I remember that day so clearly. It was the end of finals week our junior year. As the president of the college, my father discovered my stellar grades had been ruined based on my performance in my journalism class. The research paper I’d turned in counted as 90 percent of my grade, and I’d erroneously written it without checking the references against more reputable sources. The prof had scored it a 70, given the lack of credibility. Although I’d worked hard on it, the heavy course load in my double majors in politics and pre-law that semester hadn’t allowed me the time I needed to cross-reference my material.
Father was furious, and not only verbally thrashed me until I cowered and collapsed in tears, but forced me to rewrite the entire paper by hand—all forty pages—so I’d learn “my lesson” about not being lazy and turning in sloppy work.
“My lesson” had been one of many throughout my life used to humiliate me and destroy my will. And it worked. After years of being mistreated and reduced to nothing, I surrendered and obeyed.
Just like I do now.
I left his office that day a shuddering mess, forcing a smile as I passed his peers—because I was the daughter of Donald Newart, university president, political figure, respected member of the community, and overall idol. I had to keep up appearances. Yet all I could think about was finding the strength to kill myself so I could finally break free of his hold.
But I never tried. Too weak. Just like he always claimed, and exactly how he kept me.
I push off the wall and walk slowly back to the law library. To this day, his words sting because he continues to verbally berate me, reminding me of my incompetence, and how I can’t survive without his help.
My father should be my hero. He should be my greatest champion. He should mean everything to me, but he doesn’t.
He’s the only blood relative I have, and the man who gave me life. Yet I can’t stop myself from hating him.
The problem is, sometimes I hate myself more.
I enter the law library and slump into my desk chair, feeling a sense of defeat so great, everyone around me seems to vanish. With almost robotic movements, I log on to my laptop and begin saving my documents to their appropriate files. And although I try to focus, I can’t shake the memory of that day.
My fingers fiddle with the pages of the deposition I’d been working on. I hit an all-time low following the degradation in Father’s office. But instead of allowing me to wallow in self-pity, my sorority sister convinced me to “have some KOK,” as she put it, and dragged me to Curran’s frat party.
Curran was one of the rare few who never seemed to care who my father was. He saw me sitting alone and holding an empty cup, and sat beside me. He could have ignored me like everyone else, flirted with the skimpily clad girls, and drank and roughhoused with his obnoxious friends. Instead he edged closer, despite how I tried to avert my gaze, and drew out a smile I didn’t know I had in me.
“You’re really pretty when you smile,” he told me there on the couch…and once more the next morning when we awoke naked together.
I cover my eyes and lean forward. Now he’s here, to guard me on a case I can’t walk away from, one that can grant me a life of independence from my father.
A sharp rap at the door forces me to glance up. Nausea punches through every cell of my body when I see him standing at the entrance. No. There’s truly no escaping Curran O’Brien.
He marches in slowly, his expression tight. “You ready, Tess?”
That’s the name I went by in college, back when I had friends, and someone like him to make me smile. I nod, hurrying to shove the necessary paperwork in my large purse. “Yes. One moment please, Officer.”
Officer. I cringe at the word. It’s what he is, though, so why do I feel so stupid calling him that? Because you wrapped your lips around his tremendous penis, I remind myself.
“Who’s this?”
My shoulders slump. Burton. Of course he’d have something to say. I should ignore him yet I don’t, feeling like I need to defend Curran’s presence. “He’s my—I mean, he’s here to help me with the Montenegro case,” I manage.