Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 72969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Once I’m dressed, I stand in front of the full-length mirror, taking in the woman staring back at me. This dress is not me. The high heels are not me. The heavy make-up is not me.
This isn’t my life.
Except that it is.
Just then, my father enters my room without knocking.
“Ah, Daniela,” he says with an approving nod. “You look stunning.”
I can’t meet his gaze. Instead, I focus on a spot on the floor.
“Let’s go,” he says, offering his arm to me.
I take a deep breath before placing my hand in the crook of his elbow, and leave my room.
As we walk down the grand staircase, my father’s grip on my arm is firm, as if he knows I’ll run if given the chance.
That’s all I can think about.
Running.
Escape.
Especially when we reach the bottom of the stairs.
“Smile, Daniela,” my father whispers into my ear.
So I do. I force the corners of my mouth to turn upward, painting a picture of happiness that couldn’t be further from what I actually feel.
In the doorway to the parlor stands a man I’ve seen before.
One of my father’s colleagues. Diego Vega.
He’s tall with graying hair, probably in his fifties or sixties.
I’m only fifteen, but I know that doesn’t matter to him or to my father.
“Ah, Diego,” my father says as we approach the man.
Diego turns to look at us, his eyes lighting up at the sight of me. “Daniela.” He steps forward to pull me into a hug that lasts a little too long.
It feels invasive. Aggressive, even. I don’t like it.
“You’re even prettier than I remember,” he whispers into my ear before letting go.
A shiver of disgust passes through me, but I suppress it quickly. Over the years, I’ve become a master at hiding what I really feel.
“Thank you, Señor Vega,” I say as I force myself to meet his gaze.
“Come into the parlor, Diego,” my father says.
Señor Vega follows us into the lush parlor, his polished shoes silent against the thick Persian rug that stretches wall to wall. The air smells faintly of vanilla and coffee. Velvet drapes in deep emerald spill down from ceiling-high windows. Crystal decanters filled with liquor sit on a walnut sideboard. No doubt Señor Vega has already filled his glass from one of them.
Every surface shines, every detail curated for opulence. But beneath the gleam, something feels off. Like the room is holding its breath. Like it’s witnessed too much and said too little.
Like it’s about to witness something more.
Something vile.
I swallow.
“I’ll leave you two to get to know each other,” my father says.
“Papa…”
But he leaves the parlor, closing the door behind him.
I swallow again.
“Señor…” I begin.
But he grabs me.
I close my eyes, expecting him to kiss me.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he slides the dress from my shoulders and exposes my bare breasts.
My heart hammers against my chest, but I force myself to remain calm.
“Señor Vega,” I say. “I’d appreciate if we can keep things respectful.”
He laughs—a cruel, harsh sound. “Respectful? Is that what your father told you to say?” He reaches out again, but I step back, maintaining the space between us.
“I’m not here for your entertainment,” I tell him, pulling my dress back up.
“On the contrary,” Vega says. “You are here for exactly that.”
Then harsh hands on my breasts, strong fingers twisting my nipples until I cry out in pain.
I’m pushed against the back of a chair, my dress up against my waist.
My underwear in shreds on the plush carpeting.
And then Señor Vega inside me.
Stretching me, hurting me. Pumping himself into me violently.
“Stop it!” I scream.
But Vega doesn’t stop. He only laughs, his breath reeking of alcohol and cigars.
Pain sears through me as he continues his cruel assault. My vision blurs from the tears stinging my eyes, but I bite my lip to keep from crying out again. Somehow, I know giving him that satisfaction would be worse than the pain.
When it’s over, Vega pulls his trousers back up, leaving me trembling on the carpeted floor. He looks down at me with a triumphant glint in his eye before swaggering out of the room.
As soon as he’s gone, I pull myself up from the floor, my limbs shaking. The pain is still raw, but it’s subsided to a dull throb that pulses in time with my heartbeat.
I look around the room, at the torn remains of my underwear strewn across the carpet. A sick feeling wells up in my stomach as I leave the parlor, stumble up the stairs to my bedroom and into my en suite bathroom, throwing up until there’s nothing left but dry heaves. I take a shower afterward, scrubbing my skin raw to scrape away the feeling of dirty hands on my body.
I put on loose pajamas and curl up on the bed, drawing my knees to my chest. I stare at the canopy of the bed that was once my mother’s. A tear slips down my cheek, wetting the silk sheets underneath me.