I don’t like to be cruel, but I was cruel to him.
I don’t like to use my training against anyone, but I used it against him without compunction or impunity.
He was right when he’d called it survival of the fittest because when I was in there, all I could think about was making sure that he didn’t break me. Making sure he didn’t tear down all the walls I’ve spent so long building and destroy me completely.
So I used every weapon I had…and I broke him instead.
I feel no pleasure at the realization, just like I feel no pleasure in what I did. I did it because it was necessary, because I had to protect myself against the poison he so determinedly spreads. But I didn’t like it.
I’ll never like it, never revel in it. Not in the way he would—and does.
And that’s when it hits me. That’s when I finally realize what I should have figured out a long time ago.
I’m not like Jason. And I never will be.
It’s a stunning realization for the guy who has spent his entire life running from his brother’s violent legacy. He wasn’t wrong when he said that so much of who I am, so much of what I’ve done, is because I didn’t want to be like him.
I did study psychology because I wanted to understand who he is and why he’s made the choices he has. I did join the FBI because I saw a darkness in myself and wanted to make sure I’d never do what he did. I do write the books I do because I want to measure myself against diseased minds and know that I am winning the war I’ve been waging against myself for my entire adult life.
But was it a war I even needed to fight? Or was it just an excuse to never let myself get close to anyone?
Fuck. Just fuck.
I hurt Veronica so badly, though it was never what I intended. Worse, I let her push me away instead of fighting for her because I was terrified of who I might be and what I might eventually do if we stayed together. She brings out so much in me—too much, I think sometimes. Walking away was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I did it because she asked me to and I thought it was the right thing to do. But what if it wasn’t? What if it was exactly the opposite of what she needs?
Because in listening to her, in letting her push me away because I was afraid to hurt her any more, I left her all alone in the middle of hell. I tore down her walls, ripped her wide open, and then left her all alone to fend for herself because I was afraid I was too weak to give her what she needs without falling prey to my own darkness.
I was so afraid of becoming the monster that Jason is that I became another monster all together. One who destroyed a woman because he was too weak to fight for her.
Goddamn it. I really am the pansy ass little bitch that Jason called me. And Veronica deserves so much more.
Chapter 32
I open the small clutch my assistant pressed into my hand seconds before I climbed into the limo and pull out the small compact she always makes sure is inside. I open it up, then tilt it this way and that so I can check my hair, my makeup, my teeth. Then I angle it down a little so I can check the top of my dress, too, just to make sure all that styling tape my stylist used is doing its job and keeping my very daring bodice exactly where it belongs.
So far, it seems to be doing the trick. I can only pray that it keeps it up. I show enough of myself in Belladonna. The last thing I want to do is end up popping out a boob on the red carpet and showing even more.
My phone vibrates with a text and my heart leaps to my throat despite myself. It’s been six weeks since Ian walked out of my house—since I ordered him out—and I haven’t seen or heard from him since. He even turned down the invitation to the premiere tonight, citing a scheduling conflict—or so the publicists told me.
Which is exactly how I want it, I remind myself as I very deliberately close my purse without checking the new message. I banished him from my life and that is exactly where he needs to stay.
And then I take it back out and check anyway. Not for a message from Ian, obviously, but because of my mother.
It turns out the text is from my stylist, reminding me to work the leg slit in my dress. Like I would forget.
I text her back a wink, then close my eyes and rest my head against the cool leather of the seat. Suddenly I’m too exhausted to even hold my head up.
I’ve been on the press junket for Belladonna for two straight weeks—it opens in the U.S. this Friday—and it’s been an absolute whirlwind. Made worse by my mother’s ongoing presence in a psychiatric hospital and everything that came before it.
I visit her regularly, at least three times a week when I’m in town. But I can barely look at her when I go, can barely talk to her. How can I when everything that happened—everything she made happen—lays between us like so much rubble.