Chapter 13: Arrival
TERESA'S P.O.V.
I decided to leave my old, beat-up 97 Toyota Corolla behind, opting instead to take a taxi. The car had seen better days, with its faded paint, cracked windows, and a persistent rattling sound that seemed to echo my own struggles. It was the kind of car that sputtered to life with a prayer and a bit of luck but it always took me where I needed to go, however today, my devil of a father would handle the ride to the end of my life. As I slid into the backseat of the taxi, I couldn't help but think about the next time I'd see it and my old apartment again, after five long months. The thought made me sigh.
The taxi ride was a nauseating combination of nervousness and anticipation. I sat stiffly, clutching my suitcase as the driver weaved through the busy morning streets. The clock read 5:45 AM. I couldn't be late. Not this time. If I was, my father wouldn't just punish me–he'd find a way to take it out on Luke too, and I couldn't let that happen. The man loved nothing more than wielding control like a hammer, and I refused to give him a reason to swing.
I arrived at the mansion at exactly 5:58 AM. My father's house loomed above me, grand, cold, and unnecessarily large-just like him. As I got out of the taxi, I took in a deep breath, the smell of fresh-cut grass and polished stone adding with the crisp morning air. I barely made it to the front door before my stepmother opened it, her lips pulled into a saccharine smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Teresa, darling, you're right on time," she cooed, her voice sticky sweet. The same fake sweetness that always made my skin crawl. "Your father will be down shortly."
I nodded and stepped inside, feeling the familiar coldness of the house creep up my spine. It was spotless, of course, the smell of disinfectant strong, like the house was constantly trying to erase any trace of human life. I stood there, suitcase in hand, waiting under the grand chandelier that hung from the ceiling. The one thing I liked about the place, I suppose, was how the light shimmered off the crystals, casting tiny rainbows across the floor.
Then, my father appeared at the top of the staircase, descending like a king–if kings were obnoxiously rich men in their sixties with an ego the size of a small country. His gray hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place, and his suit–probably custom-made–looked like it cost more than most people's yearly salary. As usual, he didn't bother to acknowledge me with anything resembling warmth. His gaze barely flicked over me as he said in his usual sharp tone, "Let's go."
And just like that, he swept past me, heading straight for the front door. No 'hello,' no 'how was your night?' Nothing. I followed quietly, my stomach churning with a familiar wave of anger and resentment.
Outside, the driver–his assistant, really–was waiting with the car. And of course, it was a beauty. A sleek, black luxury sedan that practically gleamed in the morning light. The kind of car that screamed, "I'm better than you." I slid into the passenger seat as the assistant loaded my suitcase into the trunk. My father, predictably, sat in the back. The power move, as always.
As the car pulled away from the house, silence filled the air between us. I stared out the window, trying to calm my racing thoughts. I hated being in the same space with him. Hated the way my father treated me like an inconvenience, like I was something to be tolerated at best. I hated how much he controlled everything, how he wanted every decision in my life to revolve around him. And I hated that no matter how hard I tried, I could never be free of him. My fingers curled tightly around my seatbelt. There were days when all I wanted to do was run so far away-just vanish and never look back. But that wasn't an option. Not today.