DON'T CHEAT ON ME!

CHAPTER 22: Story Behind

Jordan's POV:

"You wanted to know the reason why I really hate fcking cheaters, Patricia?"

My voice was cold, slicing through the silence like a blade. She flinched, her wide eyes filling with fear.

I took a breath, my chest tightening with the flood of memories that I had buried so deep. Memories I never wanted to unearth. But here I was, opening that box of horrors.

"Now listen,"

I said, my jaw clenched.

"You’ll finally learn why."

She was trembling, tied up and trapped, and a sick part of me recognized how powerless she looked. Powerless, like I had once been. My fists curled at my sides, nails digging into my palms. I needed to control myself.

"Listen to me, Patricia.."

When I was five, our house was nothing more than creaking wood and old paint, smelling of sea salt from the nearby shore. The place that should've felt safe was a haunted space, full of shadows and secrets.

"Mama, who's that guy?"

I had asked once, clutching the small, broken toy car that I loved, even though its wheels barely worked.

My mother turned, her lips curving into a smile that made my stomach twist.

"Nothing baby, just a friend, your Mama's close friend."

She said. But there was nothing friendly about the way that man was looking at her, his hand gripping her waist like he owned her.

"Go to your room now."

she added, her voice too cheerful, too fake. But I obeyed. Because I always did.

I had walked to my room, but the door wouldn’t close all the way. I didn’t mean to watch, but I couldn’t look away either.

I stared through that crack in the door, watching as my mother’s “friend” pulled at her blouse, stripping her of every ounce of dignity I thought she had.

She laughed as he undressed her, as if it were all a game.

It wasn’t just him. It was never just one man. The next time, there were two. And then three. Four. More than I could count. Every time, I told myself to stop looking. But curiosity and confusion held me hostage.

Why did she let them? Why did she smile? I was a child who didn’t understand what desire or betrayal meant, but I knew my mother was happy in those moments, happier than she ever was when my father was around.

I snapped back to the present, staring down at Patricia. Her eyes were glossy with fear, her chest rising and falling in rapid breaths.

"Every two weeks.."

I whispered, more to myself than to her.

"Every two goddamn weeks, my Papa would come home from Manila. Working his ass off for us. For me. For her."

My throat burned.

"He worked as a fisherman when I was a little, but he got a job in the city to make more money. Because this..

I gestured wildly,

..this f*cking place wasn’t enough to support us. So he’d stay away, come back exhausted, hoping to find a home worth returning to."