Chapter 10

Chris's POV

You know, I once thought the man I lived with wasn’t really my father.

Not in the way fathers were supposed to be.

He barely looked at me. And when he did, it was either to curse me out or hit me. Whenever people talked about their dads, I felt like they were describing some mythical creature I’d never get to meet.

For most of my childhood, I had my aunt — my mom’s sister.

She’d come in and check on me. Bring food. Do all that good stuff. Little things that shouldn’t have felt extraordinary but somehow did.

I never told you guys this, but there was something that happened. Something that made my aunt take me away for good.

I was twelve years old.

One of the days he came back drunk — not the usual drunk, something worse — he went straight for my room. I was asleep. Imagine waking up and realizing you can’t breathe anymore. That’s what it was. His hands around my neck, his eyes glaring something dangerous, and then all of a sudden, he started crying.

“Christine.”

Tears falling on my face.

“Oh my dear, Christine. I’ve missed you. Why did you leave me?”

He came closer. The stink of alcohol and sweat hit me like a wall. I tried to push him away but he was too strong. He kissed me. Hard. Hard enough to injure me.

Tears formed in my eyes at the shock of it all.

I kept holding my breath because this was my dad. He wasn’t supposed to be doing this. He was supposed to protect me. I was twelve. His body moving against mine, and all I could do was freeze. My brain had already decided what was happening was wrong, but I couldn’t stop him. I was too weak, and that was just the reality of it.

He walked out of my room staggering. Didn’t even look back.

And there I was — lying on my bed, curled up, my shorts pulled down.

He didn’t go all the way. Maybe he wasn’t conscious enough. Maybe something in him didn’t want to. I don’t know. But that kiss, the way his hands left invisible marks on my body — I cried profusely. I cried like I didn’t know a body could hold that much hurt.

A day after, my aunt came to visit.

And for the first time in my life, I told somebody the truth. Every ugly piece of it.

She didn’t hesitate. Not for a second.

She packed my clothes. My books. Everything I owned.

And we left. Just like that.

She was single and alone, so I stayed with her — until cancer took her from me too.

Funny, isn’t it? The only people who ever truly loved me always seemed to leave.

Maybe that’s why I got so used to surrendering. Surrendering to poverty. Surrendering to fear. Surrendering to life. Because when enough bad things happen to you, eventually you stop fighting. You just take the hits and hope they end.

But I learned something.

Surrender never saved anyone. It only enabled the people hurting you.

And maybe that’s why I was standing here now — looking directly into his eyes, refusing to back down.

He sat in that chair holding my money.

My money. The cash I had bled for. The cash I had busted my ass — literally — for. The cash that represented my future.

“Those are my savings,” I said, trying to hide the panic running through my entire body.

He didn’t even flinch.

“What work do you do that earns this much?”

His stare was boring craters into my skull.

“A few jobs.” I swallowed. “I’m saving up for my tuition.”

I stepped forward. Motioned for the money. He stood up.

It was still surprising — even now — how he kept that impossible frame. My dad was tall. Broad. Built like someone who had spent his whole life winning fights. That height, I did inherit from him. The rest, unfortunately, I didn’t.

We locked eyes. Neither of us moving.

Then he looked down at the cash and started counting it.

My stomach dropped.

No. No, no, no.

He separated a chunk and held out the smaller portion to me. What was left in his hand was significantly more.

“I don’t know if you heard me clearly,” my voice rose, “but I need that money to pay for my tuition!”

He stepped closer. Close enough for the stink of stale alcohol to hit me all over again.

“My drink is more important than you or anything you want,” he said, calm as anything. “And any money brought into this house is automatically mine.”

He looked at me for a beat too long — like he was deciding something — then he pulled a few more notes from the bundle and slapped them against my chest. The force pushed me back.

“There. That should shut you up.”

He turned toward the door.

Taking my future with him.

Something snapped inside my chest. Not fear. Something else entirely. Something that had been swallowed down for years — every bruise, every insult, every time he’d made me feel like I was less than human.

I lunged for the money.

His eyes widened. Not because I was strong. Because I had the audacity.

We struggled. His grip tightened. Mine tightened harder. For one glorious second, I thought I might actually get it back.

Then his fist connected with my face.

Everything exploded — light, sound, pain. I hit the floor hard. My ears rang violently. The taste of blood flooded my mouth.

Above me, he looked enormous. Like something out of a nightmare.

“You fucking twat! How dare you!”

Another blow. My vision blurred.

Another. The room spun.

Another. Pain gave way to numbness — the kind that comes when your body decides it just can’t keep up anymore.

“You ruined my life! You vile poison that took my wife!”

Then — silence.

Heavy breathing.

He stood over me, chest rising and falling. Satisfied. Like he’d just finished a chore.

Then he spat on me.

Actually spat on me.

And walked out.

Just like that.

I lay there staring at the ceiling. School. Tuition. Exams. My future. Because of him. No — not my father. That monster. Because of him, I was going to lose everything.

Then my phone vibrated.

I almost ignored it.

With trembling fingers, I pulled it out.

Payment received. $10,000. Silver Slippers.

Esteban. My cut.

I stared at the screen.

Then I laughed.

A broken, hysterical laugh — because life was absolutely ridiculous. One moment I was convinced my future had been stolen. The next, the universe tossed me a lifeline. Like it was playing some elaborate sick joke. Like it was pointing at me saying:

Gotcha.

I laughed until my split lip screamed.

Laughed until tears blurred my eyes.

Then I slowly pushed myself up off the floor.

First things first — I needed to clean up all this blood.

After that? I was paying my tuition.