Curran doesn’t move and barely blinks. But he’s listening. The anger stirring in his irises tells me as much.
My vision blurs with the start of my tears, and from the shame and anger raking my skin. But I continue. Not because I want to, or because it’s easy, but because for the first time, I have someone to tell. “Everything from my clothes, to my furniture, to my linens is selected for me.” I rub my hands. “Do you want to know why I don’t eat much, or why my pantry is always empty?”
He doesn’t answer, but I didn’t expect him to. “Because I’m restricted to a certain amount of calories each day. So I don’t get fat. I’m getting fat, you know.” Bitterness seeps into my voice. I try to settle down by continuing to rub my hands, but of course, it does nothing. “I’m allowed six ounces of protein a day and all the kale I can stomach. Before you came along, if I didn’t portion my meals correctly, I’d starve. I can’t buy what I want because I don’t have any money. And I can’t get a paying job because then I’ll be cut off completely, everything but the clothes on my back taken, and thrown out into the street.”
Curran’s jaw tightens and his form becomes alarmingly still. “Why?” he asks barely above a growl. “Is it just about control? Or is he punishing you for something his fucked-up mind thinks you did?”
I didn’t expect him to be so specific or for his anger to be what it is. “It’s always been about control,” I say. “Ever since I was a child, he’s had a hand in every aspect of my life—even the people I associate with.” I look at him then. “And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”
Curran slowly rises, his hands balling into tight fists. “Does he hurt you? I’m serious, Tess. I need to know if he’s hitting you, grabbing you—anything. Or using words to scare you.”
I start to stand, only to sit again. This conversation is already too much, and my fragile nerves aren’t ready for it. “When I was a child, my father would repeatedly strike me and berate me to instill fear. But the last time he hit me, I was in my early teens.”
“So he doesn’t touch you?” he repeats.
I lean forward, my head throbbing. “No. He’s very careful. His control now is financial and emotional. He continues to insult me, and degrade me, but not enough to constitute abuse.”
Curran gives me his back and swears. “No grounds for a Protection from Abuse Order.”
I wipe my eyes. “No, and I’d be a fool to try for one.”
He looks at me then. “No you wouldn’t.”
The lump in my throat builds so tight I can barely get my words out. “Come on, Curran. Can you see me before a judge? Opposing counsel would rip me apart. Here I am, this grown, intelligent woman about to graduate law school who’s taken Donald Newart, respected member of the community and political legend, to court—for what? Paying my tuition, giving me a lavish apartment with furnishings, providing me with food. I can hear his attorney now. ‘My, Miss Newart, if this was such a nightmare, if living the life of a kept woman was too hard to take, why didn’t you walk away? You had the education that your father paid for. Why didn’t you work at a coffee shop or a local dry cleaner for something better? If this was so torturous, why take it?’?”
“Why did you?” Curran’s deep and vicious tone immediately silences me. “He’s an asshole, Tess. Why did you take his shit? You’re better than that.”
No. I’m not.
I can’t contain my quivering voice. “Because I always have. Because it’s all I’ve ever known. And because I never had a way out until now.” Tears dribble down my cheeks. “I have two more months of school and then the bar to pass. Once I get through this, I’m free.”
“Screw that. You can be free now. Walk away. Tonight. Leave now and don’t look back. You said it yourself—there’s nothing for you here.”
“I can’t.”