She swallowed back the bile that rose in her throat as she remembered the sounds of her mother’s cries. “My father is a wealthy, powerful man. He’s not nice. At all. He runs his household with the same strict, emotionless attitude as he does his corporations. Only when you mess up at work you just get fired. The repercussions at home were much more severe.”
“How severe?”
“You want my life story, Caleb? Well, here it is. My father stole my childhood. He stole my mother’s soul, although I’d doubt she’d agree with that statement. When I rebelled and he realized he couldn’t control me any longer, he tried to steal the money my grandfather had left for me.”
She lowered her voice, making sure she wouldn’t be overheard. “Where your father was firm, mine was violent. Where your home was filled with warmth and laughter, mine resembled a museum, the only sounds the occasional screams that resulted from something being out of place, or a command not obeyed.”
“He hit you?” His voice took on a deeper tone, one that vibrated with controlled fury, as though he knew already knew the answer.
She nodded, fighting back the tears that threatened. Damn it. After all these years, she shouldn’t have any more tears to cry for that time of her life. Like Caleb said, the past is past. Let it die and take its memories with it.
“Yes. Repeatedly. Whenever I did something he didn’t want me to do … like breathe, for instance. But that wasn’t the worst of it.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Caleb exploded. “It gets worse?”
Samantha darted a glance around the restaurant. “Settle down before you get us thrown out of here. I’d prefer not to share my business with the world and now people are staring. If you insist on having this conversation right this second, then just shut up and listen.”
She didn’t know if she could do this. Alec and Amanda were the only people she’d ever told about her father, and even they didn’t know the whole of it.
She could gloss over the highlights, but now that she’d started, she wanted to trust Caleb with her secrets. More than anything, she wanted to put her faith in him.
He wasn’t her father. Caleb might be controlling at times, but only because he cared about her safety, not because he desired her to be who and what he wanted.
She could feel his anger on her behalf. Caleb was a warrior, a protector of the innocent. Of course he’d be angry at the pain she’d suffered. She prayed he’d have the same faith in her once he knew the truth. He’d never abuse her trust, she had to believe that. She did believe it.
Because she was desperately in love with him.
For that reason alone, he deserved to know the truth.
“This isn’t easy for me, Caleb. I’ve tried hard to forget that part of my life. Or, as you so eloquently pointed out, avoided the memories.”
“Jesus, Samantha, I’m —”
“Don’t apologize.” A tear escaped the corner of her eye and she swiped at it. “Please don’t apologize. I can’t take it. You weren’t wrong. I’ve made some good decisions over the years, and I’ve made some bad ones. Some really bad ones. There’s no point in sugarcoating it, because I can’t go back and change it. My only hope is that I’m smart enough to learn from my mistakes. And if I can help someone along the way…” She shrugged a shoulder. “Even better.”
She stared into the past. “I was seven the first time it happened. I’d tripped over a loose piece of carpet and knocked over a priceless vase. It broke, of course. Instead of punishing me, my father punished my mother, believing it would cure me of being clumsy. The psychopath’s guide to reverse psychology. He made me watch. Threatened to make it worse if I cried or tried to help her. I didn’t move a muscle. Not that time, or any time, save one. I stood, still as a statue, and watched every lash, every punch.”
“He did this often?” Caleb’s voice was soft, but his tone was filled with disgust.
She stared at her lap, unable to meet his gaze for fear she’d break into a million pieces. She could handle his lust, but his loathing was something she’d never get over.
“Not once he realized his methods weren’t effective. I hated my mother almost as much as I hated him. Far too many times she’d stood as I had, watching as my lip split under his hand because I’d worn a color that offended him or slouched at the dinner table. Never once did she try to protect me or shield me from him. I used to think maybe I caused trouble out of spite, in hopes that she’d be punished and I could sit smugly by as it happened.”