Hate to Love You - Chapter 62: Chapter 62
You are reading Hate to Love You, Chapter 62: Chapter 62. Read more chapters of Hate to Love You.
Hannah
By the time I got to my mother's house, I was ready to just finish what Beth started and strangle myself to death. My entire day had just been one long nightmare. Scratch that, my entire week.
I knew I had to come clean to my parents about the whole mess, and predictably, it didn't go well. My mom was livid, especially when she learned Dylan was involved. That sparked another round of accusations, with her grilling me about whether I'd been seeing him again.
I hated having to defend myself when I could barely talk, and the meds were making my head woozy. At least my dad finally saw sense and started interfering by trying to calm my mother down. But then that led to another hour of listening to them bicker and snipe at each other.
Eventually, my mother had to step away, and she left the room with a dark cloud trailing after her. She said something to someone as she opened the door and stepped out, but she shut the door before I could hear the other person's reply. I thought I heard a man's voice, but my dad pulled my attention when he asked how I was doing.
I told him I was ready to leave. He'd just nodded and grabbed the clipboard the nurse had left to finish filling in all the discharge forms, asking me questions occasionally.
After we finally left, my mother almost wouldn't let me stop by my house to grab some things. After another round of arguing, I got her to agree to a quick stop. She stood guard over me while Jace helped me carry what I needed to the car. And then she almost had a meltdown when I told Jenny that I'd be back to get the rest of my things as soon as I felt better.
I decided I'd wait for her to calm down before breaching the subject again.
When we got to my mom's house, Jace had to practically carry me out of the car and into the house. I could barely keep my eyes open as the medication pulled me under. He even had to help me up the stairs and into bed. I could only give him a barely audible thanks.
After he helped settle me in bed, weirdly, he walked over to my window to fiddle with the latch. I assumed he was just making sure it was locked because he knew how my mother was anal about these things. I couldn't bring myself to care as I slipped into a numb, dreamless sleep.
°•°•°•°
I woke up groggy and unable to speak. The pain pills had worn off — which was probably why I'd woken up.
Through the transparent white curtains framing my window, I could tell it was nighttime — but the full moon made it hard to gauge the hour.
I slowly and carefully turned to look at the clock next to my bed, seeing that it was one in the morning. I could've taken more pills and gone back to bed, but I had something I wanted to do while I was a bit more clear-headed and had no one to bother me.
After some effort, I managed to swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand on unsteady feet. My head throbbed, and my back felt stiff as I navigated my old bedroom in the moonlight. Ignoring the persistent ache in my head and back, I made my way to my desk, where my laptop lay tucked away in its bag. I pulled it out and turned it on, settling into the small swivel chair as the screen lit up, forcing me to blink against the sudden brightness. I wasn't being a very good patient.
First thing in order was to gather information. And to do that I had to start with Dylan.
For the next thirty minutes, I browsed through all of his social profiles and anywhere I could find mention of him. I was trying to find any information on his and Beth's parents, but all he ever did was post misogynistic shit. I noticed that a lot of it was about how women should be subservient and obedient towards men. Just as I was about to give up hope, I found an old image of his parents and him when he was about six years old at a school soccer game. Even at that age, he looked like a little asshole with that smirk.
I shifted my focus to his mother, who stood behind him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. Her small frame and delicate appearance caught my attention. She wasn't particularly short, but fatigue made her slouch. The clothes she wore seemed to engulf her willowy silhouette. Dark like her son's, her eyes conveyed a depth of emotion that transcended the photograph, hinting at the pain and sorrow she carried within.
With a heavy sigh, I began my search for his parents' details. Something prompted me to look for obituaries with his last name in the area he grew up in. Sure enough, I recognized his mother's picture as soon as I saw it. The obituary was long and filled with flattering words only — no mention of her struggles. But I got the gist of it.
Evelyn Rachel Masters. Died eleven years ago at the age of thirty, leaving behind her young son, Dylan Masters, and her husband, Harrison Masters.
I scrolled further down, searching for her cause of death, but all it said was that she "passed away unexpectedly."
Now that I had her full name, I used it to find any information on her that I could find. And I finally got what I was looking for when a local article came up. Scanning through it, my eyes caught on the word "suicide" and my heart froze in my chest.
In the somber silence that followed, I found myself mourning the passing of a woman I had never known. I did not know why she did it, but I knew she had to have gone somewhere dark, and wasn't able to pull herself back out of that place. I could have been her, but I was lucky. I was saved just in time.
Summoning every ounce of resolve, I redirected my focus to uncovering more about Dylan's father.
Harrison was remarkably easier to find — mainly because he was alive. As I combed through the various profiles and articles, a vivid picture of the man began to emerge — he was of average height, had a bit of a gut despite his best attempts to conceal it, and his hair was beginning to thin on top. He worked as a top executive at a multinational conglomerate, and in several public photos, he was shown playing golf with other affluent men at the Vanderbilt Country Club.
He seemed pretty well-off, which explained how Dylan could afford his own apartment when we were together, as well as a nice car and all those designer clothes. Harrison was also a family man, often photographed with a young Dylan and an even younger Beth, alongside his current wife, Noel Masters.
I knew immediately that she was Beth's mother because they had the same eyes and facial structure. But unlike Beth, she stood tall and proud, often dressed in professional or high-end attire. Her accessories were understated, opting for simple pearl earrings rather than flashy jewels, though I suspected they were still pricey. Her hair was always meticulously styled and pinned up.
One photo caught my attention — a young girl with sparkling hazel eyes, rosy cheeks, and long brown hair framing her radiant smile. She held a cello with ease, her posture exuding confidence and pride as she beamed at the camera. She appeared to be around twelve or thirteen.
I stared at that image for a long time, realizing just how much of Beth's innocence had been carelessly snatched away by Dylan and his friend. They took that young, happy girl and reduced her to the woman I now knew.
Fueled by a renewed sense of anger and justice, I set out to find Beth's mother's email, praying she possessed even a fraction of the love and protective instincts that a mother should have for her daughter. It was tough to gauge her character through the professional photos online; maybe she simply didn't know what was happening. By some miracle, she was a Director at a private high school, so her email was available to the public.
II paused, contemplating the potential consequences of my next actions. If Beth's mother turned out to be unresponsive or unwilling to help, I might have to resort to more drastic measures. I wasn't sure if I could consider it blackmail, but I would file charges if they didn't step in. How could I know if I was safe if she never got help?
With determination fueling my fingers, I spent the next hour pouring my heart out into the email I was writing her, explaining as much as I could, and over-sharing for the first time in my life. After a while, it felt a little therapeutic to put into words the horrors that Dylan had inflicted on both Beth and me. Because I needed them to understand how destructive he was. I detailed every manipulation, every abuse, and even the heartbreaking truth about the baby.
When I was done and I'd hit send, I stepped away from my computer feeling conflicted. There was no guarantee that my email would do anything, in fact, there was a chance it made things worse. What if her mother ignored my plea and sided with Dylan or chose to cover everything up? But I had to take that gamble — otherwise, things would only worsen for Beth.
I winced as my eyes throbbed and a headache began to form. I guess that's what I got for ignoring the doctor's orders about staying away from screens.
With a weary sigh, I shuffled back over to climb into bed, hoping to try and get more sleep. As I reached for the pills and water bottle beside my nightstand, a flicker of movement outside my window caught my eye. Despite the twinge in my neck, I turned to investigate, hoping my eyes were just playing tricks on me.
But nope. My eyes were working perfectly.
My heart lurched in my chest as I watched the silhouette of a huge figure hoist himself up to the second-floor window. Panic surged through me, paralyzing me in place and I stared in horror as my window began to slide open.
Oh my God, I'm being robbed. Or possibly worse.
I couldn't scream, and I was scared that the intruder would catch me before I could ensure everyone's safety — so I had no choice but to strike before he could. If I could incapacitate him, I could buy myself enough time to escape and warn everyone.
My legs sprang into action, and I ran to grab the softball bat next to my dressing table. I reached him just as his leg swung inside and he planted his foot on the ground, giving me a wide-open shot at his crotch.
With my heart pounding in my chest, I gripped the bat tightly and swung with all my strength, just as the curtains parted to reveal Tristan's familiar face. His eyes widened in shock when he saw what I was about to do.
"Wait! Hannah! it's me!"
But it was too late.
By the time I got to my mother's house, I was ready to just finish what Beth started and strangle myself to death. My entire day had just been one long nightmare. Scratch that, my entire week.
I knew I had to come clean to my parents about the whole mess, and predictably, it didn't go well. My mom was livid, especially when she learned Dylan was involved. That sparked another round of accusations, with her grilling me about whether I'd been seeing him again.
I hated having to defend myself when I could barely talk, and the meds were making my head woozy. At least my dad finally saw sense and started interfering by trying to calm my mother down. But then that led to another hour of listening to them bicker and snipe at each other.
Eventually, my mother had to step away, and she left the room with a dark cloud trailing after her. She said something to someone as she opened the door and stepped out, but she shut the door before I could hear the other person's reply. I thought I heard a man's voice, but my dad pulled my attention when he asked how I was doing.
I told him I was ready to leave. He'd just nodded and grabbed the clipboard the nurse had left to finish filling in all the discharge forms, asking me questions occasionally.
After we finally left, my mother almost wouldn't let me stop by my house to grab some things. After another round of arguing, I got her to agree to a quick stop. She stood guard over me while Jace helped me carry what I needed to the car. And then she almost had a meltdown when I told Jenny that I'd be back to get the rest of my things as soon as I felt better.
I decided I'd wait for her to calm down before breaching the subject again.
When we got to my mom's house, Jace had to practically carry me out of the car and into the house. I could barely keep my eyes open as the medication pulled me under. He even had to help me up the stairs and into bed. I could only give him a barely audible thanks.
After he helped settle me in bed, weirdly, he walked over to my window to fiddle with the latch. I assumed he was just making sure it was locked because he knew how my mother was anal about these things. I couldn't bring myself to care as I slipped into a numb, dreamless sleep.
°•°•°•°
I woke up groggy and unable to speak. The pain pills had worn off — which was probably why I'd woken up.
Through the transparent white curtains framing my window, I could tell it was nighttime — but the full moon made it hard to gauge the hour.
I slowly and carefully turned to look at the clock next to my bed, seeing that it was one in the morning. I could've taken more pills and gone back to bed, but I had something I wanted to do while I was a bit more clear-headed and had no one to bother me.
After some effort, I managed to swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand on unsteady feet. My head throbbed, and my back felt stiff as I navigated my old bedroom in the moonlight. Ignoring the persistent ache in my head and back, I made my way to my desk, where my laptop lay tucked away in its bag. I pulled it out and turned it on, settling into the small swivel chair as the screen lit up, forcing me to blink against the sudden brightness. I wasn't being a very good patient.
First thing in order was to gather information. And to do that I had to start with Dylan.
For the next thirty minutes, I browsed through all of his social profiles and anywhere I could find mention of him. I was trying to find any information on his and Beth's parents, but all he ever did was post misogynistic shit. I noticed that a lot of it was about how women should be subservient and obedient towards men. Just as I was about to give up hope, I found an old image of his parents and him when he was about six years old at a school soccer game. Even at that age, he looked like a little asshole with that smirk.
I shifted my focus to his mother, who stood behind him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. Her small frame and delicate appearance caught my attention. She wasn't particularly short, but fatigue made her slouch. The clothes she wore seemed to engulf her willowy silhouette. Dark like her son's, her eyes conveyed a depth of emotion that transcended the photograph, hinting at the pain and sorrow she carried within.
With a heavy sigh, I began my search for his parents' details. Something prompted me to look for obituaries with his last name in the area he grew up in. Sure enough, I recognized his mother's picture as soon as I saw it. The obituary was long and filled with flattering words only — no mention of her struggles. But I got the gist of it.
Evelyn Rachel Masters. Died eleven years ago at the age of thirty, leaving behind her young son, Dylan Masters, and her husband, Harrison Masters.
I scrolled further down, searching for her cause of death, but all it said was that she "passed away unexpectedly."
Now that I had her full name, I used it to find any information on her that I could find. And I finally got what I was looking for when a local article came up. Scanning through it, my eyes caught on the word "suicide" and my heart froze in my chest.
In the somber silence that followed, I found myself mourning the passing of a woman I had never known. I did not know why she did it, but I knew she had to have gone somewhere dark, and wasn't able to pull herself back out of that place. I could have been her, but I was lucky. I was saved just in time.
Summoning every ounce of resolve, I redirected my focus to uncovering more about Dylan's father.
Harrison was remarkably easier to find — mainly because he was alive. As I combed through the various profiles and articles, a vivid picture of the man began to emerge — he was of average height, had a bit of a gut despite his best attempts to conceal it, and his hair was beginning to thin on top. He worked as a top executive at a multinational conglomerate, and in several public photos, he was shown playing golf with other affluent men at the Vanderbilt Country Club.
He seemed pretty well-off, which explained how Dylan could afford his own apartment when we were together, as well as a nice car and all those designer clothes. Harrison was also a family man, often photographed with a young Dylan and an even younger Beth, alongside his current wife, Noel Masters.
I knew immediately that she was Beth's mother because they had the same eyes and facial structure. But unlike Beth, she stood tall and proud, often dressed in professional or high-end attire. Her accessories were understated, opting for simple pearl earrings rather than flashy jewels, though I suspected they were still pricey. Her hair was always meticulously styled and pinned up.
One photo caught my attention — a young girl with sparkling hazel eyes, rosy cheeks, and long brown hair framing her radiant smile. She held a cello with ease, her posture exuding confidence and pride as she beamed at the camera. She appeared to be around twelve or thirteen.
I stared at that image for a long time, realizing just how much of Beth's innocence had been carelessly snatched away by Dylan and his friend. They took that young, happy girl and reduced her to the woman I now knew.
Fueled by a renewed sense of anger and justice, I set out to find Beth's mother's email, praying she possessed even a fraction of the love and protective instincts that a mother should have for her daughter. It was tough to gauge her character through the professional photos online; maybe she simply didn't know what was happening. By some miracle, she was a Director at a private high school, so her email was available to the public.
II paused, contemplating the potential consequences of my next actions. If Beth's mother turned out to be unresponsive or unwilling to help, I might have to resort to more drastic measures. I wasn't sure if I could consider it blackmail, but I would file charges if they didn't step in. How could I know if I was safe if she never got help?
With determination fueling my fingers, I spent the next hour pouring my heart out into the email I was writing her, explaining as much as I could, and over-sharing for the first time in my life. After a while, it felt a little therapeutic to put into words the horrors that Dylan had inflicted on both Beth and me. Because I needed them to understand how destructive he was. I detailed every manipulation, every abuse, and even the heartbreaking truth about the baby.
When I was done and I'd hit send, I stepped away from my computer feeling conflicted. There was no guarantee that my email would do anything, in fact, there was a chance it made things worse. What if her mother ignored my plea and sided with Dylan or chose to cover everything up? But I had to take that gamble — otherwise, things would only worsen for Beth.
I winced as my eyes throbbed and a headache began to form. I guess that's what I got for ignoring the doctor's orders about staying away from screens.
With a weary sigh, I shuffled back over to climb into bed, hoping to try and get more sleep. As I reached for the pills and water bottle beside my nightstand, a flicker of movement outside my window caught my eye. Despite the twinge in my neck, I turned to investigate, hoping my eyes were just playing tricks on me.
But nope. My eyes were working perfectly.
My heart lurched in my chest as I watched the silhouette of a huge figure hoist himself up to the second-floor window. Panic surged through me, paralyzing me in place and I stared in horror as my window began to slide open.
Oh my God, I'm being robbed. Or possibly worse.
I couldn't scream, and I was scared that the intruder would catch me before I could ensure everyone's safety — so I had no choice but to strike before he could. If I could incapacitate him, I could buy myself enough time to escape and warn everyone.
My legs sprang into action, and I ran to grab the softball bat next to my dressing table. I reached him just as his leg swung inside and he planted his foot on the ground, giving me a wide-open shot at his crotch.
With my heart pounding in my chest, I gripped the bat tightly and swung with all my strength, just as the curtains parted to reveal Tristan's familiar face. His eyes widened in shock when he saw what I was about to do.
"Wait! Hannah! it's me!"
But it was too late.
End of Hate to Love You Chapter 62. Continue reading Chapter 63 or return to Hate to Love You book page.