but these conversations are coming more frequently. I'd be a fool to think he wants me more involved. He is either testing me to see if I'll rat him out to the police or he wants me scared. Either way, I won't say a word to anyone. There's too much at stake for me that I'd never compromise.
"Did you hear me?"
I lift my eyes, giving him a tired smile. "A shipment."
"You don't have any questions?"
This could go either way. Asking could be what he expects or I could ask and he'll be angry that I did. The screwed-up part about all of it is no matter what I choose, he's going to go the opposite way and be pissed.
"Do you need my help with anything?"
This is as neutral as I can manage, and I'm still not certain that my offer will be well received.
His eyes narrow as if he never expected me to go that route, but when he pulls in a deep breath, I know that I somehow made the right choice.
My mind drifts to what life would be like without him, but even that isn't fathomable. There are no picket fences in my future. I've made my bed, so to speak, but that doesn't stop me from considering a different life.
I begin to gather ingredients for the quick dough I make on occasions when he's being extra shitty and wonder if poisoning him is possible. He seems to only want to eat when I cook, despite the fact that we have a personal chef. I don't know if he thinks the chef will hurt him or if he just likes being a giant asshole to me. Either way, if he got sick after eating, I'd be the one to blame.
There's no shortage of guns in this house, and the man is so confident in his hold on me that he doesn't worry for a second that I'll use one of them against him.
"Smaller," he grunts after I coat the rolled-out dough with butter before applying the layer of cinnamon sugar. "I don't like big chunks."
"Okay," I tell him, grabbing the knife so I can cut the peaches smaller.
Last week he complained they were too small, and that's just one more piece of evidence proving he's more than a little difficult all the time. There's no pleasing him because his pleasure isn't in me getting something right. It's in the fact that everything I do is wrong, always. It could be done to perfection, and he'll still find something wrong with it.
After cutting the peaches smaller, I sprinkle them on the dough, roll them up, and cut them to size, before placing them in the baking dish and into the oven.
"Do you want it all together or your eggs and bacon now?"
I've learned to ask because that puts the ball in his court rather than giving him another thing to complain about.
"Now is good," he says. "Extra greasy bacon. I drank too much last night."
I watch as he rubs his stomach and do my best not to show the disgust I feel inside, on my face.
My hands tremble as I get out the eggs and bacon from the fridge. It puts my back to him, and history has proven that I can't trust him, though I'm forced into this position often.
I hold every other breath, listening to make sure he hasn't gotten up from the dining room table. I never know when he's going to feel slighted and hit me.
A noise to the left draws my attention, but when I lock eyes with Kaitlyn, she knows that she isn't welcome in the kitchen right now. I don't know what he has on her or any of the other people who work here at the house, but they never leave. It's as if they're slaves to him like I am.
I know what he's holding over my head, but I've never been brave enough to ask them why they stay. Despite not being happy, they're all loyal to him. I have no doubt they would feed me to the wolves the second they had a chance in order to garner more favor from him.