Hate Me Like You Mean It

PHONE CALL FROM HOME

The rain didn't stop. It turned into a deluge that drowned the sounds of the city, leaving Meredith and Henry standing in the shadows of the KCL boathouse. Henry’s hand was still hovering in the air, trembling. The sight of it—of him actually shaking—hit Meredith harder than any of his insults ever had.

"Don't touch me," she breathed, her voice cracking. "Don't ever touch me again."

"I wasn't going to hit you, Meredith," Henry said, his voice unusually hollow. The arrogance was gone, washed away by the Thames rain. "I'm a lot of things. I'm a prick, I'm entitled, and I like to win. But I don't hit women. My father... he’s the one who does that. Not me."

Meredith froze. The air in her lungs felt like lead. She looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the way he was holding his side, a subtle flinch she hadn't noticed before. It wasn't from her punch in the cafeteria. It was older.

"Is that why you do it?" she asked, her voice a whisper. "The bullying? The 'belonging' to you? Because you need to feel like you’re the one in control for once?"

Henry didn't answer. He couldn't. He just turned away, his silhouette sharp against the river lights. "Get in the car, Meredith. I'll drive you back to the dorms."

"I'd rather walk in a hurricane."

"The scholarship," he reminded her, but the threat lacked its usual venom. It sounded like a plea. "Please. Just get in the car."

The ride back was silent, the tension inside the Maybach thick enough to choke on. Henry drove with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road. Meredith stared out the window, her mind a whirlwind of confusion. She wanted to hate him. She needed to hate him. Hate was safe. Hate was a shield.

Suddenly, her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was a restricted number.

Her heart did a slow, painful roll in her chest. She answered it on the third ring.

"Mom?"

The voice on the other end was a jagged sob. "Meredith... he's... he's broken the door. He found the money you sent. He’s gone to the pub, but he said when he gets back..."

Meredith’s blood turned to ice. "Mom, listen to me. Lock yourself in the bathroom. Call the police. I’m coming home. I’m coming right now."

"No, baby, you can't leave school! The scholarship—"

The line went dead.

Meredith stared at the dark screen, her breathing coming in short, jagged gasps. She didn't realize she was shaking until she felt the car swerve.

"Meredith? What happened?" Henry’s voice was sharp, alert.

"Stop the car," she commanded, grabbing the door handle. "Stop the car right now!"

"We’re in the middle of the Waterloo Bridge! What is it?"

"My mother," she choked out, the tears finally breaking through. "He’s going to kill her. I have to go. I have to get to the station."

She didn't expect what happened next. Henry didn't stop the car to let her out. Instead, he slammed his foot on the accelerator. The engine roared, a beast waking up under the hood. He pulled a illegal U-turn, tires screaming against the wet asphalt.

"Where do they live?" he demanded.

"Henry, what are you doing? Let me out!"

"I asked you where they live, Meredith! Give me the damn address!"

She stared at him, bewildered. His eyes were cold, focused, and for the first time, they weren't directed at her. They were directed at the world. She whispered the address of the crumbling council estate three miles away.

Henry didn't say another word. He drove like a man possessed, weaving through London traffic, blowing through red lights, his face a mask of cold fury.