“A man like Christian Reeves will get tired of you eventually. When you stop giving him what he wants.” Seething, I grab my father’s scotch glass, throw the amber liquid into his face, and then slam it back down to the table so hard it cracks. Hot, angry, embarrassed tears fall out of my eyes and soak the collar of my shirt. “Funny. That sounds like the same thing Neil Hayden said before he raped me,” I croak out, and then I turn, pushing past everyone else and running out the front door.
