Chapter 6

Poppy

The past: the night of the party.

Andrew ' s still inside of me even though he came a few minutes ago. Still watching me, still above me, trapping me. Watching and waiting for what, I'm not sure.

Maybe he ' s expecting me to scream, cry, or just play dead. His gaze, though void of empathy, is heavy with an unspoken demand for some form of reaction, a testament to his control over me.

He pushes back my hair with a gesture that feigns tenderness, " You ' re mine. So fucking pretty. Fuck, I love you," he mutters, more to himself than to me. " I know you ' re scared, but you did so well, love. It ' s going to get better every time." He bends and kisses my lips, and I can ' t help but feel like he ' s kissing a soulless body like he ripped my soul from me, and now I ' m just a shell, an empty vessel devoid of the spirit that once animated me.

He finally pulls out, leaving behind pain and an icy burn whooshing inside of me. He leans back on his haunches, looking down at his cock, which is smeared with my blood. A snort of laughter escapes him as he grins to himself, then stands from the bed, still looking at the condom almost with an immense sense of pride. I just lay there, unmoving, a statue in a twisted tableau.

" Go shower; we need to get back to the party," he orders me as he grabs his shirt from the floor and begins to put it on. The casualness of his command, as if what transpired was nothing out of the ordinary, sends a fresh wave of nausea through me.

Has he done this before?

I hope not. I pray no other girl has suffered like I did. Like I am.

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.

" Louis and Gabe will make sure you follow through this time. Get dressed," he barks, then strolls out of the room, pushing past the two bodyguards.

Andrew moves to the door with a deliberation that feels like a countdown to my doom, closing it on Louis and Gabe ' s unsuspecting faces.

What the hell was that?

That is how you create a monster: years and years of abuse.

Is it wrong a part of me feels bad for him? Can I feel pity but also loathing?

Andrew stands motionless, his hands bracing against the walls as if holding himself up. Time stretches, and I ' m acutely aware of everything—the pain that lingers between my thighs, the palpable fear threading through my heart, and the grim realization that my brother's warnings about Andrew ' s family weren't just paranoia; they were prophetic.

Andrew's father just commanded his son to commit murder. The horror of that reality sinks in. This wasn't the first time either; it was too easily ordered.

The steam from the hot shower fills the air, and the tiles beneath my feet become treacherously slick from the humidity. Andrew turns, his movements heavy with a dark purpose, and starts toward me. My heart races with each step he takes, and the sliver of space beneath the door seems to widen with my growing panic.

He stops short by the knife, his gaze lifting to find mine through the crack in the door, "Get in the fucking shower, Poppy," he finally says in a venomous whisper. He runs a hand through his hair as I retreat, moving toward the shower without entering.

I see my life flash before my eyes, not my past but my future. If I listen, I ' ll slowly be chipped away. The scene that just unfolded before my eyes will be repeated to my children. The cycle won ' t stop. My survival instincts kick in. The delay in my actions disgusts me, but I shove aside self-loathing for later—escape is the only thing that matters now.

Carefully, I pull on my shirt, then my skirt, my fingers shaking from fear and the urgent need to flee. My eyes lock on the window's black latch. It looks so simple to open and escape from; it's almost mocking me. I reach the latch, my fingers trembling as they grasp the cold metal. It resists at first, mocking my desperation. My palms grow sweaty, and I fumble, my breath quickening in panic.

Why won't it open? What if I'm caught? The thoughts spiral in my mind, each one more frantic than the last. I try again, more forcefully this time, but it still refuses to budge. A wave of dread washes over me, and I glance over my shoulder, imagining shadows moving closer.

Please, please, I can't get caught now.

With a final, desperate effort, I twist the latch. It relents with a click, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the tense silence. Relief floods me, but it's fleeting. I hold my breath, straining to hear Andrew has noticed, my heart pounding in my ears.

Did they he that?

I hold my breath, half expecting Andrew to burst in, knife in hand, his twisted control escalating to a lethal end. But the room remains silent save for the distant thump of the party's bass, the high-pressure spray of the shower, and my labored breathing.

With the window open, I hoist myself up and crawl through, my bare feet scraping against the harsh shingles of the roof. His room, perched on the second floor, overlooks the pool house in the far distance. It is alive with the sounds of oblivious college kids, unaware of the darkness that permeates the walls of the mansion.

Paralyzed with fear, I force myself to focus on the drop below. It's not far, but the risk of injury is real. Gripping the edge of the roof, I brace myself, the sharp edges of the shingles biting into my palms.

With a deep breath, I count, "One, two, three," and let go, my body coils to absorb the impact. I hit the ground, tuck, and roll, an awkward imitation of cinematic grace, but it's enough to keep me from serious injury. I'm on my feet in an instant, running from the house, but then I stop, so suddenly I fall, cutting my knees on the rough ground.

Henry. My brother is at the party.

I pivot my body towards the party, ready to spring forward and run to him, but then reality crashes in. Henry acts first and thinks later. He ' s going to see me in my broken state. Henry will see red, and he ' s in no position of power to challenge Andrew or his father. Panic and adrenaline compete as I stop, trying to steady my shaking body. I can't just run; I need a plan.

Peter. He's always been the level-headed one, capable of fury but also of thought. Unlike Henry, Peter will listen, process, and plan. Peter will know who to turn to for help.

Then I remember what Andrew ' s father said:"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." My hand covers my trembling lips. Who can we turn to if he ' s got all those people in his pocket?

" Poppy!" I hear Andrew scream in the distance; looking over my shoulder, I see him peering out from his window. The phone in my pocket rings; I pull it out to see Andrew ' s name on it. I hang up and call my brother Peter because I don ' t know what else to do. I just need Peter. I need someone to hold me, to tell me it ' s going to be ok even if it isn ' t.

The night air, thick with the remnants of spring, carries the distant laughter from the party, a cruel reminder of how quickly joy can turn to terror. A fact I know all too well. The phone begins to ring, and I look towards the pool house. Henry is safe there, surrounded by people, at least until Peter gets here.

" Don ' t tell me you drank too much, and Henry won ' t let you in his car to come home. Poppy, I ' m not going to clean up your vomit again," Peter begins. As soon as I hear his voice, a dam breaks within me. I crumble and cry, words incoherent but laden with despair. Through the sobs, Peter manages to make out one sentence I say, "You were right; his family is dangerous."

The call doesn ' t end. Peter insists I stay on the phone, offering a lifeline in the darkness. All the while, I hide behind a bush next to the pool pumps, allowing the tears and the truth of what happened to spill out. I tell him everything. Everything. I just can ' t stop. When he tells me he is close, a flicker of hope ignites within me, prompting me to run towards the entrance of the community, leaving the echoes of the party—and my nightmare—behind.

That's when I hear it, both through the phone and in the short distance—a symphony of screeching tires, shouts, and the unmistakable sound of metal crunching.

Death.

The line goes dead. That ' s when I know. The realization hits me with the force of a physical blow. One phone call to my brother, my would-be savior, has just woven my fate into the same dark tapestry as Andrew's. A killer. I'm responsible for killing my brother.

The weight of this revelation pins me to the spot on the sidewalk next to the guard gate. Smoke and shouts fill the air, and glass and pieces of metal litter the road. Two cars are tipped over. One is Peter ' s. Slowly, I find my feet walking closer before the guard gate stops me. I zero in on the river of blood flowing out of the bent and busted-up car that belongs to my brother. His face is clear because the window is completely gone, his neck at an odd angle, eyes closed, almost looking peaceful.

That ' s the last time I saw my brother, but what hurts more is knowing the last things he heard. They were not words of peace, love, or happiness. They were admittance of terrible crimes.