I don't actually know if I feel worse watching this or if I feel nothing at all. I should, in theory, be dropping lower by the second. But that's the thing about rock bottom. You're as low as you can go.
That's why I still watch. Because I'm numb. It doesn't matter that Cherry is on her knees in front of my dad. Her flaming red hair bobbing up and down in his lap while he reclines back on one of the black tufted ottomans.
It doesn't matter that he sweeps his hand over a little mirrored tray and Kingston bends to hit a line of coke.
It doesn't matter that he offers up Cherry... after he finishes, of course, for King to use however he wants. Papa has always been generous. My tongue clicks and my eyes roll.
When he refuses, relief flutters in the smallest piece of my heart that's still intact. But then with a dismissive wave King says, "no thanks. I'm saving all of my come for someone else's throat," and I remember that nothing matters.
A hand gun rests on top of my father's desk. My fingers tense around it, and I promise myself that the first person who walks through that door to collect me is getting a bullet. Even if it's King. Maybe especially if it's him.
"I warned you," my father says, running his hands through Cherry's red mane as she bobs between his knees. "Serafina, she is like her mother."
Mama. The fragments of my heart twitch. She was strong, beautiful, resilient. I close my eyes, hoping to be half of what she taught me.
Papa's words rip me from my memories. Driving the final nail in my coffin. "She was a whore," he grunts, leaning back against the black velvet booth. "They both question too much. They both think they know too much. Tell me, Kingston. What does she know? Too much?" he raises a challenging brow.
King gives his devilish half-cocked smile. Arrogant fucking bastard. "She knows nothing."
"Good." Papa clips. "Keep it that way. You know, this deal was to settle a debt. Now though, for this headache, I believe you owe me."
The smallest tick flickers through King's jaw. "How much to take her back?" he asks through clenched teeth.
"Two million," my father drawls without hesitation.
His dark brow raises, and he sticks his hands in his pockets. "One."
Good. A negotiation. I'd love to see how much I'm worth.