CHAPTER 21

Sebastian's POV

She's here.

She hasn't left.

She's holding me—quietly, fiercely—as if her arms could somehow glue together all the shattered parts of me. I never wanted her to see me like this: broken, lost, peeled open to the bone. I kept this part of me buried, locked away behind bruises and silence. But now... now she's seen it.

And she didn't run.

She didn't ask questions. She didn't beg for answers or demand explanations. She just whispered that if I ever wanted to hurt myself again, I could hurt her instead.

How could I? How could I ever even think of hurting something so good, so pure? Someone who sat beside me while I cried, who wiped the blood from my face with trembling hands and didn't flinch once.

It's been four hours since then.

We're in bed now, tucked beneath the covers in silence. I've cleaned myself up—she helped me. Her fingers moved so gently across the bruises that tattooed my skin, her touch soft like snowfall. And for the first time, I let her. I didn't flinch. I didn't pull away. I let her see. Let her feel the damage, the history my body never got to forget.

I don't know what changed. Maybe I'm tired of hiding. Maybe it's her. Maybe it's just time.

And so... I told her.

"It started when I was eight…"

Flashback

My father was the most loving man I knew. He used to pick me up on his shoulders and dance around the kitchen. I thought he was invincible.

Then one night, everything changed.

He came home late—drunk, high, something—and I didn't even understand what that meant back then. I woke up thirsty and padded toward the kitchen when I heard it. Crying. Begging. My mother's voice, weak and trembling.

The door was open just a crack. Enough to see.

His hand was around her throat.

Her back was against the wall. Her eyes—bloodshot, wide with fear—met mine for a split second. And then he hit her. Backhanded her so hard her head snapped sideways. I don't even remember the sound of the slap. Just the silence afterward. Like the world forgot how to breathe.

I gasped. Not loud. Just… enough. He turned.And our eyes met. And then he was coming at me.

I remember the blur of motion. The sting of his hand in my hair, dragging me across the floor. My feet couldn't keep up. I stumbled. Fell. Tried to crawl away.

But he was already undoing his belt. "You wanna spy, huh?" he snarled.

I don't remember what he said after that.I remember screaming. Not with my voice. With my body.

I remember pain that stole the breath from my lungs. That lit up every nerve like fire. That made me think I was going to die right there on the hardwood floor with my mother screaming in the background.

And then—nothing. Black.

When I woke up, everything hurt.

I didn't know if it was morning or afternoon or a whole new day. Just light through the windows. My body pulsing with bruises.

My mother was beside me.She was crying.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, voice brittle, like it might shatter under its own weight. "I'm so, so sorry, sweetheart…" Her other hand hovered above my back, hesitant, afraid to hurt me more. "He didn't mean to. He just—he's not himself when he drinks. You know that. He's just… not well."

But I knew even then. She was lying.

Not to me. To herself. She needed to believe there was still a version of him worth saving. That if she could just say the right words, keep the peace, love him harder—he'd stop. That this wasn't who he truly was. But I saw the truth in the bruise on her collarbone, in the way her eyes flinched every time she heard his footsteps.

He meant to. He always meant to. The sickness wasn't in him. It was in our silence.

In the way we cleaned up the mess before anyone could see it. In the way we made excuses. In how we learned to live around the bruises—like moving around broken glass barefoot and convincing ourselves everything will be back again how it used to be

I didn't speak for days after that.

It wasn't a choice, not really. Something inside me just shut down. Like my voice had been stripped away, stuffed into some dark corner where it couldn't be reached. Every time I opened my mouth, nothing came. My throat burned with unsaid things. My head echoed with screams I didn't let out.

I was eight. Too small to fight back. Too smart to pretend I didn't understand what was happening.

Evelyn didn't get it. She was barely five, all curls and big eyes and innocence still untouched by our father's rage. She'd come into my room with her dolls, sit cross-legged on the floor and talk to me like nothing had changed.

"Sebby, wanna play tea party?" I didn't answer. She tried again. Again. Every day.

Eventually, her voice cracked when she asked, "Don't you love me anymore?"

That broke me worse than the belt had.

I wanted to scream yes I love her I wanted to wrap my arms around her and say I was still here, I was still her brother—but the words were gone. And so I just sat there. Frozen. Empty. Hollow.

That's when I knew I had to learn something no kid should ever have to learn: how to lie with your face.

How to smile when your insides are screaming. How to laugh like nothing's wrong. How to look your abuser in the eye and say, "Yes, sir," while you imagine slipping through the cracks in the floorboards and disappearing forever.

The words came back, eventually. But I never tell anyone the truth My mother makes sure of that.

 For a while, I believed it was over.

The screaming had stopped. My father wasn't drinking, or if he was, he was hiding it well. He came home on time. Kissed my mom's cheek like he meant it. Complimented Evelyn's hair. Laughed at dinner.

We were a family again. Or something that passed for one. I thought maybe—maybe—we'd made it through the storm.

I let myself breathe. Let Evelyn sleep in her own bed.Let my hands stop trembling when I passed his study door. Let myself hope.

But peace is a cruel trick in a house built on fear. Because it always ends.

That morning, sunlight brushed across the hardwood floor like a promise. I woke up to quiet. No slamming doors. No footsteps soaked in threat. Just stillness. The kind that felt like maybe the world wasn't ending.

And then I saw it.

A plain white envelope. Sitting on my pillow like it had been placed there with care.

I didn't need to open it to know who it was from. I knew her handwriting—soft loops, careful lines. My mother always wrote like she was afraid of being misunderstood.

Still, I opened it.

Fils, I'm sorry. I should've protected you. I thought I could fix him. I thought if I stayed, loved him enough, he'd change. But I was wrong. I don't have anything left to give. Not even strength. I can't take you and Evelyn with me, and I hate myself for that. Please look after her. Please forgive me.

Ta mère aimante.

The breath left my body like a gut punch.

I read it again. And again. As if the words might rearrange themselves into something else. But they didn't.

She was gone.

And I—I couldn't move. My throat was dry. My hands were shaking. I sat there, stuck between disbelief and the kind of cold that starts in your chest and spreads like poison.

Then the door burst open.

My father's shadow swallowed the doorway.

He was holding something in his hand—her necklace. The one he gave her on their anniversary. The chain was snapped. The pendant dangled, twisted and bent.

His eyes landed on the letter in mine, and in that split second, I saw the truth: He knew.

He knew she'd left. And he wasn't just angry. He was humiliated.

"Where is she?" His voice was low, vicious. "Where's that bitch hiding?"

I didn't answer. Couldn't. So he came for me.

Dragged me out of the room like I was nothing but weight and breath. My shoulder slammed into the wall. My feet scrambled for ground as he pulled me down the stairs.

And then—he started hitting.

Not like before. Not like the messy, drunken rages I was used to. No.

This was different.

This was deliberate. Focused. Punishment, not chaos.

Because this time, he thought it was my fault.

"You made her leave," he spat. His fist connected with my ribs. "With your attitude. Your disrespect."

Another hit. My jaw cracked sideways.

"You always looked at me like you were better. Like you saw through me."

I couldn't even respond. My mouth was full of blood. My ears rang. I collapsed, but he didn't stop.

"She was mine," he hissed, shaking. "And you took her."

No. No, she left him. Because he broke her. Because he bled her dry and smiled while doing it. But to him? I was the reason she was gone. Because I stood up. Because I fought back. Because I saw him.

Through the haze of pain, I heard a voice.

Small. Fragile. Full of fear.

"Seb!"

Evelyn.

She was barefoot on the stairs, clutching her stuffed rabbit. Her voice cracked as she sobbed. "Stop! Please! Daddy, stop!"

And he looked at her.

I don't know how I got up. Just that I did. That my body moved before I could think. That I crawled between him and her, blood dripping from my mouth, vision spinning.

"Don't touch her," I gasped. "Please. Hurt me. Just don't—don't touch her." And he smiled.

Because he knew I meant it. Because he knew I meant it more than anything.

And that was power. That was control.

So he did exactly what I asked. He kept hurting me. Because he knew it would keep hurting her, too.

But I was wrong. I couldn't stop him.

No matter how many times I stepped in. No matter how many bruises I buried beneath my clothes. I couldn't erase the terror in her eyes when she heard his voice behind a door. Couldn't unteach her how to flinch. Couldn't protect her from the thing I'd become an expert at surviving.

The worst part? He knew.

He knew that I'd take it. That I'd shield her. And he used that. Played me like a game. Like hurting me was just another way to control us both.

So I smiled through blood. I nodded when he said "respect." I wore long sleeves in the summer. I told the school nurse I fell down the stairs.

I lied. Because sometimes, lying is the only thing that keeps the people you love breathing.

When it was over, I couldn't move.

I was a wreck on the floor, gasping for air, barely conscious. Evelyn crawled to me, her knees scraped, her fingers shaking.

"Where's Mama?" she whispered. I didn't lie.

"She's gone," I croaked. "She's not coming back."

She didn't cry loud. Just pressed her face into my chest like a child trying to fold herself back into the safest place she knew.

That was the day I learned what it meant to be a shield.

That was the day I stopped being a child.

And I haven't stopped protecting her since.

We tried to run once. Just once.

The kind of night that feels like the world itself is holding its breath—thunder cracking the sky wide open, rain slashing the windows, Evelyn shaking so hard I had to carry her shoes in one hand and her while I whispered that it was going to be okay.

I believed it. I needed to.

I'd mapped the bus schedule. Stolen the cash. Stuffed protein bars and bottled water into an old duffel. We would run until our feet gave out, sleep in stations if we had to, just vanish.

We made it to the front door.

My hand was already on the knob when his voice slithered out of the dark.

"Going somewhere?" I turned. Slowly.

He was there. Leaning against the wall, like he'd been waiting for the punchline of a joke only he understood.

He wasn't angry. He was smiling.

And that smile was so much worse than a raised fist. Because it meant he'd already won.

He stepped forward, smooth and slow, like a predator who knew there was nowhere for his prey to go. "You think you get to leave?" he said, eyes flicking from me to Evelyn and back. "You think you can leave me?"

Evelyn whimpered, hiding behind my back.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something small. Something delicate.

A gold bracelet. My mother's. Blood still crusted around the clasp.

"She tried to run too," he said, voice almost fond. "You remember, don't you?"

"She's not dead," he said after a moment, almost absently. "Your mother. That's just what I tell the cameras. The press loves a tragedy.

I didn't answer. I didn't move.

"I gave her everything," he went on, stroking the bracelet like it was something precious. "This house. Her stupid charities. Her kids. And she wanted more. Wanted freedom. Can you believe that?"

His eyes found mine, suddenly razor-sharp.

"She forgot who she belonged to."

A beat.

Then he stepped closer. I didn't move. I couldn't.

"You two," he said, his tone lowering into something that made the air feel heavy, thick, poisoned. "You're mine. My name. My blood. You think you can just… disappear? Like some rebellious teenage fantasy?"

"You belong to me. You think the world out there gives a damn about your bruises? About your feelings? No. But I do. That's why I keep you. That's why I don't let you leave."

He laughed. Loud and sudden. Evelyn flinched.

He has friends in every corner. Police chiefs, campaign donors, the kind of judges that smile in Christmas cards and silence court files. Cameras on the gates. Alarms on every door.

He made us host dinners for politicians who whispered praise about his "strength." Made us pose for family photos where Evelyn's smile looked borrowed and mine didn't exist at all.

The perfect family.

That's what they called us.

A grieving widower. A son just like him. A daughter learning grace.

But behind locked doors? He twisted our lives into obedience.

"She loved me," he'd whisper sometimes, holding that bracelet like a trophy. "She just forgot. And I reminded her."

Then his eyes would flick to me. "If you ever forget too, son... don't worry. I'll remind you."

He didn't beat me for nothing. He beat me to remind me.

When I missed a call. When I looked him in the eyes too long. When Evelyn left the lights on. When I laughed too loud.

It was always my fault. Because I was supposed to be the man of the house when he wasn't there. His words. His rules. His version of control, filtered through backhanded slaps and slammed doors and cold dinners untouched on polished counters.

I learned to take it. No—he trained me to take it. Because he knew I'd step in for her.

He knew I'd rather bleed than hear Evelyn cry. And he used that. Over and over.

Like hurting me was a shortcut to controlling us both.

So I smiled through cracked lips. I said "yes sir" through gritted teeth. I wore hoodies in July. I learned how to flinch in a way that looked like a twitch.

I told the nurse I fell down the stairs. I told the teachers I was clumsy.

I lied. Because sometimes lying is the only way to keep the people you love breathing.

Flashback Ends