Chapter three

GERALD'S POV

"Your father is requesting your presence," Paula said as she walked towards the bed and placed her hand on my knee. I caught a glimpse of her smile as I groaned.

My father was over seventy years old, yet he followed me around like he was in his twenties. I know exactly what he wants: to nag and yell at me for how much of a failure I am turning out now that I don't take my education seriously. Our conversations have practically been the same over the past five years.

"You are nothing but a disgrace, Gerald."

"How can I hand over my life's work to you if you don't know anything, Gerald?"

"You're such a failure Gerald."

"Your mother would be so disappointed, Gerald."

"Gerald, you'll never get into Havard like this."

"You need to become more serious with your life, Gerald."

God, are all old people like this? Or am I just unfortunate?

"Well, his request is denied," I answered, leaning towards the table to grab my phone. I could feel her eyes on me as I scrolled through the device. She could read me like a book. What would you expect from someone that has been by your side for ten years?

She was my best friend, despite the fact that she was ten years older than me. I was only eight years old when my father hired her to be my personal bodyguard. She was only eighteen back then, but she was the best of the best. During my first eight years on Earth, all my bodyguards dropped like flies thanks to my dad's numerous enemies.

She's the only one that has ever lasted this long—ten years and counting.

I wish I could see her as a mother because I don't have one, but mothers don't like seeing their sons buried deep inside random whores. No, Paula was more of an older sister; a wild, overprotective, and incredibly scary older sister.

She was the only thing in this life for which I was truly grateful.

I'm sure you think I am bluffing because how can she be the only thing I am grateful for, especially being the son of a billionaire?

I'm just going to put it in the simplest way possible.

I hate my father.

And so does the whole world. He might as well be the most hated man on earth. He was the CEO of a very famous car brand called Groovies. It was one of the most slick cars to ever exist. Fast, sexy, and with a rich interior that comes with amazing features. It was one of my favorite cars, to be honest. Sadly, it was the world's as well. He might as well be second to Elon Musk.

Anyway, that's not why he's hated.

He is hated because he is a rapist.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, as embarrassing as it may be, my father is a rapist. Go ahead and hate me just like the rest of the world, just because I share the same blood that flows through the veins of that monster.

I'd like to think he was sorry and occasionally I do. But the damage had already been done. Why did he have to be such a reckless teenager back then? Now the blood of many is on his hands, and mine will soon be.

The story goes like this: Apparently, when he was sixteen, he went partying with his friends. He got drunk, and he and his friends had an argument, and he left. The alley was lonely when he walked past a beautiful girl, she looked really decent and he tried to make passes at her. But what normal girl would accept passes from a drunk stranger?

She turned him down, but my old man obviously couldn't take a hint. She ran away but my father caught up to her and forced himself on her. Eventually, she died from the trauma.

Disgusting.

Sometimes I wish I could just rip open all my veins and drain every drop of his blood from me before replacing them with new ones. Unfortunately, that was not possible.

But I can proudly say that my father is paying for the crimes of his youth now. He was seventy-five years old and was far from having any peace of mind. The family of the girl my father had raped all those years ago were called the Cassillas. They were beyond wealthy, and they have sworn to make my father's life miserable no matter the cost. I know you have been wondering how I am eighteen and my father is seventy five. The truth is, I am not his first child, or second, or third, or fifth, or seventh...

My father has had three wives and nine children, but they were all killed by the Casillas family. I never understood why my father would continue to try to have a family despite knowing full well that the Casillas family would not stop until they were all dead.

My father was fifty-five years old when he met my mother, and I was told she was in her thirties when they got married and had me. I was my father's tenth and last child. But just like the rest of my father's spouses, my mother was killed by the very same family that sought my father's sorrow and blood. Reports say she was shot to death in the parking lot of her favorite restaurant. I was only six months old at the time.

I never knew what my mother or other siblings looked like. My father never kept pictures of them in the house because I knew seeing them would give him nightmares—not that he ever slept anyway.

Paula's voice pulled me out of my world of depressing thoughts and brought me back to the present: "Don't be so hard on him. You know deep down he actually cares about you."

I didn't bother to hold back my snort. "Oh, please. That old geezer doesn't care about anyone but himself." I said, not looking at her as I did.

After a moment of silence, I frowned when she made no indication of responding. I looked at Paula to find her eyes focused on the entrance to my penthouse. My father stood at the door in all his glory, with his round, wrinkly face a flush of red and his chubby hands balled into fists.

I wanted to laugh because he looked like he was about to explode from so much rage, but I was annoyed because this was the third penthouse I bought and he found it in such a short time! It was above one of my friend's clubs, and my father didn't know him.

I think.

I was starting to believe Paula was giving out our location, but she wouldn't do that to me; somehow she was more loyal to me than her employer. That's how deep our relationship goes.

Maybe I have a tracking device on me.

"Is this how you speak about me to the peasants?" My old man roared, and whatever hint of humor there was on my face vanished.

I rose to my feet, but Paula was quick to grab my wrist, so I shook her away. I was in my father's face in a blink. "What did you just call her?"

Silence reigned, and the only thing we did was stare at each other. We all knew hell would break out if my father repeated those words again. I couldn't help it. Paula was so much more than a peasant or a slave or even a guard. She owned a piece of my heart, but not in a romantic way.

My father released a sigh of defeat before muttering, "I'm getting too old for this."

And indeed he was. I couldn't help but notice the extra lines he had gotten on his face since I last saw him.

He rejoined our eyes before saying, "I want you to return to school."

"No."

"I knew you were going to say that," he said before making a gesture with his hand. Before I could even get the chance to blink, the whole penthouse was swarming with security. Paula's gasp and whimper caught my ear, and I turned to find her on the floor. One guard held her hands behind her back, and another held a gun to her head.

I returned my furious gaze to my father, "What the fuck are you doing?!" I demanded and I swear I wanted to punch him when the corners of his lips lifted into a smile.

"So, you'll be attending this school," he said, ignoring my question and pulling a piece of paper from his black blazer and handing it to me.

I looked at the paper with bewilderment and horror; it was an admission letter. "You want me to go to a public school?"

"Yes, since you've basically gotten expelled from all the private ones in the state. And I refuse to waste my money to clear your name, so..." He trailed off, the cocky smile still playing on his lips.

"No." I responded through gritted teeth, and he shrugged nonchalantly.

"Have it your way."

The cocking of a gun infiltrated my ears, making my eyes widen. "Wait! Wait! She's your best member of security; you can't just kill her! If you do, then I'm as good as dead!"

"Wouldn't be the first time I lost a child," my father shrugged again.

Asshole.

"Alright, alright. I'll go to the stupid public school, now let her go."

When my father smiled at me, I knew I just couldn't wait for death to come knocking on his door.