Chapter 6
Miami, Florida
The Miami air in January isn’t cold like I thought winter should be. It’s humid in a lazy, sticky way, like the sky couldn’t decide if it wanted to rain or sweat.
As the car curves up a smooth stone drive, dread twists in my belly.
The house that comes into view is stunning.
White stucco walls, red tile roof, palm trees swaying against a bright blue sky.
Bougainvillea vines frame arched windows and curl around ornate columns.
A gold-plated fountain bubbles in the circular drive.
It looks like something out of a magazine. But something about it feels wrong. Too perfect. Too polished. Like when you see a doll smiling but its eyes don’t look right. Pretty, but scary underneath.
Carlos doesn’t say a word as he parks his sleek black Mercedes beside the fountain and yanks open my door.
“Get out,” he grunts.
I clutch my backpack tighter. I want to scream. To cry. To run. But I step out, because I don’t have a choice.
Where could I possibly run to?
The foyer smells like lemon polish and fresh orchids. Marble floors stretch in every direction, gleaming like glass. A grand staircase sweeps up one side of the entrance lined with gold trim and massive portraits. Everything is elegant. Beautiful. Deadly silent.
A woman stands at the far end of the hallway poised in a pale pink silk blouse, white slacks, and dark red heels. Her chestnut hair is pinned up, lipstick is perfect, but her smile is brittle.
She’s holding a little boy on her hip. He’s got messy curls and big, anxious eyes. He buries his face in her shoulder as we get closer. Carlos doesn’t introduce them. Doesn’t care. He just flicks his eyes toward the stairs.
“Upstairs. Second door on the left. Lights out at nine. Don’t touch anything that ain’t yours. Don’t eat unless I say so. Don’t cry. And for the love of God, don’t fucking bother me. You understand?”
I whimper, “When can I see my—”
CRACK.
Fire blooms across my cheek.
“Get your little ass up to your fucking room,” he snarls.
My head snaps sideways. My ears ring and the chandelier above blurs into a thousand spinning lights. The taste of pennies fills my mouth.
For a second, I can’t move. I can’t breathe. No one has ever hit me before. Finally, my legs obey, shaky and slow, carrying me up the stairs and to the left like I’m sleepwalking through a nightmare.
With the echo of his voice still in my skull, I realize something deep in my bones. Whatever home had meant before, it didn’t live here.
The door creaks when I push it open. The room inside is beautiful. A full-size bed with a velvet headboard. White silky linens. A pink velvet chair in the corner sitting next to a white nightstand. A window with gauzy pink curtains and a distant view of the ocean.
If it were any other circumstance, I would’ve loved it.
I sit on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around my knees and wonder how a girl who once danced under Arkansas sunsets had ended up here. Alone in a place that looked like paradise but feels like a trap.
“Don’t look him in the eye when he’s drinking. Don’t go near the kitchen after dark. Matter fact, don’t eat nothin’ unless Mariela puts it in your hand. And if you hear the door creak past midnight? Close your eyes and fake sleep like your life depends on it. ’Cause it might.”
I turn fast, heart in my throat.
A boy in dark jeans and a black hoodie stands in the doorway. Tall and lean, older than me by a few years. His skin is a rich, deep brown, and his jaw is tight like he was used to clenching it just to stay quiet.
But it’s his eyes that hold me. Dark brown, nearly black. Not just in color but in weight. Like they’d seen too much and refused to look away.
He doesn’t come closer. Just leans against the door frame like he’s been carved into it. His eyes don’t blink. They just watch me steady and sharp, like he’s trying to decide if I’m worth the risk.
“I’m the reason this door don’t got a lock,” he mutters, pulling his hood down. “Last time that bastard tried locking someone in here, I snapped it clean off. Carlos lost his damn mind but he ain’t fixed it since.”
He doesn’t say it to impress me. He says it like a promise. Like a warning. Like he’d do it again.
He never asks how old I am. Or why I am here. He already knows. He just looks at me with sharp intensity like he’s trying to solve a puzzle no one else can see.
“What’s your name?”
“Isabella Marie Harrington,” I say, voice small but clear.
His face twitches. Barely, but I see it. A sharp breath. A flicker in his dark eyes. But instead of asking questions, he just nods slowly and steps forward.
“I’m Ezekiel. Ezekiel Malik Carter. Named after my Dad,” he says, softer now, like he doesn’t want to scare me more. “But everyone calls me Zeke.”
He crouches beside me, his shadow shielding mine.
“You’re not alone no more, Isabella. Not ever again. I got you. Whatever it takes.” His voice is strong and steady. A hand reaching out in a storm.
“He’s not sellin’ you. Not touchin’ you either. I swear on everything I won’t let that happen.”
“S-sell me?” I whisper, the words trembling out like cracked glass. My fingers clutch tighter at the sheet beneath me. “Why would he sell me?”
Zeke curses under his breath and looks away, jaw tense. “Nah, scratch that. You don’t need to worry about it. That’s my shit to handle not yours.”
“But—”
He turns back to me, fierce and honest. “You’re safe now, Isabella. I swear. Just try to get some rest, yeah?”
He says it like a vow. Like he owes me something I don’t understand yet.
“Bella,” I whisper, my voice barely holding together. “It’s just Bella.”
The tears come fast and hot, spilling over before I can stop them. My chest shakes with the weight of everything I don’t understand, everything I don’t want to feel. The name that doesn’t even feel like mine anymore, just something I said to prove I still existed.
Zeke doesn’t ask another question. He just pulls me into him. His arms are strong and sure, like he’s been holding broken things his whole life.
“It’s gonna be okay,” he says quietly like a promise. “Not tonight. But soon.”
I bury my face in his hoodie and let the sobs rip through me.
There’s a creak at the door and small footsteps patter on the marble floor.
“C’mere, Dylan,” Zeke says.
The little boy I saw earlier peeks in, wide-eyed and cautious. He doesn’t speak. Just walks over, climbs into Zeke’s lap, and rests his little hand on mine.
“This is Dylan,” Zeke says real soft, brushing the kid’s hair out of his face. “He don’t talk much ‘til he knows you’re solid. But he’s brave as hell. Way braver than he should have to be.”
And so we sit, the three of us. Pressed close in a room that smells like salt and secrets. Where the silence creeps through the curtains and the shadows don’t need to scream.
A boy already scarred by fire and ghosts.
A girl already breaking before she knew how to heal.
And a little child with scraped knees and more heart than the world deserved.
It isn’t safety. Not yet. But it’s something. A sliver of hope in a house built on nightmares.