Hate Me Like You Love Me (Serena and Caleb) novel Chapter 75

A few days pass. The dust begins to settle.

Lucas has been formally removed from our lives. William’s attorneys are handling the legal process with methodical precision, building a case that grows stronger by the day.

Rachel’s testimony, combined with Jessica’s account and the dozens of witnesses who recorded the party confrontation, has created something the Bennett lawyers can’t easily dismantle.

Richard Bennett, true to his word, isn’t fighting it. His cooperation is grudging, pained, a father watching his son face consequences he spent years helping him avoid, but it’s real.

For the first time in his privileged life, Lucas Bennett is going to face actual accountability.

The thought brings me more satisfaction than it probably should.

I have one last piece of business to close.

Shane’s garage looks the same as always—cluttered with parts, smelling of oil and exhaust, the kind of organized chaos that only makes sense to the man who created it.

I find him exactly where he always is, bent over an engine with grease-stained hands and a cigarette dangling from his lips.

He looks up when my shadow falls across his workspace.

“Figured you’d show up eventually.” He straightens, wiping his hands on a rag that’s seen better decades. “Heard about the party. Made quite a scene.”

“You could say that.”

“Broke the Bennett kid’s face, from what I hear.”

“He had it coming.”

Shane’s weathered face cracks into something that might be a smile. “Yeah, I imagine he did.”

I reach into the back of my car and pull out the duffel bag. The same one that’s lived under my bed for two years, hidden from everyone except the girl who found it by accident.

I unzip it and lay out the contents on his workbench.

The helmet, scuffed and scarred from close calls I barely survived.

The gloves, worn thin at the fingertips from gripping handlebars through hairpin turns. The jacket, leather cracked and faded, carrying the ghost of every race I ever rode.

Two years of my life, reduced to equipment I never want to touch again.

“I’m done.” I push the gear toward him. “For real this time.”

Shane studies the items, then studies me. His eyes, sharp despite the crow’s feet surrounding them, seem to see more than I’m comfortable with.

“Debt’s cleared?”

“Cleared.”

“And the girl? The one you were fighting for?”

I think about Serena. About the way she looked at me across the party, the almost-kiss on the steps, the uncertain hope building between us one awkward breakfast at a time.

“She’s safe. That’s what matters.”

Shane nods slowly. He doesn’t reach for the gear, doesn’t count it or inspect it. He just accepts it the same way he accepted me two years ago—without ceremony, without sentiment.

“You were one of the best I ever trained.” His voice is gruff, matter-of-fact. “Natural instincts. Good head on your shoulders, most of the time.”

We stand in silence for a moment, the weight of two years passing between us without words. Then Shane grips my shoulder—hard, firm, the closest thing to affection he’s ever shown me.

“Don’t come back to this world.” His voice carries the force of a command. “You got out—stay out. There’s nothing here for you anymore.”

“I know.”

“I mean it, Caleb.” His grip tightens. “The next time I see your face, I want it to be in a newspaper. Graduating college, starting a business—something that doesn’t end with a body bag.”

“Understood.”

He releases me and turns back to his engine, dismissing me as casually as he greeted me. But I catch the glimmer of something in his weathered eyes before he looks away—genuine pride.

“Thanks, Shane.” I mean it for more than just the training. “For everything.”

“Get out of here, kid. I’ve got work to do.”

I drive away without looking back.

***

The swing clearing is bathed in afternoon light when I arrive, golden rays filtering through the bare branches and dappling the ground with shadow and shine.

The old oak stands sentinel as always, its massive trunk unchanged by the chaos that’s consumed my life these past months.

Serena is already there.

She sits on the mossy swing, feet dangling above the ground, her honey-blonde hair catching the light like something out of a painting.

This is what I was fighting for.

When the cold finally drives us away, we walk to our cars side by side, shoulders brushing, fingers intertwining without discussion.

The drive home is quiet, comfortable. Serena’s car follows mine through the familiar streets, and I keep checking my rearview mirror just to see her headlights there.

Proof that she’s real, that this is real. That maybe, against all odds, we’re going to be okay.

The house appears through the trees, warm light glowing in the windows like a promise. I pull into the driveway and feel something I haven’t felt in years—the possibility of peace.

Of a future that doesn’t involve running or hiding or fighting just to survive.

Then we step inside, and I can feel the change in atmosphere even before I understand anything.

Mom stands in the hallway, her face pale as paper. Her hands are clasped in front of her, knuckles white, her whole body trembling with barely contained emotion.

William is beside her, fists clenched at his sides, his expression caught between fury and something that looks terrifyingly like fear.

He steps forward when he sees us, opening his mouth to speak—then stops, the words dying before they can form.

Neither of them speaks, neither of them needs to.

The dread pools in my stomach before I even understand why. I move deeper into the house, Serena close behind me, her hand finding mine and gripping tight.

I freeze in the living room doorway. A man stands in the center of the room.

Older than I remember—rougher, harder, the years etched into his face like scars. His dark hair is shot through with grey now, and there are lines around his eyes that weren’t there before.

But the cruel smile is exactly the same. The cold, calculating gaze that used to make me flinch as a child.

Simon Thornton. My father.

The man whose debt nearly destroyed me. The ghost I thought I’d finally buried. The nightmare I’d convinced myself I’d never have to face again.

He’s standing in our living room like he belongs there. Like he never left. Like the past three years of absence were nothing more than a brief vacation.

His eyes find mine across the room, and his grin widens—that familiar expression of satisfaction at having caught someone off guard, at holding power over people who thought they were safe.

“Hey, kid.” His voice is exactly as I remember—smooth, confident, carrying the false warmth of a man who’s never meant a kind word in his life. “Miss me?”