My Dad's Bestfriend (Evelyn and Jacob) novel Chapter 209

Jacob

I sat in my office, drenched in sweat, my breath shallow and quick. Dread crawled under my skin, seeping into my bones, invading every inch of me until I was cold. The air around me felt thick, suffocating, and each breath I managed to draw seemed to take all my strength. It was suddenly a chore to keep breathing and stay alive.

I paced back and forth, running a hand through my hair, the dim light above the ceiling the only thing cutting through the darkness. I couldn’t bear to be in complete darkness right now. I needed to see something, anything, just to remind myself I was still here.

"Calm down," I muttered, trying to steady my shaking hands, clenching them into fists at my sides. "Fucking calm down."

It had been years—years since I’d felt like this.

The last time was when I was fifteen.

I thought I'd outgrown it, that I had put all of it behind me. The fear. The pain. The panic. Why now? Why was it coming back?

"He's dead," I breathed out, burying my face in my hands. The words felt like a suffocating weight. "He's dead. There's no way he's coming back."

And that's when it hit me.

The flashbacks.

The first one was the slap. The sting of it burned across my cheek, followed by the excruciating pain around my eye socket—my father’s black eye, the one he’d given me with his fist. Before I could catch my breath, it all came flooding back, one memory after another, faster than a crashing wave.

My mother’s screams echoed in my ears, her voice drowning in the sound of my father’s boots kicking her ribs. Every single moment of my childhood, before Bianca and I were taken in by our adopted parents, came alive as if it had just happened. Not years ago. Just days ago. Fresh. Raw. Brutal.

I saw the marks on Bianca’s back, the ones she wore after she stepped in to protect me from him. I could feel the scorching pain of the belt hitting her skin, slicing it open. The memories were vivid, suffocating me, leaving me gasping for air.

I needed something to numb it.

I fumbled for a cigarette, hands shaking, and took a hurried seat in my chair. I lit it, taking the first drag, the smoke burning through my lungs before it began to dissipate. I took another drag. And then another. It helped, but not enough. It wasn’t enough to make this stop.

I was losing my grip, and I didn’t know how to make sense of it.

I leaned back in the chair, closing my eyes, trying to regain control over my breathing. Slowly, I began to calm myself. The deep breathing techniques my biological mother had once taught me began to take effect. The ones my mom—my adoptive mom—had nurtured in me when she’d stepped in to teach me everything my birth mother couldn’t.

But even as I breathed, there was a thought that refused to leave me. A thought that twisted like a knife every time I entertained it.

Father.

That word cut into me, sharp and unforgiving.

Yes, I had been lucky to be adopted by parents who actually loved me, who gave me everything I needed. But that didn’t change what I was. It didn’t change the blood in my veins. My real father’s blood. The blood that disgusted me every time I thought about it.

I couldn’t imagine being a father. I couldn’t even entertain the idea.

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