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Chapter 742:

But she couldn’t hate him. She couldn’t. He was her father.

So she hated Joan instead.

If Joan had never come back, none of this would have happened. If Joan had just stayed gone, like she was supposed to, Alisha would still be Mrs. Cole Compton. She would still be the most envied woman in New York.

Richard stumbled up the stairs, leaning against the wall for support. He squinted up at Alisha, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. In the dim light of the hallway lamp, all he could see was a woman in a silk nightgown.

He grinned—a lecherous, disgusting grin.

“Well, hello there, baby,” he slurred. He reached out and grabbed Alisha roughly by the chin. “What are you doing up so late, huh? Waiting for me? You were pretty good tonight on that couch. But I think you can do better p>

ո𝗲𝗐 с𝘩𝗮𝗉𝗍𝘦𝗿ѕ 𝗲𝘷е𝗿𝘆 𝗐𝗲𝖾𝘬 o𝘯

Alisha froze.

For a moment she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Then she saw the look in his eyes—the lust, the drunken confusion. He thought she was Lexi.

“Get your hands off me!” she screamed, struggling to pull away. “I’m Alisha! I’m your daughter! Are you insane p>

But Richard wasn’t listening. Her screaming only made him angry. He tightened his grip on her chin, his fingers digging into her skin.

“Shut up, you little bitch,” he snarled. “I paid you good money. Now you’re going to do what I tell you p>

He raised his hand and slapped her as hard as he could.

The sound echoed through the empty hallway.

Alisha went flying. She hit the oak paneling hard, her head snapping back, and crumpled to the floor in a daze. Her ear was ringing. She could taste blood in her mouth. The left side of her face swelled instantly, turning bright red.

“Mr. Beasley! No!” the butler shouted, running up the stairs. He grabbed Richard by the arm and pulled him back. “That’s Miss Alisha! Your daughter p>

Richard blinked, shaking his head. He stared down at Alisha on the floor. For a moment, recognition flickered in his eyes.

Then he simply shrugged.

“Whatever,” he muttered. “She was asking for it p>

He turned and stumbled into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

The butler knelt beside Alisha, his face full of concern. “Miss Alisha? Are you all right? Let me help you up p>

Alisha slapped his hand away.

“Don’t touch me!” she screamed. She scrambled to her feet and backed away from him, her eyes wild with something the butler had never seen in them before.

She ran to her bedroom and slammed the door. She locked it and leaned against it, gasping.

Slowly, she raised her hand to her face. Her cheek was swollen and hot, and it hurt to breathe.

Her own father.

Her own father had slapped her. Had called her a whore. Had mistaken her for a prostitute.

Alisha slid down the door until she was sitting on the floor. She buried her face in her hands and began to laugh—a high, hysterical, terrible laugh.