𝑴𝒆𝒍𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑰𝒄𝒆 | 𝒈𝒙𝒈

𝑺𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝑭𝒂𝒄𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒔

My fists pounded into the heavy bag with relentless fury, each punch a cathartic release of my frustration.

Sweat dripped down my brow, mingling with the strands of hair that managed to escape my ponytail, as I channeled every ounce of anger into my fists.

My muscles burned, but I reveled the pain, it was a tangible distraction from the chaos swirling in my mind.

Her moans echoed in my ear, the awful sound driving me to hit the bag harder.

How could he do this to us? jab.

In the office, what if it was someone else who walked in? cross.

I landed another fist at the leather bag but this time the pain was too much. I could smell the blood dripping down my hands, mixed with the terrible smell of the sweat that lingered in the air.

I untangled the blood stained bandages and winced at the pain. My fingers were bruised, the scratches on my knuckles bled, I went too far without gloves and now I'd have to find a way to hide it.

Ever since that day in my father's office all I did was box or drive, I avoided any human contact and buried myself in the gym. Em was worried, but I told her it was just family stuff and that I don't want to talk about, I'm grateful that she didn't push.

If she found out she'd tell me that I have to tell my mother, that I owe her at least that, and that she has the right to know. All of these things are true, of course they are true, but I couldn't bring myself to do that.

The night after the incident my dad came home and we were supposed to have a family dinner together. I couldn't even look at the man, let alone sit by him for a couple hours and play the role of beloved daughter, so I got inside my car and drove.

Mom reprimanded me for it, which I couldn't give two shits about, but it meant that he hasn't told her yet.

Which means, I have to tell her, because we fly to the Hamptons tomorrow and I physically can't spend the entire week around either of them with the secret hovering over my head.

What a fucking mess.

...

I walked around the halls of my house, going all the way from my bedroom to the living room, where my mother drank her wine and read her book. My chest felt tight and my pulse drummed in my ears.

I had a bad feeling about this and every instinct in my body begged me to abort mission and turned around, but if there's one thing that I'm not, it's a liar.

Me and mother aren't close, to say the least, but I still owed her the truth. If anyone else already knows about it and they're spreading the rumor, my mother would look like a total fool, and that'd be devastating for a woman who's all about keeping up appearances.

She finally came into view, a glass of red wine in one hand and a book in the other, by the cover it was something about art.

Mom loved art, she loved painting and she was really good at it, but she never went pro. Being the daughter of Supreme Court Justice and the most famous Barrister in the UK set you up in a specific course in life. It was expected of her to study law and become a justice herself, she didn't want to, but she did it anyway. She applied to Princeton law in a desperate attempt to escape her parents claws, and that's where she met my father.

After they married she stopped practicing and went back to school to study art, she was valedictorian and graduated with honors, but she never really worked in the field. My family's art collection was the size of a small museum's, and my mother became the curator of her own museum, but she never had a professional career.