Hate Me Like You Mean It

THE INCIDENT AT THE ROWING CLUB

By the end of the week, Meredith was a shell of herself. She was sleeping four hours a night, trying to keep up with her own elite coursework while fulfilling Henry’s ridiculous demands.

The "hell" he was putting her through reached a breaking point at the KCL Rowing Club gala.

The boathouse was filled with the elite of London society. Henry stood on a raised platform, a glass of champagne in hand, looking every bit the prince. Meredith stood behind him, ignored by the crowd, her hands sore from polishing the silver trophies Henry had ordered her to clean.

"You know," one of Henry’s friends, a cruel boy named Julian, said loudly. "I heard she actually likes it. The 'tough girl' act is just a way to get close to a billionaire."

The group erupted in laughter.

Meredith’s face burned. She looked at Henry, expecting—hoping—for some shred of human decency. But Henry just took a sip of his drink and smirked.

"She’s a fast learner, Julian," Henry said, his voice carrying across the room. "She knows her place now."

Meredith couldn't take it anymore. The "man" she saw in front of her was exactly like her father—using power to degrade someone smaller. She didn't care about the scholarship. She didn't care about the money.

She walked up to Henry, grabbed the champagne glass from his hand, and threw the contents directly into his face.

The room went silent. The only sound was the drip-drip-drip of expensive bubbles falling onto Henry’s white shirt.

"My place," Meredith said, her voice vibrating with a decade of suppressed fury, "is anywhere you aren't. You can take your money, your threats, and your pathetic need for control, and you can go to hell. I’d rather be poor and free than spend one more second in your shadow."

She turned and walked out into the rain, not looking back.

She expected him to shout. She expected him to call security. But as she ran toward the gates, she heard footsteps splashing behind her.

"Meredith! Stop!"

It was Henry. He was drenched, his hair plastered to his forehead, and for the first time, the mask of the "billionaire's son" was gone. He looked frantic. He looked... human.

He grabbed her arm, pulling her around. "You can't just leave!"

"Watch me!" she screamed, shoving him back. "What are you going to do? Hit me? Go ahead, Henry! Do it! Complete the image!"

Henry froze. His hand was raised to grab her shoulder, but he stopped, his fingers trembling. He looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the genuine terror and hatred in her eyes. It wasn't just about him. It was about every man who had ever hurt her.

"I'm not... I'm not him," Henry whispered, his voice cracking.

"You're exactly like him," she spat.

The rain poured down between them, a cold curtain. The hatred was a living thing, thick and heavy. But in that moment, as they stood shivering in the dark, the "hell" Henry had created started to crumble, leaving something much more dangerous in its place: The Truth.