Married To My Ex-Husband’s Rival by Jobet GraySon

Chapter Seventy Four (Kayden’s Backstory)

Kayden’s POV.

Twenty–two years ago…

I stood still as my father kept hitting me over and over again. I knew he wasn’t going to be satisfied until I shed a tear and showed him that I was in pain, but since that wasn’t going to happen, I prepared to continue getting hit until he would eventually get tired and leave me alone.

“You should never forget whose son you are, you bastard!” he yelled angrily before punching me in the face. Since I didn’t expect the impact of the punch, I staggered backward, and when he realized that I was no longer steady, he did what he did best. He kicked me on my knee, causing me to fall flat,

and that was when it started. Again.

The drunken kicking was a habit my father had whenever he was drunk, upset, or unsatisfied about

something. This time, I was unfortunately the scapegoat of his rage, because he had gotten a call

earlier from one of my teachers who had reported me for failing class.

He started to kick me everywhere he could, and I simply lay there, knowing that there was nothing I

could do to stop him. I closed my eyes at a point, trying not to see his feet come into contact with

my skull, but I could still feel it.

I continued to lie still as my father’s boots collided with my body over and over again. The pain seared through me, leaving me helpless and broken. Each blow felt like a physical manifestation of my father’s disappointment and anger. I tried to shield myself to protect my body, but it was futile. His rage was relentless.

his voice, filled with venom and contempt, echoing in the air. “You’re useless, Kayden! I won’t tolerate your incompetence! You’re a disappointment!” His

only intensified. The merciless kicks kept coming, driving me further into a realm of despair

life–a life dominated by

2 Mar DC.

34%2

(Kayden’s Backstory)

5 Stars

was inherently flawed and

whispered, “You deserve this. You’re worthless.” It was a voice that had grown louder with each passing day,

I had come to believe in with

I was now bruised and battered, he finally stopped. He

and I was finally

moans escaping my lips. I struggled to catch my breath, my body aching as if every inch of my skin had been set ablaze. The

I had

from the cold, harsh floor, my muscles protesting with each movement. The pain shot through my body like an electric

and my

at the sight of my battered face. My swollen eyes were starting to turn purple, and the cuts across my cheek were beginning to scab over. It was a sight that pained

life really was.

prepared myself for the next day. My father’s words echoed in my mind: I was to prepare for a guest’s arrival the next morning, and he expected me to hide the evidence of his brutality. I couldn’t afford to let anyone see any of my bruises, or else he’d kill

1. me.

shirts and sweaters–those were my go–to outfits whenever he hit me to the point where my bruises would take days, sometimes weeks, to heal. And I