Nina’s POV
I held my torn clothes tightly, arms wrapped around myself as if they were all I had.
My voice was sharp, like broken glass. “In your dreams. I’ll never admit my dad’s a murderer.”
The words had barely left my lips when I sensed Fabian’s presence looming over me. His shadow stretched across the floor as he stepped into view, long legs moving with deliberate ease.
“Do what she said, Nina,” Fabian said coolly. “Or I’ll bring your mother here instead.”
My nails dug so deep into my palms that I could feel the skin tearing. I looked up at my husband, my eyes burning with the kind of rage that only comes from betrayal.
“Fabian, are you really gonna push me this far? You wanna destroy me that badly?”
He gazed down at me from above, and the words he uttered sent a chill down my spine.
“It’s just a few words, Nina. Don’t be so dramatic. Sadie wants to hear it, so say it for her.”
Then Fabian paused, just long enough for the dread to build in my stomach, before adding with unsettling calm, “If you keep being difficult, I’ll use some special methods to straighten you out. And you know I’ve got a thousand—hell, ten thousand—ways to do that.”
Of course, he did. This was Fabian Wolfe. Around here, they called him the ‘God of Slaughter.’
Even if I said no, he’d find a way. He always did.
He could tear me apart piece by piece, mind, body, and soul.
If it were only up to me, I might have managed to hold on or endure it. But if Fabian directed that cruelty towards my mom or pulled my dad further into his hellhole?
I couldn’t let that happen.
I closed my eyes, my chest heaving from the weight of everything. The helplessness crushed me like a boulder on my back. After what felt like forever, I slowly unclenched my fists, nails now stained with my own blood, and surrendered.
“Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll say it.”
I dropped to my knees, each movement heavy like I was carrying the world.
I crawled forward and stopped in front of Callum Prescott’s casket. Every word felt like barbed wire sliding down my throat, but I forced them out anyway.
“I am the daughter of a murderer. I apologize to Mr. Callum Prescott. I’m sorry.”
But that wasn’t enough. Of course it wasn’t.
Sadie’s voice rang out behind me, all sugar and spite. “Hey, Jennings, don’t you think a real apology comes with a proper bow? And maybe say it a little louder.”
Her tone made my skin crawl. My whole body shook, burning with humiliation. I clenched my teeth so hard my jaw ached.
And then, I lifted my head and slammed it hard against the floor.
“I am the daughter of a murderer! I apologize to Mr. Callum Prescott! I’m sorry!”
Blood spilled quickly, hot and fast, down my face. The sting barely registered amid the fury and heartbreak.
I looked up and stared straight at Sadie. “Is that enough for you?”
My voice cracked. My desperation spilled out, raw and unfiltered. The room went silent for a moment. Even the Prescotts looked uneasy. A few nervously tugged at Sadie’s sleeve, as if they’d finally crossed a line.
But Sadie just lifted her chin, lips curling in satisfaction.
“Barely acceptable.”
I pushed myself up from the floor, my legs trembling.
Fabian approached, attempting to steady me as if he still had the right. I swatted his hand away with the last of my strength.
“Don’t touch me, Fabian! You make me sick.”
His face immediately clouded with anger. He seized my wrist tightly, eyes narrowing with menace.
“What did you just say? Say it again. I dare you.”
I stared right back at him, refusing to flinch. My voice was ice.
“I said, you make me sick.”
After I finished, Fabian looked as if something had stabbed him. Immediately, his grip loosened, and he let me go.
I walked away, head held high, ignoring who saw me, refusing to let them see my pain for a moment.
But what I didn’t anticipate was that someone had documented everything in that mourning hall.
By the next morning, the video was everywhere.
Clickbait headlines flooded in. Slimy media outlets spun the story a hundred different ways. Some claimed my dad had staged the whole ‘self-defense’ thing to cover up a murder. Others hinted there was something shady going on between him and the so-called ‘victim.’
Because they asked, why else would the daughter confess like that?
The public turned on us overnight.
My mom was crushed. I found her passed out cold on the living room floor, her phone still in her hand. Their comments, rumors, and judgment seeped into every corner of our lives. We couldn’t escape it. It was on the streets, on the news, in our neighbors’ eyes.
When she finally came to, she clutched my hand, her voice shaking.
“If your father sees this, what must he be feeling?”
I couldn’t respond to her. I didn’t even know how to defend myself or set things right.
And then came the call.
My dad had seen it. Eventually, it affected him deeply as he attempted to take his own life in prison.
We hurried to the hospital in a panic, but when we arrived, the ambulance was still parked outside the ER.
My dad hadn’t even made it through the doors.
Blood was heavily oozing from the wound on his neck.
I stood frozen, my heart pounding inside my chest, while my body refused to move.
