I didn't touch you, he murmured, his voice a slow, deliberate whisper. "But I will."
A smirk played on his lips, cold and terrifying, sending a chill down my spine. His eyes lingered on me for a second too long before he turned on his heel and strode toward the door. "Get dressed for breakfast," he added over his shoulder, then disappeared down the hallway.
I sat frozen, my fingers digging into the soft fabric of the unfamiliar bed. I had been sold to a man I knew nothing about. The walls of the grand bedroom felt like a cage, beautiful yet suffocating.
A knock at the door startled me. Before I could respond, the door creaked open, and a maid entered, carrying a neatly folded dress. Behind her, a woman, perhaps in her late fifties, stepped in with practiced elegance. Her smile was warm but unreadable, the kind worn by those accustomed to servitude.
"Ma'am," she said gently, "you need to get ready for breakfast."
Her voice was soft, but there was no room for argument. Without waiting for my response, she led me into the adjoining bathroom. My breath caught at the sight an opulent tub filled with warm water, its surface adorned with delicate flower petals. A scent of roses and lavender clung to the air.
I let myself be guided. The maid moved around me with efficiency, washing my hair, scrubbing my skin, painting my nails. Her hands were gentle, but the silence was unnerving. I wanted to ask questions, to understand why they were treating me like someone important when I felt like nothing.
Dressed in a flowing, flowered mini gown that clung to my skin like silk, I finally found my voice.
"My name is—"
The older woman stepped back, shaking her head. "Ma'am, you are my boss now, and you deserve all the respect."
Deserve? The word sat heavy in my chest, foreign and suffocating.
A maid pushed open the doors, revealing a grand hallway bathed in golden light. My breath hitched at the sheer extravagance the towering chandeliers, the polished floors that reflected my hesitant steps. I followed Victoria and the maids downstairs, each step making my heart pound louder.
The dining hall was a scene from a royal banquet. The table stretched impossibly long, covered in an array of dishes so decadent it felt absurd. How many people could possibly eat this much?
A voice, sharp and amused, cut through my thoughts. "I hope you don't drool over there.
I stiffened. He was already seated, watching me with that same unsettling smirk.
"Sit down and have your breakfast," he ordered.
Shame burned my cheeks, but I obeyed. A maid stepped forward, her face an unreadable mask, and placed a plate before me a golden brown pat of chicken, fresh fruit, and a glistening glass of juice.
The first bite melted in my mouth, but something was wrong. My throat tightened. A heat bloomed in my chest, then spread, slow and insidious, like fire creeping through dry leaves. My vision blurred, my fingers trembling as I set the fork down.
I turned to Victoria, my stomach twisting. "Was there… ginger? Garlic?
Her eyes widened in horror. She rushed toward me, but before she could reach me, the world tilted, my breath hitched
Then, darkness.
Somewhere in the background, as my consciousness slipped away, a laugh echoed.
Low. Cruel. Familiar.
Well, my stepmother's voice purred, "my daughter is meant to be in that position… and she will get it.
The room was thick with tension, the air heavy with unspoken accusations. My voice trembled as I spat out the words, my nails digging into my palms.
"That should have been my daughter."
Mr. Clinton stood there, arms crossed, his face unreadable. The flickering candlelight cast shadows across his sharp features, but I could see it—the guilt, or perhaps just irritation, simmering beneath the surface.
"You didn't even check the man you sold her to," I continued, stepping closer, "You played a game with the richest man in the city, and now my daughter works as his maid."
His jaw tightened. "I didn't have a choice."
"Didn't have a choice?" My voice cracked. "You could have told me before I sent her out. Before she got kidnapped by her own 'owner'—the man you gambled her away to. And all for what? To ease your stress?"
I scoffed, shaking my head. He didn't even flinch.
"Enough, woman," he cut me off, his voice firm. "Enough, I say! I sold my daughter so you could afford an expensive bag!"
The words hit me like a slap.
"An expensive bag?" I echoed, disbelieving.
"I sold my daughter to the most dangerous man in the city," he continued, his voice laced with something I couldn't place remorse, perhaps? No. Frustration. "I might not be a good father, but at least I got something in return."
Then he laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. "If I had known, I would've collected more than a damn penny for her."
My stomach turned. My hands trembled at my sides, rage and helplessness swirling inside me. He wasn't even pained by the act just by the fact that he sold her for too little.
A slow, deliberate voice broke the silence.
"What if we go back and see if we can collect more money ?"
He clearly hates her," she added. "I'm sure she should be in a hospital bed by now."
My breath hitched. "What are you talking about?"
She smirked, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers. "I told Lilian to mix garlic and ginger into the chicken prepared for breakfast."
The room fell silent.
Mr. Clinton's eyes darkened as he turned to her, his expression unreadable. "You what?"
If you want to take a bold step, let me know woman.
You're dealing with a cunning, wicked, rich man here.
I can't stand to get killed because of your carelessness.