Chapter 2 – The Unforgivable
"Faith?"
Her father's voice cut like a blade.
I felt her body tense beneath mine, her nails digging into my arms as if holding on would somehow make us invisible. The world that only seconds ago had been filled with fire and desire turned to ice in an instant.
The doorknob twisted fully, and then he was there.
Mr. Carter.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. His presence filled the room before his footsteps even crossed the carpet. His eyes—cold, calculating—swept from me to his daughter, lingering just long enough on the way her shirt rode halfway up her stomach, on the flush in her cheeks, on the swollen redness of lips that had been mine only moments ago.
"Dad—" Faith tried, her voice trembling.
"Silence." His tone was a command, and she obeyed instantly.
His gaze shifted to me. Heavy. Piercing. The kind of gaze that made every muscle in my body scream to retreat, but I forced myself to stay still. To not look weak.
"Mitchell Davis," he said slowly, as though spitting venom with every syllable. "I should have known. The moment you walked through my door, I should have known this was your intention."
I swallowed hard, standing upright, putting myself between him and Faith without even thinking. "Sir, with all respect, it's not what it looks like—"
"Do not insult my intelligence." His voice was sharp enough to draw blood. He stepped further inside, shutting the door behind him with a soft click that echoed louder than a slammed door ever could. "Do you take me for a fool? That I'd believe you two were… what? Reading Shakespeare while your hands were wandering under her clothes?"
Faith gasped, face pale. "Dad, please, it's not like that—"
"Faith." His head snapped toward her, eyes burning. "You will not speak."
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. I saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes, and something inside me broke.
I clenched my fists. "Mr. Carter, I care about your daughter. I'm not—"
He cut me off with a bark of cold laughter. "Care? You don't know the meaning of the word." His stare drilled into me. "You're nothing but a boy who thinks he can steal a woman's virtue behind her father's back. Do you think I don't know who you are? Do you think I haven't heard the whispers about you?"
The rumors. The lies. The stories people spread about me being a player. I'd lived with them for years, but hearing them thrown in my face by him felt different.
I wanted to fight. To scream the truth. To tell him that with Faith, it wasn't a game. That she wasn't some fling. That she was… everything.
But his eyes told me it wouldn't matter.
"Get. Out." His voice was iron.
Faith's hand shot out, gripping my wrist. "No! Don't make him—"
"Faith!" he thundered, and she flinched, shrinking back.
Her fingers slipped from mine, leaving my skin burning where her touch had been.
The silence that followed was unbearable. My chest ached with every second I didn't move. My pride told me to stay, to stand my ground, to fight for her. But the look in her father's eyes wasn't just anger—it was war. And I wasn't ready for the battlefield.
So I turned toward the door.
"Sir," I said through clenched teeth, "with all due respect, this isn't over."
His laugh was hollow. "It is. It ends tonight."
I opened the door. The hallway beyond looked like freedom, but stepping into it felt like exile.
And then it happened.
"Dad, I love him!"
Faith's voice.
Her words cut through the tension like a lightning strike, and the room went utterly still. My heart slammed against my ribs, my breath caught in my throat.
Her father's face shifted—first disbelief, then fury, then something darker.
"Love?" he repeated, his tone dripping venom. "You dare speak that word? You're seventeen. You don't know the first thing about love."
Her chin lifted stubbornly. "I know enough. I know he's not what you think he is. Mitchell isn't—"
"Not another word," he hissed.
Faith's eyes darted to me, pleading, desperate. And in that moment, I hated myself for leaving. For not pulling her into my arms and daring him to stop me.
But my feet kept moving, each step heavier than the last.
When I reached the front door, I heard him again.
"You'll never see that boy again. Do you hear me?"
And then, softer, Faith's voice, shaking but unyielding: "You can't stop me."
The door slammed behind me, but the echo followed me all the way down the street.
---
The night air was cold, sharp in my lungs, but it couldn't cool the fire burning inside me. Her father's words replayed in my head like poison.
Never again.
He thought he could erase me from her life like crossing out a line in a book.
But Faith wasn't a book. She was fire. And I was already burned.
I pulled my phone from my pocket with shaking hands, staring at the screen as though I could summon her face through sheer will.
No messages. No calls. Just silence.
I wanted to scream. To punch something. To tear down every wall between us with my bare hands. But instead, I sank onto the curb, running a hand through my hair.
"This isn't over," I muttered to myself.
Because it wasn't.
---
Inside, Faith stood trembling as her father paced the room.
"You've disgraced yourself tonight," he said coldly. "And you've humiliated this family."
Tears streaked her face, but her voice was steady. "You don't understand."
"I understand perfectly," he snapped. "That boy will ruin you. And I will not allow it."
Her lips curled into something that looked almost like a smile, though her eyes were red and swollen. "You already don't allow me to breathe. What's one more rule?"
He stopped pacing, staring at her with something close to disbelief. His daughter—his obedient, perfect daughter—was defying him.
"You'll thank me one day," he said finally, his tone softer but still cruel. "When you see what he really is."
Faith's hand clenched around the edge of her sheets. She whispered so low he almost didn't hear it: "What if I already know what he is? And I love him anyway?"
His eyes hardened again. "Then you're no daughter of mine."
Faith's heart shattered, but her resolve didn't. She turned her face away so he couldn't see the tears.
Because if he thought he could end this… he was wrong.