TW: Ongoing Child Sexual Abuse, Gaslighting, Early Psychological Manipulation
The estate's guest wing was a cage of velvet and gilt. You know, those walls that make you feel special while having big locks that remind you that you are trapped.
Zena, eight now, learned the rhythm of her life quickly. Days meant lessons with a tutor. He turned his eyes from her bruised shoulders. He taught her how to curtsy and fold napkins just right. Nights meant the president's comfort visits.
He came without knocking. The door shut soft behind him. He sat on the bed's edge, the mattress dipping like the world yielding to his gravity, and pulled her onto his lap as if she were a favoured pet. "You have been so good, haven't you?" he said. His voice was low and warm, like honey over something sour. "Dutiful, like your father taught. Nice nice..."
Zena nodded, mechanical as her body went still. Pain was a language now, one she translated into numbers in her head...Twenty-three seconds until he tires himself out... Fifteen more seconds until he plants a kiss on her forehead, and leaves.
She did not cry anymore as her tears suddenly went dry after they poured out hard from seeing her Mom's blood paint the president's office marble. But in the year since, nothing came. She had not cried once.
Instead, she got up, smoothed the sheets flat. No wrinkles. Perfect. She washed her face, brushed her hair, and slipped into her day dress. Mornings meant serving tea to the household staff, her small hands steady as she poured Earl Grey into bone china that she heard that cost more than a small country's GDP.
The cook, Mrs Harrow, with her flour-dusted apron and perpetual squint, would sigh over her cup, "Good girl, bless you, dear", while complaining about the country's economic situation and the 'undeserved' affluence the president lived in while his people suffered.
Zena smiled small. She listened, but kept her face calm. She nodded. Poured more tea.
Zena moved into the president's house full time. It happened slowly. Her dad's visits grew rarer. When he came, his suits looked new and sharp. Each one meant a better job for him. "Thriving here, pumpkin?" he would ask over tea, eyes skimming her like a report.
She stirred her cup and nodded. Extra sugar to hide her shake. "Father," she said soft. "Summer is safe, right?"
He pulled out his phone and showed a picture. Summer was one now. She sat in a high chair. Smiling with cake on her face. "Safe as can be," James said. "This is all for the family. I am so proud of you."
Proud. Zena held the word like a hot stone. He stood to go. "I will bring you home soon," he said and patted her hair. His hand stayed away from her arms. The marks there were fresh. Purple like grapes. He did not look. He walked out. The car engine hummed away.
And just like that, years slipped by, and Zena was now fully living with the president. She had her own room. Locks on the inside this time. But the visits did not stop.
She received letters from Summer weekly. Messy writing on pink paper. "Zee-Zee! Daddy says you are still at a sleepover. When are you coming? Miss you. Draw me stars, okay?..."
Phone calls came too. Summer's voice was small and bright. "Zee-Zee! I drew a cat today. Big tail. Come play?"
Zena smiled into the phone. Her heart hurt good. "Soon, little one. I will come play with you soon."
She heard James take the phone from Summer and said, "I am seeking a new promotion that would take us to the next level. Hope you have been good there?"
"Good, Father," Zena said. Her voice stayed even. "For the family."
One day when Zena was fifteen, James came. His car pulled up smooth. He knocked on her door. "Time to go home, pumpkin," he said. His smile was wide. "The new job is set. We can be together now."
Zena packed light, as fast as she can. Her old dress from her mom, Elena. A few books. The bear doll with its fat belly. She did not look back at the room. The lock. The bed.
She quietly swore that she would never come back as their car made its way out of the presidential villa.