Page 30 of Because I Liked A Boy (Because I Liked A Boy Trilogy #1)

The hall yawned longer than it had when I was a child, stretching out like something meant to break me before I reached him.

My boots sank into the runner; the sound vanished in the heavy hush.

Every step carried ghosts — Mum crying behind a closed door, Nathan slamming his bedroom shut, me slipping downstairs to steal one breath of freedom.

My hands trembled as if the wallpaper itself could reach out and drag me back.

I could still taste blood from the last time I stood here, copper sharp on my tongue, his palm print burning into my cheek.

Whore. The word had rung in my ears for weeks after, louder than Nathan’s voice, louder than Mum’s sobs.

Even now, seven months later, the phantom sting flared hot as if he’d only just struck me.

Fear begged me to turn around, but rage shoved me forward, step by step.

Portraits glowered from the walls like judges. Once my face had been there. Nathan’s too. Mum’s smile frozen in oil. Now only the new ones remained: Penelope, polished and posed, my father’s arm around her, a trophy in a tailored dress. A hot coil of rage tightened under my ribs.

Penelope’s slippers whispered behind me, too small and fragile for this house. For him. She shouldn’t be here. Neither of us should. But I wasn’t running this time.

A memory rose, ugly and immediate the last time I’d stood outside his office his hand had cracked across my face.

I’d tasted blood and humiliation; he’d spat the word whore like spit.

The sting hadn’t gone away. It could still land the same again.

The thought should have made me step back. Instead it sharpened me.

“Bella… don’t,” Penelope breathed, so soft it might have been a prayer. The sound anchored me.

“For us,” I whispered, and pushed the handle down.

The door shut behind us with the finality of a verdict.

The office was exactly as I remembered: glass and chrome, a throne at the far end, the city sprawled below like something he owned. He sat behind his desk as always, shoulders squared, scotch catching the light. He didn’t need to look for us he knew we’d come.

The smell hit first—oak and smoke, the bite of expensive scotch.

He pivoted slowly, chair legs scraping the rug like nails down a chalkboard.

His gaze slid over me, clinical, stripping flesh from bone until I felt fourteen again, braced for the slap before he’d even opened his mouth.

My body betrayed me with every shallow breath, every pulse that thudded in my throat.

Seven months away, and still he owned this room. Still, he expected to own me.

“Dad.” My voice cut through the room like a blade.

He turned slowly, eyes landing on me first, then sliding to Penelope in the doorway. Irritation flickered and vanished as he smoothed his face back into its habitual mask.

“You’ve come back,” he said, flat. No surprise. No warmth. Just the certainty of ownership. “I wondered how long it would take.”

The memory of his last slap burned along my cheek. I tasted copper. I remembered hunters’ teeth and a laugh that wasn’t kind. I swallowed the bile and demanded, “Why? Why erase Nathan like he was nothing?”

He smiled like a man enjoying his sermon.

“Nathan was nothing. A drunk. A liability. Weak. I gave him everything and he wasted it. He couldn’t carry the Ashbourne name.

” His eyes flicked to me, cold and precise.

“And neither could you.” He stood and stalked forward, each step a blade.

“You—what are you? Some saint? No. You’re filth.

You open your legs for gutter trash and call it love.

” The contempt in his voice burned me. “Hunter Hayes? Do you think I didn’t know? He told me everything.”

My stomach dropped. The bunny, the file — the proof of everything.

The word cracked through me like glass. My ears rang, heat flashing across my cheeks as if his hand had landed already.

Penny’s soft gasp behind me made the insult echo louder, her innocence shattering in real time.

Shame clawing up my throat, but I swallowed it down, locking my eyes on him.

If he wanted me broken, he would have to work harder.

“He was your son,” I said, because the word felt like the only thing left that could hold me together.

“He was a disgrace,” he snapped, voice hard as ice. “And you — you killed him. Behind the wheel, wasn’t it? You walked away while he bled. That’s what you are, Isabella. The ruin of this family.”

Tears stung hot, but rage was hotter. “No. You destroyed us. Mum. Nathan. Me. And now Penelope. You’re still destroying us.”

He moved in a slow circle, a predator assessing a trapped animal. The room smelled of cedar and expensive scotch and control. He stopped a foot from me, close enough that I had to lift my chin.

“You think you can stand here and judge me?” His voice dropped, lethal. “You who ran when it got hard. You left that girl to rot under my roof while you spread your legs for gutter trash in Maplewood.”

Hunter’s name hovered between us, unsaid and poisonous. He smirked. “Did you think Hunter Hayes was different? That he cared? He was mine from the start. Paid for. Bought and sold. Every text, every meeting. Every laugh at that Maple Bean of yours — I knew.”

My mind reeled, dragging me back through every moment Hunter’s half-smile over coffee, the way his jacket felt draped across my shoulders, the stupid bunny he’d won like it meant something more.

Each memory was ripped from me in jagged pieces, shredded under my father’s words until bile burned at the back of my throat.

My chest caved in like he’d reached inside and squeezed.

Rage was the only thing that held me upright.

When he said it, the world went thin at the edges.

The file flashed in my head; the neat notes, my life reduced to timestamps.

“When he failed,” my father sneered, “I replaced him. Everyone is replaceable, Isabella. Every smile, every kiss you thought was yours I already knew.”

“You sick bastard,” I breathed.

“And yet,” he said, stepping closer until the air was electric, “you still crawled home. Right where I want you.”

Something inside me snapped. Tears dried on my cheeks and the salt left hard lines. “No. I didn’t come back for you. I came back for her.” I jabbed my chin at Penelope, who stood frozen, small and pale. “She’s not yours. She’ll never be yours.”

His face changed then — the mask cracking to show something like triumph. “On the contrary.” He smiled, slow and satisfied. “She’s mine. She lives under my roof. She wears my name. And she’ll thank me for it when she’s married.”

The word hit like a blow. “Married?” I heard my voice, and it was small against the room.

Penelope made a wet sound. “What?”

“She doesn’t know?” I asked, disbelief cracking my voice.

His smirk widened. “She will now. Sixteen next month — old enough to be useful. The Cartwright boy. Eighteen, promising, respectable blood. A match that fixes an image and seals an alliance. Practical.” He let the word hang, savouring the damage.

Penny’s face drained of colour, her lips parting on a soundless no.

She clutched at my sleeve like a child, shaking her head over and over as if the motion alone could undo his words.

My heart split clean down the middle. She wasn’t some contract.

She wasn’t leverage. She was a terrified fifteen-year-old girl being sold like property.

“Dad—no—I don’t want—” Her voice wavered, then fell away.

I moved before I thought, fingers closing on her wrist and dragging her behind me. “She’s not a bargaining chip,” I said, fury fraying my edges. “She’s a child.”

His hand shot out. He gripped my jaw so hard my teeth hurt, breath hot with scotch and contempt.

“You’re a whore,” he spat. The word landed like a punch, and his palm snapped across my cheek.

Pain exploded along my face; stars popped in my vision.

Stars exploded across my vision, the metallic tang of blood flooding my mouth.

For one dizzy second, the room spun and I was seventeen again, sobbing in the hallway while he stood above me, satisfied with the red mark blooming on my skin.

Penny’s scream yanked me back, raw and jagged.

Even dazed, I reached for her, fingers stretching until the guards tore us apart.

Penelope screamed. I clutched her arm, nails digging into her skin. “You’re safe,” I told her, though my voice shook. “I promise you’re safe.”

But the men in the doorway moved with the inevitability of puppets. They’d been waiting, shadows that slipped from the walls. One of them wrenched Penelope from my grasp. Her cry split the air.

“No!” I lunged, but hands wrapped around me — iron and unyielding. My father’s face hovered, lips thin with fury. “You’ll never take her.”

He nodded once. A signal. The men closed in. They hauled Penelope back, her small body writhing and crying, and one of them shoved her toward the stairs leading to the private wing.

I ripped for her, but his other hand grabbed my arm like a vice. Pain flared up my arm as he jerked me back. “Enough,” he hissed. “She forgets herself.” He gestured, and the men obeyed.

Someone shoved me hard; my shoulder slammed into the desk. Glass skittered and shattered, scotch seeping into the grain like blood. Penelope’s face was the last thing I saw before they dragged her away. She reached for me, fingers scrabbling at air.

“Bella!” she screamed.

The men’s grips were unbreakable. They hauled me down the corridor, past the rooms that had once been our refuge and now felt like a museum curated by him. The front doors were thrown open and the night hit my face — cold and sharp and cleansing.

I lay crumpled on the stone steps, cheek blazing, ribs aching from where their hands had dug in.

Penny’s scream still rang in my skull, echoing behind the slammed doors like a ghost I couldn’t save.

The night air cut through my coat, bitter and sharp, but it was nothing compared to the fire raging under my skin.

He thought he’d ended this by tossing me out like trash.

He thought he’d silenced me with blood and bruises. But all he’d done was light the fuse.

Then I pushed myself up. The pain stung, the bruise blooming, but under it a slow, molten resolve settled. His words still hung in the air behind me you are nothing but they were fuel, not chains.

This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.