𝓔.

When you caught him cheating, he didn't apologize. He blamed you.

"You're never here. You're always working. What am I supposed to do? You left me in this disgusting house. This is your fault."

"But I'm working for us—for the baby—"

"I gave up everything for you!" He screamed it so close to your face you felt the spit. "My family. My future. I threw it all away for you, and you can't even be here when I need you. You're selfish. You're a worthless, selfish bitch."

You were the one who cried. You were the one who apologized. For working too much. For being pregnant. For being tired. For being ugly. For being a bad girlfriend. You begged him not to leave you. You promised you'd do better.

He let you cry for a while. Then he pulled you into a hug and kissed your forehead.

"Shh. I forgive you. I love you so much it makes me insane. You're my everything. You know that, right?"

"I know. I'm sorry. I'll be better."

"You're my good girl. Now get off the floor. You look disgusting."

The physical abuse escalated slowly.

A shove during an argument. A grip on your arm that left a mark. A slap when you talked back. And each time, it was your fault. You made him do it. You knew how he got when he was stressed. Why did you push him?

Giving birth was a nightmare.

You tore during delivery. Badly. You were in so much pain you couldn't walk. You couldn't sit without screaming. You were bleeding through pads every hour, feverish, your milk coming in so hard your chest felt like hot stones.

He sat in the corner of the hospital room, bored.

"Can you stop? You're embarrassing me. The nurses think I did something to you."

"Baby, I'm sorry, I can't—I can't walk—"

"You're being childish. Women give birth every day. Get up."

"B-But I can't."

Five minutes later, he grabbed your arm—the same arm where the IV had just been removed, still bruised—and yanked you out of the bed. You hit the floor. Your stitches ripped. The pain was so white hot you didn't even make a sound. You just opened your mouth and nothing came out.

He dragged you to the car by your hair while you bled through your hospital gown.

At home, things got worse.

The baby cried. Babies do that. But Aerion couldn't stand it.

If the baby woke him up, it was your fault.

If the baby needed feeding while he was trying to talk to you you, it was your fault.

If the baby was colicky and screamed for hours while you walked circles in the dark, Aerion would come out of the bedroom, grab you by the throat, and slam you against the wall.

"Shut that thing up or I will."

If you were too exhausted to have sex with him six weeks postpartum, it was your fault.

"After everything I gave up for you," he'd say, fist clenched. "You can't even spread your legs? You're useless. Disgusting fucking pig."

The beatings became routine.

Not slaps. Closed fists. Steel toed boots. A cast iron skillet once, right across your lower back. You still can't stand for more than an hour without pain.

He broke your fingers one by one over the course of a year.

Your pinky first, because you burned his toast.

Your ring finger, because you forgot to buy his cigarettes.

Your middle finger, because you looked at him wrong.

Your index finger, because you asked him to please get a job.

Your thumb, because you flinched when he raised his hand, and flinching meant you thought he was a monster, and thinking he was a monster meant you didn't love him.

He dislocated your shoulder twice.

The second time, he refused to take you to the hospital.

"You'll tell them. You'll lie and tell them I did this and they'll take you away from me."

So you sat on the bathroom floor for four hours, arm hanging wrong, while he stood over you saying, "See how much I love you? I can't even let you go to the doctor because I can't lose you."

He shoved your head through the drywall in the hallway. The hole stayed there for months, and every time you passed it, you'd feel your skull pulse with the memory.

He once pressed a lit cigarette into your inner thigh while you were sleeping. You woke up screaming and he clamped a hand over your mouth and whispered, "Shh, you'll wake the baby."

One time you talked back.

Just once.

You said "please stop" during a beating and he interpreted that as defiance. He duct taped your mouth shut, zip tied your wrists to the radiator, and left you there for fourteen hours. You pissed yourself.

You cried until you couldn't breathe through your nose. When he finally cut you loose, he held you like a baby and cried and said he was so sorry, he just loved you so much, you made him so crazy, why did you make him do these things.

And you comforted him.

You, with the broken fingers and the bruised ribs and the piss soaked jeans, you held him and told him it was okay. That you forgave him. That you knew he didn't mean it.

The isolation deepened.

He took your phone most days. He disabled the internet. He told the neighbors you were mentally ill, unstable, that they shouldn't talk to you if you came knocking. He convinced the landlady you were a drug addict so she'd ignore any complaints.

You were trapped. Completely, utterly trapped in that house with him, and no one was coming.

He has "needs."

He didn't wait the six weeks the doctor told you. He didn't even wait two. You were still bleeding, still stitched, still leaking milk through your shirt, and he pushed you onto the mattress.

"I have needs. You're my girlfriend. This is your job."

When you cried, he said you were being dramatic.

When you bled through the sheets, he said it was disgusting and you should clean it up.

When you went numb and silent and stared at the ceiling until it was over, he kissed your forehead and said,

"See? That wasn't so bad. You're so good for me."

He'd wake you up in the middle of the night by climbing on top of you. Sometimes you didn't even fully wake up—your body just learned to disassociate. You'd float somewhere near the ceiling while he did what he wanted.

He'd choke you during sex.

Not the playful kind. The kind where your vision went spotty and your hands clawed at his wrists and he'd whisper "shh, shh, almost there" while you fought for air.

Once, he held a pillow over your face the entire time. You clawed at his arms, your lungs screaming, and when you finally went limp, he pulled it off and kissed you and said,

"See? You can take it. My good girl."

He filmed it sometimes. On his phone.

He said it was for him, for when you were at work. He said it was proof that you loved him. You found out later he'd shown some of the videos to the girls he was cheating with. A little entertainment. A little "look at what my bitch lets me do."

He cheated constantly.

Openly. In your bed. On your couch.

He'd bring girls home while you were cleaning, hand them a drink, gesture at you like you were furniture.

"That's just my girlfriend. Don't mind her."

And you'd keep scrubbing. Keep your head down. Because if you said anything, you'd pay for it later in bruises.

One girl felt sorry for you.

"are you okay?" She asked when he went to the bathroom.

You didn't answer. You couldn't.

The next week, you saw her at the corner store with a split lip. He'd found out she'd talked to you. He'd gone back to "set her straight."

He told you about it later, proud. "No one disrespects my girl."

The mind games were worse than the beatings, in some ways. Because bruises fade. Broken bones heal. But the way he messed with your mind—that never really went away.

"You're so fucking ugly when you cry. Look at yourself. Who would ever want this?"

"You're lucky I stay. No one else would touch you. Disgusting pig."

"I'm the only one who loves you. Your own mother doesn't call anymore. Your friends forgot you exist. You have nothing without me. You are nothing."

"If you ever left, I'd find you. And I'd kill you. And then I'd kill myself. And our son would be an orphan. Is that what you want? You want our son to be alone because you're too selfish?"

"I hit you because I love you. If I didn't care, I wouldn't bother. You make me feel so much it drives me insane. No one else has ever made me feel this way. You're special. You should be grateful."

"You drove me to this," he'd hiss, hands around your throat, thumbs pressing into your windpipe. "You made me like this. Before you, I was fine. I was happy. I was going to be someone. Now look at me. Living in this shithole with a pathetic cunt who can't even keep me satisfied. You ruined my life. You fucking ruined my life."

And you stayed quiet. You stayed small.

You covered the bruises with drugstore concealer and long sleeves in summer.

You smiled at the neighbors. You let him cheat. You let him mock your body in front of his friends.

You let him call you a whore, a pig, a worthless piece of shit who should be grateful he even let you breathe the same air.

Because you believed him.

God, you believed him with your whole heart.

You'd ruined him. You'd destroyed this beautiful, brilliant boy. He gave up his inheritance, his family, his entire world, and you couldn't even keep him happy.

So you kiss his fists after he hit you. You'd apologize for making him angry. You'd promise to be better. You'd promise to be good. You'd promise you'd never, ever leave.

"You love me?" he'd ask, voice suddenly soft, childlike, after the storm passed. "You really love me?"

"More than anything. More than my own life."

"Even after what I did?"

"You were upset. You didn't mean it. I know you love me."

"I do. I love you so much. You're the only one who understands me. You're my soulmate. We're going to be together forever, right? Promise me. Promise me you'll never leave."

"I promise. I swear on the baby. I'll never leave you."

Until one day he just... left.

You came home from the grocery store and his clothes were gone. His car was gone. The little bit of cash you'd hidden in the cereal box was gone. He left a note on the kitchen counter, written on the back of a takeout menu:

"You can keep the brat. I'm done."

It was after he left that you found out about the debt.

He had opened credit cards in your name. Seven of them. He'd maxed them all out and never paid a cent. Loans. Payday advances. A car loan for a car you never saw. He'd forged your signature on everything.

Your credit was destroyed. Your name was dirt. Collection agencies called you every hour, screaming, threatening. You couldn't rent an apartment. You couldn't get a loan. You couldn't even open a bank account.

He destroyed your life.

But your son kept you alive. Your beautiful boy with his silver hair and his serious little frown. He had Aerion's face but your heart. You knew it. You saw it every time he smiled at you, every time he patted your cheek with his sticky little hand and said "I love you, Mama."

You worked three jobs. You lived on ramen and tap water. You did everything you could. You never let him see you cry.

And now Aerion wanted to take him.

You'll never forget that courtroom. The wood paneling. The flag. The seal of the state. Aerion on the stand, lying through his perfect teeth.

"Yes, your honor, she kept my son from me for years."

"Yes, your honor, she has mental health problems."

"Yes, your honor, I just want what's best for my son. "

You sat in that courtroom and listened to them describe you as neglectful. Unhinged. A danger to your own child.

They brought up the eviction. The food stamps. The time you had a panic attack at parent teacher meeting and had to leave early. They twisted every scar he'd given you into proof that you were insane.

And Aerion sat there with his hands folded, looking sad. Looking disappointed. Looking like he genuinely love your son.

You started screaming.

You don't remember what you said. You just remember the bailiff's hands on your arms.

You remember your son's face in the back of the courtroom, crying.

You remember Aerion's smile — quick, flickering, gone before anyone else could catch it.

You lost.

The day they came to take him, your son held onto your legs and screamed so hard he lost his voice.

"Mama, please, please don't let them take me, I'll be good, I promise I'll be good, please mama please—"

You couldn't save him.

You watched them buckle him into Aerion's car.

You watched his little hands pressed against the window.

You watched him mouth I love you through the glass.

And then they were gone.

And you were alone.

And the silence was louder than anything you'd ever heard.

Two days later, they send you an email.

Official. Signed by his lawyer.

"Pursuant to the custody agreement, you are hereby ordered to pay child support in the amount of $1,200 per month, effective immediately."

Ha.

Look at that.

Aerion fucking Targaryen — trust fund baby, the man who's family had more wealth than you'd see in ten lifetimes —

Wanted you to pay child support.

At least he lets you see your son.

Two hours a week. Every Thursday. Supervised visitation in a cold, gray room at a county facility. No contact outside of that. No phone calls. No letters. No nothing.

With him sitting right there.

Watching.

He's always there. He doesn't have to be—he has money now, Daddy's money, he could pay someone, he could trust the system—but he comes anyway. Every single week. He sits in the corner with his legs crossed and his hands folded and he watches you like a hawk watches a mouse.

Your son is across the room today, building something with blocks. You're trying to focus on him, trying to memorize every detail of his face in case this is the last time you see it. But you can feel Aerion's eyes on you. You can always feel them.

"Your father took you back, I see."

You don't look at him. Your voice is flat, dead.

He chuckles. It's a soft, musical sound. He used to laugh like that when he'd buy you things after a bad night.

Here, baby, I got you these earrings. Don't they make up for it? Don't they?

"Of course. He's my father, after all."

After eight years. After everything. The prodigal son returns. All is forgiven. The poor can rot.

"You look tired," he says, tilting his head. His voice is light. Conversational. Almost pleasant. "Still working those dead end jobs, I assume?"

"Bills don't pay themselves."

"No. I suppose they don't. Especially not with your... situation."

He waves a hand vaguely, as if your entire existence is a minor inconvenience.

"I do hope the child support payments won't be too much of a burden. I made sure the court was reasonable."

You let out a short, hollow laugh. "Reasonable. Right."

"I could have asked for more. I didn't. You're welcome."

You just stare at him. The audacity.

"I bet the Lannisters aren't happy about it," you laugh. "I mean you almost killed their precious girl."

His smile shifted. Widened. Turned almost fond.

"Oh, you're jealous, I see."

Jealous?

He thought you were jealous. Of the fiance he'd put in the hospital before he ever touched you, the actual reason he was kicked out.

You open your mouth but nothing comes out.

What can you even say to a narcissist like him?

His gaze drifts over you. Lingering. Dissecting. You can feel it crawling over your skin, invasive and foul.

“So...” he murmurs, tilting his head.

Hmm?

“You got a boyfriend or something?”

If you want to be in my "shitty baby daddy" taglist let me know :)

Rafe's torso rose and fell against your ribs with every heavy breath he took, against the bruises he left there not even one week ago. You whined, and he finally released the pressure on your throat.

The dots in your vision vanished, just as fireworks exploded in the background, the colors iluminating your boyfriend's blown out pupils.

Rafe didn't let you fall forward, still holding you upright by your throat as you inhaled the precious air he has been depriving you of a couple of seconds ago.

He reached up with his free hand, his thumb catching a heavy tear right as it fell from your lash line, deliberately smearing the moisture across your swollen, bruised cheek.

"Now, are y'gonna try to leave again? 'Cause that's really fucking stupid", he spoke your name, lip twitching in disgust as he looked down his nose at you. "You are fuckin' stupid."

You knew he was saying all of these things to make you lose your autonomy as a person, and to make him feel better about himself, but, sadly, you started to believe him.

"I kno-know ", you whispered, not trusting your sensitive vocal chords.

Leaving him? And at a party on the fourth of July? Truly fucking stupid.

You desired to be like those strong women that stood up against their abusers, you really did, but you felt anything but strong. Rafe had made you feel exactly how he intended: like a speck of dust, worthless, powerless, and the list could continue.

That is how Ward made him feel all his life, a tiny boy no match for his father's strength, nor his expectations, and now, that is how Rafe behaved towards you, mirroring with exactity his father and his heartless actions.

Now, Rafe's attention shifted to your and his actual problem for tonight. Your sprained wrist. The swelling was intensifying, and the ugly shades of purple and navy blue were littered all across your arm.

A whimpered escaped your lips as he took your wrist into his ringer hand. "No, n-no, please ", you cried out, already anticipating Rafe's next move. He gripped it. Your lips parted in agony, as you flinched away from your boyfriend.

"You know what I should do?", he asked, a dry laugh escaping his broad chest. "I should leave you like this, huh? Maybe you'd finally learn to fucking listen to me", he shouted the last words in your face, bringing a fresh wave of tears in your orbs.

"But again, then I'm the bad one, right? Like you like you told your little friends, huh?"

"P-please...". The right thing to do would be to stay silent, but Rafe thrived when you begged.

Ward was occupied with total different problems, and he would not have time to clear up the tracks of his son's abusive outbursts and to hide away his sorry excuse of a girlfriend you.

You hoped he would get you to the ER, last time he hurt you and you did not go, you ended up with the ugliest complications.

Rafe knew that all too well. He paid for the private doctor himself, only to end up in the hospital two weeks later, with three broken ribs, and that time, the nurse almost reported the case.

The private doctor would not be able to come over tonight, it was a national celebration after all, he was with his family.

The Cameron boy sighed, releasing your wrist, as he wiped at his face with his ringed fingers. You bit into your lower lip, hoping to stifle the sobs that still wrecked your chest.

"Get get out, c'mon, let's go", he declared, and you nodded your head once, but you could not get your legs to move.

"Let's go, baby...", Rafe repeated, now approaching you. He wrapped his hand around your upper arm and started walking with you.

"You know what to say, right?", he asked as he was closing the mahogany door of the mansion.

You shrugged weakly. "I fell...", you replied and your boyfriend nodded.

"Yeah. Yeah, you fell, when uh, when we were carrying some bottles of Cola on the cliffs this evening", he added to the half-baked narrative, while opening the door of his truck.

In twenty minutes, you were facing a couple of nurses, while waiting for a doctor. You had told them with exactity how you went on a hike to watch the sea from somewhere above the island, you carried the typical glass bottles of bear and Coca Cola and you fell on your hands, your wrist spraining in the process.

"You do not seem to have any particular scratches on your palms, miss", a nurse replied, eyeing you suspiciously.

Rafe was not allowed inside, so you did not know how to reply to the remark. Swallowing, you shrugged. "I, uh my boyfriend help me apply some oinment on a small scratch I had..."

"Are you alright, miss? Anything you would like to say? You know you are safe here. We value the confidentiality of our patients", the other nurse said softly.

"I'm fine", you replied, too fast, too agressive, as tears pooled your waterline. You cursed yourself for being so easily able to cry.

"Well, I am sorry, I have to report this case", the first nurse said to you.

"Wait, wait wh―what? This is stupid", you stuttered over your own phrases, getting up from the chair.

"Miss, please calm down. You had been here not even one month ago, with fractured ribs and a fractured sternum. Two incidents like these, so close to each other, must be reported", she ended firmly.

"Fuck...", you whispered to yourself, slumping back into the chair. Rafe would certainly go nuts.

"Do you think you also need a rape-kit?"

"Oh, this is so humiliating, please stop", you whined to both of them, fury and sorrow in your teary eyes. "I want to talk to my boyfriend. I want to talk to Rafe," you requested, making sure to put emphasize on his name.

"I am afraid you are not allowed until the authorities get here", the nurse said.

You, however, got up and stormed out the door on the almost empty hallway, where Rafe was standing.

His pastel orange shirt clung to his sweaty, broad chest, his sunglasses rested on top of his bangs as he was scrolling on his phone.

"Rafe!", you yelled after your boyfriend, just as the nurse was calling out your name.

His head shot immediately up to you, and in two long strides, he was standing tall next to your shaky frame.

"What's wrong, baby?", he asked, brows furrowed in an overreacted concern, as he cupped your face into his large palms.

"They...they want to do some rape-kit on me, a―and they reported my case. Police is―is on the way", you whispered, voice breaking in fear.

"Shit", he whispered, now eyeing the nurses, shooting daggers at them both. They approached you, trying to rip you from his embrace, but he shoved one of them hard.

"Don't you fuckin' touch her", he growled.

"Sir, you don't have a say in this", she bit back, as the hospital security and three other nurses approached the scene.

"While my father still funds this shithole, I do", he spat, lip twitching in disgust. "C'mon", he now said your name, gripping your bandaged wrist and pulling you away.

You bit your lower lip to stifle your pained groan as you obediently followed your boyfriend.

This is how every holiday ended with Rafe, anything but blissful or pleasant.

So, as the fireworks lit up the dark night sky, your tears finally fell, washing the remains of glitter and make-up you so excitedly put on for this day.