He leaned forward, brushing a hand over my hair like I was a dog he was proud of. I wanted to bite him.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, “When you started threatening charges, did it ever cross your mind how much she means to me? How far would I go for her?”
He arched a brow at me…Then he started counting again.
“Two.”
Panic ripped through my chest. I could barely see straight. This man… this monster… I gave him everything. Eight years. My name. My body. My soul. I thought I was his world.
Maybe I was.
Until she came back from the dead.
I clutched the hem of his slacks, trembling. “Let her say sorry. Just let me hear it. She murdered my mother… Let me hear her admit it.”
He scoffed, “She said she's not the one who burned your mother. That’s the end of it. She’s not suffering with PTSD, Harmony. You think I don’t see that? I asked you for compassion. You couldn’t give me that. You really let me down.”
I stared up at him, and I knew. Right there, I knew. There was no fixing this. No forgiveness. No version of this story where he loved me anymore.
I swallowed the taste of bile and whispered, “I’ll… I’ll sign. Just don’t kill him. Please.”