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The party. Andrew wants me to act like he didn’t just do what he did and return to the fucking party! My lips begin to tremble, and tears finally flood my eyes.
What he did.
I can’t bear to think about it, to spell out those four letters that every woman fears mentally. They begin with an 'r' and end with an 'e'.
“Don’t,” he growls as if frustrated by my tears as if my pain and my horror are inconveniences to him.“You’re going to go shower, we’re going to make another appearance as if everything is fine, and then we will come back here and talk.”
He runs his hand through his thick blonde hair. "I do love you, Poppy. Remember that," he breathes out, and a twisted part of me wants to believe him. Deep down, I think he does love me in his own way; there's a certain attachment, unmistakable and strong, that he shows toward wanting me. Wanting every aspect.
However, love without respect is like a building without a solid foundation—destined to crumble. Andrew fails to understand that respect is the cornerstone of any true relationship. Without it, he will never have my heart, my trust, or my respect. So he desperately clings to what he knows best: power, mistaking it for love.
That’s all he has over me now. He knows it; he’s smart.
My brain works overtime, piecing together the puzzle until the picture becomes clear. That's the moment I understand the true purpose behind his lavish parties. They're not just social gatherings; they're meticulously crafted alibis. If anyone were to inquire, the unanimous response would be that Andrew and I were there, mingling and merry. It's cunning, alarmingly so.
However, this facade isn't solely for Andrew's benefit. His father, too, makes a point of appearing at these events, flashing his charismatic smile that sends whispers through the crowd. It dawns on me that he, a man so fiercely protective of his public image, is also weaving these parties into his narrative. But why? What does a man of his stature need to cover stories spun by his son's poolside festivities, especially when they're strategically held away from the prying eyes of the main house?
My gaze drifts to the walls that confine me, aware of the security that patrols their perimeter. Andrew has a lot of security. I always thought it was because he's rich, but now I'm not so sure. I can't help but wonder, with a growing sense of unease, what secrets are buried within these walls, hidden away from the world and protected by his father's men.
His family is dangerous. I've heard rumors.Peter's warning echoing in my mind makes me gasp a sob, which causes Andrew to exhale a growl in warning.
It takes all my willpower to bury my emotions. I know if I don’t, it will only make Andrew more frustrated, and when he is angry, he usually hurts me more. I don’t think I can take more tonight.
I know I can’t.
I stand, legs shaking, feeling the wetness between my thighs, and look down to see some more smeared blood. As I walk to his bathroom, I reach out and grab the red solo cup on his desk. I drink it all down, not tasting a thing, hoping it might wash away the taste of violation, of betrayal. I grab my clothes and hug them to my chest as I tiptoe to the ensuite bathroom.
I begin to close the door, but he shouts,“Leave it slightly open.”
Why? Does he want to join me or just watch me?
I feel numb like I’m moving without controlling myself. I watch, in an out-of-body experience, as I grab the silver knob and turn the shower on. Stepping back, I avoid looking in the mirror, instead spotting neatly folded towels on the rack. Andrew's life appears so neat and perfect, just like the fluffy towels on the rack.
A knock comes at the door, and I freeze; my heart jumps, but I realize it’s not the bathroom door but his bedroom door.
“I’m busy,” he shouts. I hear his door open anyway,“You son of a bitch!” A deep voice roars, followed by flesh hitting flesh.
I grab my heart, realizing I’m standing naked in his bathroom, but I’m too scared to grab a towel. I bend an inch to the side and look through the slightly cracked door. I know the man that has entered; it’s Andrew's father. He’s dressed in an impeccable suit, with blonde hair gelled back and a handsome older face. Andrew, on the other hand, is cupping his jaw, his lip split with blood.
Did his father hit him?
Behind Andrew's father, two other men clad in black suits stand ominously, blocking the exit. They're unmistakably bodyguards, their presence a silent testament to the gravity of the situation unfolding.
Andrew’s father raises his hand, his index finger pointed accusingly into the air, his voice dripping with venom. "I told you to fucking kill him, not just threaten him and let him walk away. We don’t leave loose ends," he hisses, his command chilling to the bone.
Andrew wipes his jaw and lets his gaze drift from the floor to the small opening of the bathroom door before finally meeting my eyes. There's a flash of something unfamiliar in his gaze—fear. For a fleeting moment, I relish seeing this emotion in him, but then it dawns on me that his fear is not for himself but for me. The realization that the man who just violated me is now fearful for my safety is horrifyingly ironic.
He subtly shakes his head, making a silent plea for my silence, trying to disguise it as a mere reaction to the punch his father had just delivered.
"I think he’s useful," Andrew ventures cautiously, a hint of defiance in his tone.
"Did I ask for his utility, or did I command you to eliminate him and set an example?" his father retorts sharply.
"Taking the senator's son out of the picture won't earn us his favor," Andrew argues.
"No, but it will instill terror. If you'd bothered to research, you'd know he also has a five-year-old daughter. He'll bend to our will to protect her," his father replies. "It's about foresight, son. Leverage is temporary; strategic planning is permanent. I've collected all the ammunition I need to control them. Hackers ready to manipulate the vote, judges, commissioners, congressmen, and even the president are in my pocket. Yet, here you are, questioning my strategies. When I issue an order, you execute it," he seethes.
In a swift, menacing gesture, he draws a knife from his jacket and grabs Andrew by the chin, pressing the blade to his throat. "You will track him down, skin him alive, and leave his carcass on his father's doorstep. Don't worry about the authorities; they're in our pockets. No investigation will follow. Senator Hawkins can bury his son with his own two hands as he remembers the cost of his betrayal." He snickers, "That or leave him to decay on the doorstep. I don't give a shit, and neither do you. That's the cost of defiance against our family. We must tie up all loose ends before we publicly announce my campaign. Four years away might sound long to you, but that's a blink in time to fool the public. If you jeopardize this for me," he presses the knife slightly, a sinister promise in his eyes, "don't think your blood will save you," he whispers. He releases Andrew suddenly, letting the knife clatter to the ground, a sound that sends a jolt of fear through my heart.
