"Don't think bowing your head makes this go away, Chloe." His voice was quiet. Dangerous. "Rebecca is seven months pregnant. Your little stunt nearly made her miscarry."
He stepped closer.
"You're going to kneel in the memorial hall. You'll stay there until she's discharged from the hospital. I don't care if it takes days."
I nodded. My body was already broken—what was a little more?
I turned toward the door, dragging myself forward.
His hand shot out, yanking me back.
"You did this." His grip was bruising. "And now you're putting on this pathetic act? Who exactly is this performance for?"
I met Mason's bloodshot eyes and caught my reflection in them—a fleeting, ghostly glimpse.
For a moment, I saw us at eighteen again.
Back then, I never imagined we'd end up here.
I had loved him once. And hated him too.
On the day I first became a mother, he dragged me into hell.
He made me watch as my own mother pushed my father off a building.
Then he forced her to confess her crimes to my face—before she threw herself after him.
After that, he locked me away in the psychiatric hospital. Broke me down, over and over.
The child in my womb was the only hope I had left.