13. Venetia
I struggle to open my swollen, tear-stained eyes as Marietta, our housekeeper, walks into my room, filling the air with her citrus-and-cinnamon perfume. Each morning, she follows her routine of placing my coffee on the table and opening the curtains to let in the light.
“Morning, Venetia,” she half-whispers, leaning closer to set the small cup of aromatic drink on my nightstand. “Hey, what is it?”
It’s only when she asks that I realize I’m crying. Hot, salty tears seep through my trembling lashes, melting the glue that keeps my eyes shut. I cried myself to sleep last night and barely managed an hour of rest. Usually, I don’t allow myself to break down like this, but with the new life my dad has imposed on me, I feel like I’m barely holding on.
Marietta places her hand on my cheek, the warmth of her soft skin a stark contrast to my icy, mask-tight face. I can feel how dehydrated my skin is, the roughness of it, and the new breakouts that have appeared from neglect. I came home utterly exhausted and didn’t bother to wash my face properly. Now, I feel like a mummy with remnants of foundation clinging to my skin.
“Venetia, baby,” she coos, and somehow, I muster the strength to raise my hand and place it on hers. The contact with someone who sounds like she genuinely cares for me lights me up, and a smile tries to break through the strain of my skin, causing more discomfort.
“I just—” I trail off, and her other hand gently wipes away the tears that keep flowing. I don’t even realize I’m crying—it’s happening on autopilot. “I don’t want to go anywhere today. I want to stay home.”
I’ve always been someone who dislikes change. This new life with West and all the meetings we have to attend is draining me. I know how to pretend—I’ve been doing it my entire life—but now it feels like my mind and body are at their breaking point. Inside, I’m screaming for help, begging for someone to save me, fully aware of my reality.
Nobody will come. Nobody will rescue me from the dragons perched atop the roof of my cage-like castle. I was born to be under other people’s thumbs, to obey and yield, never to rule.
“Oh, honey,” Marietta’s gentle voice cuts through my sorrow as she leans in, her familiar perfume growing stronger. “Come here.”
Without waiting for my response, she wraps her arms around my shoulders and pulls me into the tightest hug I’ve ever felt. I bury my nose in her red hair and inhale the comforting scent.
Marietta has been with me since my first husband, and we quickly became friends. He was a harsh man, constantly overloading her with work and reminding her she was ‘just a housekeeper’. My pleas for him to act like a decent human being often ended with a punch to my eye, and she kept pleading with me to stop doing that, telling me that she was okay. After his death, I took her under my wing, and our friendship grew stronger.
She’s the only person who doesn’t blame me for my feelings, not even when I snap and fall apart like now. Sometimes, it just happens—moments I can’t control—when I wake up with no desire to get out of bed. All I want is to go back to sleep and stay there until I feel better. It might last a few hours, a day, or even weeks. When my mother was alive, she’d call me lazy and ungrateful, shaming me for always feeling this way. Now, my dad has taken over, and every time he notices I’m starting to feel like this again, he unleashes a storm of words that do nothing to help.
So, yeah. As pathetic as it might sound, my housekeeper is the only person who doesn’t blame me for how I feel.
“It’ll get better, okay?” she says, her hands rubbing soothing circles on my back. “I promise.”
But I know it won’t. Recent events have proven that—every time I catch a glimpse of peace, something drags me back down into a bottomless pit of misery.
When she pulls back, my lips tremble, and a wave of nausea rises in my throat, forming a thick lump. I shiver, goosebumps prickling my skin despite the warmth in the room.
My half-open eyes take in her perfectly made-up face and hair, a sting of shame cutting through my haze. I know how I look—my hair is a tangled mess, my face swollen and red, streaked with unwashed makeup and glitter, and my lips are parched. The pajama I’m wearing clings to my skin with sweat, and I can sense the odor seeping from the fabric.
I feel fucking disgusting.
“Here, take this,” she says calmly, handing me the steaming cup, the warm air brushing my face and gently waking me up.
Reluctantly, I bring it to my lips and take a sip, savoring the sweet taste. Marietta has always prided herself on making the best coffee in the world. “Thank you,” I whisper, and she smiles, brushing a damp strand of hair from my forehead. “My social battery has run out. I need a few days to recharge,” I explain, forcing an awkward laugh.
Normally, I could spend the entire day working, and just one movie night by myself would be enough to refresh me for the next day. Now, it takes so much more than that. I have no desire to watch or do anything.
I just want to sleep.
“I understand, baby,” she says. “But some things just need to be done. Lying in bed and thinking about how you don’t want to do them won’t help. You need to face the difficulties, and then you’ll be proud of yourself—proud that you overcame them.”
I nod, though I know it’s a lie. I’ll never feel proud of myself because I’m always falling short. It’s a never-ending cycle of failed attempts that only reinforces how truly miserable I am.
“How’s West acting?” she asks cautiously. “Is he giving you a hard time?”
Yes and no. I wish I could forget how he held my dress so I could pee without any trouble, but my stupid brain remembers every detail. I got drunk on purpose, and while I usually wake up feeling like I’m on another planet after a wild night, today I recall fucking everything.
“I don’t want to talk about him,” I say, clearing my throat to shake off the rasp. “I’d better start getting ready.”
It might feel good to talk to someone about him, but I don’t know what to say. West is the worst person in the world who, for a brief moment, managed to prove me wrong. I don’t trust the feelings he stirs in me, and I know that the moment we meet again, he’ll show his true colors. Yet still, a part of me keeps thinking about last night—the way he held me close, the warmth of his hands on my body, and how calm he acted.
‘It’s a fucking love language.’
For a moment, it really felt like he was in love with me. But I’m not na?ve. I know who he is. He could kiss my feet and whisper the sweetest words, but I’ll never trust him. It’s only a matter of time before he pins me against the wall like he did in the elevator and starts choking me.
Marietta stands up, ready to open the curtains, but I cut in, “No. Leave them, please.”
She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. “If I leave them closed, you’ll fall back asleep the moment I’m out of the room.”
Oh, God. It only happened once—the darkness felt too seductive for my sleepy mind, and I ended up being late for the business meeting. “I promise, I can control myself,” I insist. “I just need a moment alone.”
Marietta holds my gaze for a moment before nodding and turning to leave the room. “Hey,” she calls out, glancing over her shoulder. “You’ve got this. Okay?”
“Okay.”
She gives me one last warm glance before leaving, and as soon as the door closes, my strained smile fades. My body unwinds, and I find myself just staring at the door in silence.
I try to rise from the bed, but my muscles protest, forcing me back down. Setting the coffee aside, I grab the edges of the blanket and make myself comfortable, draping it over my head to hide from the outside world.
A moment of peace won’t kill me.
Tendrils of sleep begin to wrap around me, slowly pulling me back into the abyss. It’s so warm and cozy here that I never want to leave. I wish I could stay like this forever.
But my moment shatters when the door slams open, hitting the wall with a loud thud. Surprisingly, I don’t flinch. I already know who’s entered.
“Get up,” Dad grumbles, his tone firm and unyielding. I hear him walk to the window and fling open the curtains, letting golden beams of morning sun pierce through my silk sheets. “I said, get up!”
“A moment,” I mumble into the sheets, my eyes still closed. “Just a minute.”
He yanks the blanket from my body, exposing me to the biting cold. I press my knees to my chest, burying my face deeper into the sheets, staining them with fresh tears.
“For fuck’s sake, what did I do to deserve this?” he snaps, tossing the blanket into a corner of my room. “Stop acting like a child and get the fuck up right now!”
A sob tears through me as he pulls me down, and my bare feet hit the freezing laminate floor, the shock rippling up my legs. I cover my eyes with my hand, trying to hide my tears from him. “I don’t want to?—”
“Shut up,” he interrupts, kneeling before me and prying my hands away. “Just shut the fuck up, get up, and get ready for the meeting. Today is important. I’m taking you to his house so you can go together. You need to show off at his place more often. He’s a nice man, Venetia. Stop being so ungrateful.”
His words echo my mother’s from the moment she sold me to my ex-husband. The memory of her helping me prepare for that first meeting floods my mind, bringing a wave of self-repulsion so intense it makes me feel like I might vomit.
“I swear to God, if you don’t get up in twenty minutes, I’ll drag you out of here myself,” he threatens.
“Okay. But I need to run an errand first.” The words escape me before I can process them. If I’m forced to parade around like a trained monkey, maybe I can slip away for a moment to check on the new animals Harper keeps sending me pictures of.
“An errand,” he muses, a glint of suspicion in his dusky green pools. I’ve always hated that his eyes are so much like mine. “Don’t you think I know what you’re up to?”
Fear slithers up my spine at his question, and I shift in my seat. “What do you mean?”
He shakes his head. “You’re not as smart as you think you are. I know where you sneak off every time you have a free minute—changing yourself to the point of being unrecognizable, thinking no one will notice,” he snickers, a wicked laugh slipping past his lips. “You come back reeking of animals every time. It’s embarrassing.”
My mouth falls open, but no words escape. I’m rooted to the spot, the hard laminate pressing against my ass as I try to digest his words.
“You won’t be going there anytime soon. I don’t need anyone finding out,” he says. I try to protest, but he cuts me off, raising a hand. “If I find out you went there again—and don’t doubt that I will—I’ll shut that center down for good. I’ve given you too much freedom, Venetia, and that’s my fault. But I can take it away just as quickly as I gave it. Do you understand?”
Anger churns in my stomach, mingling with the embarrassment of being a grown woman unable to protest this treatment. But all I do is swallow the hot emotions that threaten to overflow. “I understand.”
“Good. I need to make a few calls, and when I return, you better be fucking ready.”
With that, he turns and disappears into the hallway, his threat lingering behind him like a menacing, translucent tentacle.
I force myself to get up, ignoring the way every muscle in my body cries out in protest.
I need to get a fucking grip already.
I walk into one of the rooms of this cursed house, searching for a moment of peace before facing West. His dad welcomed us, and he and my father stayed downstairs, discussing business. I made an excuse to head to the bathroom but instead retreated upstairs, wanting to calm my nerves before facing the main source of my anxiety.
Out of all the places in the house, this room offers a sense of comfort. I look around, my eyes scanning a modest space dominated by black and white colors, with a large bed at its center. But I can’t fully relax, not when I struggle to breathe because of the corset squeezing my insides, rearranging them however it pleases. It’s a habit to tighten it until it molds perfectly to my body, snatching my waist and lifting my breasts. I’ve never felt confident in that area, and it’s embarrassing to admit that I try to avoid looking at myself in the shower.
My insecurities weigh me down.
I plop onto the bed, sinking into the soft mattress as I close my eyes, trying to relax. My stomach aches from the pressure, and I’m certain I won’t be able to eat or drink anything today—not if I want to avoid the nauseating feeling of it sticking in my throat, waiting to burst out.
When the door opens, I jolt upright, ready to concoct an excuse for why I’m in this room instead of the bathroom. But as I see who’s entering, I freeze.
West’s eyes skim over my body before slowly rising to meet my gaze as he strides in and shuts the door behind him. A shiver ripples through me as the realization that we’re completely alone sends a queasy sensation churning in my gut.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt out, not even bothering to consider how the question sounds. It’s his fucking house.
His brows shoot up in surprise as he closes the distance between us. I swallow hard, a knot of fear tightening in my chest. He’s not going to hurt me—not with our dads downstairs—but the discomfort lingers. Things have become even more complicated after the kiss and that moment in the bathroom—whatever the fuck that was—and now I feel more vulnerable whenever I’m near him.
“It’s my room,” he replies calmly, and I shut my eyes, silently chastising myself for being so foolish. I literally came to his house and wandered around, intruding on his private space. “What’s wrong?”
I frown. “What do you mean? Nothing’s wrong.” My voice wavers as he closes the small gap between us, making my heartbeat race. His presence looms so close that it feels as if he’s swallowing me whole, radiating an overwhelming sense of control and power. I feel helpless, trapped with no escape.
“You’re shaking,” he observes, his voice dropping a notch. My lips part involuntarily as his hand finds my waist, fingers grazing the ties that cling tightly to me. “God, can you even breathe in this thing?”
“You’re making me uncomfortable,” I whisper. “Please, step?—”
“Turn around,” he interrupts, his eyes glued to my waist. When I hesitate, he curls his fingers around the side of it. “ Now , Venetia.”
I gradually give in, each movement feeling like a fight against the weight of emotional and physical pressure. He watches me patiently, his penetrating gaze triggering a wave of adrenaline in my system. Whenever I’m with him, it feels as though we’re poised on the brink of something dangerous.
And now, if he does what I think he wants to, it might just shatter the walls of resentment I’ve built around myself.
West takes his time, gathering my thick hair and brushing it away from my back, his fingers gliding over the top of my corset. “Was it your father’s idea again?” he asks, already knowing the answer. It was my parents who always told me how to dress for occasions. Subconsciously, I look at the pieces they’d want me to wear, not relying on my own taste. And I fucking hate that he knows that. “Have you learned nothing, Netia?”
He loosens the first knot, and the fabric relaxes just enough for me to take a quick, shallow breath. “It was my idea. These are always my ideas,” I protest.
He hums, the simple sound turning me into brainless jelly as he swiftly works on the next knot. “You’re so bad at lying sometimes,” he says, his words coming disturbingly close to my ear. I don’t remember when he leaned in, nor do I care. The heat of his breath is the only thing that keeps me warm, pushing back the icy fear he evokes.
“I’m not lying,” I reply. “It just… It makes my?—”
“What?” he inquires, leaning his cheek against mine. He’s too fucking close, and I find myself unable to pull away. His short, dark hair brushes against the side of my face, sending a flurry of buzzing sensations under my skin. “ Hm? ”
His frame, a wall of muscle and threat, presses against mine, and I sense his tension. West is always on edge, always wearing that angry scowl. I wonder if he can ever relax behind closed doors.
“It makes my body look better,” I manage after a pause.
A beat passes before the sound of tearing fabric jolts me from my musings, and I gasp. It takes a moment to realize that I can finally breathe freely as the cold air brushes against my exposed skin. Glancing down, I see the piece of fabric hanging loose, all the knots undone, revealing deep red streaks across my waist.
“What—” I trail off, surprise washing over me. My hands grab the edges of the corset, tightening it around me in a desperate attempt to cover the exposed parts of my body. “Why did you?—”
I’m cut off when he grabs my hips and spins me around to face him. Our eyes lock, and a warm sensation surges through my heart as I catch a glimpse of something new in his gaze. With force, his hands slip between mine, breaking through my small protective barrier and allowing the fabric to fall away, exposing my battered skin to him. I’m still in my bra, but I feel completely naked.
“If I see you wearing shit like this again, I’m going to break into your house, find all of it, and burn it down. Do you understand?”
“You won’t decide for me,” I retort, forcing defiance into my voice. I can’t deny that a part of me enjoys his possessiveness and the way he cares.
“Don’t give me this.” I close my eyes, welcoming the comforting warmth of his touch. “You’re a smart girl, Venetia, and you know exactly what I mean. Wear whatever the fuck you want, but not the shit you can’t even breathe in. Your body is perfect just the way it is.”
There’s no way he just said that last sentence.
I’m stunned into silence, forgetting every single word in the English language as I gape at him. With each passing second I’m trapped with him, fear swelling inside me, and sweat beading at the side of my head. It feels as though the walls are closing in, squeezing me from every angle.
“What is this?” he asks, pressing his fingertip into the bruise on my liver. The fog begins to lift, and with it, I sense logic clashing with the effect of his presence, finally realizing that he’s asking about the bruise he left.
A wave of revulsion crashes over me as I retort, “Like you don’t know. The result of your job, West.”
The dull ache pulses in waves, intertwining with an unexpected pleasure as he explores the spot with his finger. “Ah. I see.”
A sharp retort dies on my tongue as I watch him move down to my bruise. I nearly choke when he presses his lips against the mark, my eyes fluttering shut, while his hand lingers on my hip. Stars dance behind my closed eyelids as the kiss hangs in the air, the softness of his mouth a jarring contrast to the abuse that caused this very bruise on me.
When he pulls away, it feels like a cruel, painful punch to my gut. Just like that, he stands over me again, the air around us thick with the weight of his power. “Take the rest off and change into something decent. Chloe’s room is to the left; pick anything you want.”
With that, he turns and walks away, leaving the door cracked open behind him. I blink a few times, trying to shake off the paralysis.
What the fuck was that?
I can breathe easier now that he’s not so close, but my body still trembles with aftershocks. Standing here half-naked isn’t appealing, so I sprint from the spot as if the floor is on fire and rush to his sister’s room. I’ll take whatever I can find—anything to stop this feeling of exposure.
And vulnerability.
The fucking vulnerability.