LILY
The bath was warm. Too warm. It soaked into my bones and tried to melt the memory of last night from my skin. But nothing could reach that deep. Not even boiling water.
I stepped out, wrapped in a towel softer and richer than anything I'd ever owned—even though we weren't exactly poor. I'd seen luxury. I'd known power. Control. My dad was that man.
But this?
This was a whole different level.
Don Pedro—a whole different kind of monster.
I stood in front of the mirror, staring. Red eyes. Bruised lips. A body I barely recognized anymore. I wasn't the same girl who walked into this mansion. She died last night.
I dressed in silence—soft trousers, silk shirt. Designer. The kind of fabric that whispers luxury with every step. It clung to me like a lie. Dressing me up in wealth while hiding the ruin underneath. A costume for a puppet.
The hallways were a maze—expensive, endless, and cold. I didn't know where I was going. I just kept walking, searching for the head maid. Her warmth. Her smile. Anything to remind me that I was still human.
The doors were all wrong. Everything here felt like a trap. Gilded, beautiful, deadly.
Then I pushed open one.
And the air changed.
Cold morning. Blue sky. The scent of flowers carried on a breeze that should've been freeing. But it wasn't.
Then I heard voices; Sharp, angry male voices.
I stepped quietly, drawn forward like something in me wanted to be hurt again. I peeked around the corner.
And the world stopped.
He stood there.
Don Pedro's son. Shirt sleeves rolled up. Face twisted in fury. Two guards flanked a man beaten half to death. Blood on the gravel.
Blood streaked across his knuckle–Don Pedro's son.
His eyes were cold when he pulled the gun.
I didn't even have time to scream.
Bang.
The man crumpled like paper. His body hit the earth with a sound I'll never forget. A wet, broken thud. The kind of sound that stains your memory forever.
My scream tore loose then, raw and jagged. I stumbled back, bile rising. Vomit splashed the floor. My legs buckled.
Three heads turned.
They saw me.
And the worst part? None of them looked surprised.
Don Pedro's son walked toward me slowly, the way a lion might approach a wounded cub. Not out of mercy. Out of annoyance.
"You're my father's wife now," he said, voice thick with contempt. "Stick to being that. Stay out of my fucking business."
And then he walked away. Like I was a roach on the floor. Like I meant nothing.
Like we hadn't fucked...
Just two nights ago.
My lips had kissed that mouth. My hands had clawed at that back. My body had opened for him like it wanted to.
I remembered his hands on my waist, sliding into my panties. How he found me wet. How I moaned beneath his breath, needy, reckless. I remembered the sound of my name broken across his tongue when he entered me—how my body arched into his, how I took him deeper. How each stroke made me forget everything I knew about shame.
His touch still lingered.
Two nights ago, I gave him my body.
Last night, his father took it.
And now—this.
He had the audacity to pretend it never happened. That I was nothing. That I was his father's now, not because I chose it, but because I was taken.
How dare he act like it's my fault that the morning after we fucked, he was standing there—cold, detached—proxy to my supposed groom, who just so happened to be his father.
How dare he act like I knew he was the son of the man my father had forced me to marry.
I stood there, shaking. Not from fear.
From rage.
From betrayal.
From the hollow, rotting truth of my new life.
This place wasn't a home. It was a prison wrapped in velvet.
Men with guns were stationed at every corner. The estate was sprawling, but the walls were closing in.
I turned back toward the house. I needed air. I needed anything other than this slow suffocation.
Inside, I bumped into the head maid. Her smile was too soft. Too knowing.
"I've been looking for you," I whispered.
She chuckled lightly, her eyes dancing with something I couldn't place. "With time, you'll know your way around, dear," she said, guiding me toward the dining room.
The scent of tea curled into my nose like a spell. Familiar. Warm. She poured it into a mug and handed it to me.
"Drink. It's Indian tea. Helps with the pain."
I froze.
How did she know about the pain?
I stared at the dark liquid. The bitterness hit my tongue hard when I finally sipped. My face twisted with every swallow.
She smiled. That same smile.
I didn't ask the question that burned in my throat.
Instead, I let the tea scald my insides.
The table was being set with too much food. Platters and silverware like we were feeding an army.
"Ma'am Isn't this... too much?" I asked quietly.
She chuckled. "It's Pat."
"Ma'am Pat," I said, trying to anchor myself in something—anything—normal.
"Master Damien will join us for breakfast," she added, like it was just another polite fact.
My stomach clenched.
"Who's Damien?" I asked curiously.
As if summoned by my words, he walked in—calm, confident, blood still probably drying beneath his fingernails.
Damien. I whispered it like a curse and then I realized that I never knew his name. I never asked.
The man who took my body like he owned it. The man who killed a stranger like it meant nothing.
He didn't look at me.
I didn't look at him.
But I felt him—sitting there across from me like he hadn't just shattered something vital in me.
Then came the footsteps. Heavy. Measured. Don Pedro.
I saw his shadow before I saw his face.
I tossed the napkin ready to make a quick exit.
"Sit," he commanded.
That voice. It paralyzed me. My napkin slipped from my fingers.
I looked to Pat. She nodded once.
I sat.
His eyes met mine—darker than Damien's, colder, but oddly more beautiful. How could someone so evil look so perfect?
I hated him for it.
I hated everything.
My hands trembled as the food was served. Damien noticed. Of course he did. But he said nothing.
Pat tapped my hand. A mother's touch in a house full of monsters.
I wanted to cry.
But instead, I picked up my fork, and forced the food into my mouth.
It tasted like ash.
I hate Don Pedro.
His power. His control. His cold, cruel ownership.
I hate what he's done to me.
I hate the man who did it.
I hate him.