Do It For Me

HIM

For the first time in my life, his face lights up at a request like that. “Sure. In fact, I think you’re old enough to go on your own.”

My cheeks burn. Is he serious?

“Then I’ll… I’ll tell Mum so we can—”

“But—”

“Or would you rather stay here?”

“No, I—”

“Fine. It’s settled, then. You can leave at five.”

I go grab my things in silence and wait.

Mum did my makeup earlier, and Tara was furious. I’ll keep this to myself. We talked about Declan, though none of us truly knows him. My sister loathes that I can leave this house, even if I don’t want to. I wish I could stay with Mum.

A few minutes later, at five o’clock, my father leans against the doorway, cigarette in hand. “Goodbye, püppchen .”

“Bye, Daddy .”

I jog to the entrance, my heart pounding in my chest.

This is the first time I’ve been allowed to go out alone. The first time I’ve ever had a moment of independence.

Everything’s going to be fine. I’m going to be—

A van screeches to a halt on the street ahead. The doors burst open, and three men leap out, rushing toward me. Panic claws at me as I stumble back, instinctively edging closer to the guards nearby. But it’s too late. Three sets of hands clamp down on my arms and legs, yanking me inside.

“Mum! Help!”

My scream fades into the air as one of them slams my head against the van’s door. My vision swims, dizziness setting in, but I keep struggling. I must.

Their grip tightens. One man forces my head against the cold window while the others tear my clothes. Through the haze, I catch a glimpse of my father standing in the doorway, motionless. The guards remain frozen, like statues.

Mum bolts out the door, sprinting toward us…

But before she can reach me, darkness swallows me whole.

Three years have passed, yet I still remember every detail of that day—how I woke up trembling, naked in the middle of a cold, unfamiliar room; how my body throbbed with pain from their beatings; how I begged for them to let me go.

I haven’t been alone since.

My body disgusts me. I’m nothing but a shame to my father, and my mother keeps her distance because of him, though she tries to stay close in her own way.

Our bond is all we have; we can’t lose it.

But it’s not enough. After everything I’ve endured, I need more.

She’s the only reason I resist the urge to end it all.

But God, I hate this body. I hate the memories that lurk in the corners of my mind, tearing me apart piece by piece.

They surface when something triggers them,usually the nightmares.

The same ones that haunt me, forcing me to relive the torture over and over again.

It doesn’t matter how much I try to forget the past; the nightmares and memories always return. I wasn’t even eighteen, and they killed me. They scarred my body and my soul; that wound will never heal.

And now? Now, a wealthy prick is coming to ask for my hand—or that’s what I’ve heard. My father has spent years trying to get rid of me, spinning a story that’s as fake as the smiles I give to anyone who shows interest.

“She ran away one day and got hooked on drugs,” he says whenever someone asks about me. “She’s been in rehab ever since we found her. Imagine how desperate she was, selling her body to pay for them.”

No one has shown interest since. I don’t understand why he keeps spreading that lie if he wants me gone so badly.

If someone earned money from selling my body, it wasn’t me. I just wanted them to stop. I begged day and night until my throat ached so much I thought I’d never speak again. In some ways, I was right. I barely talk anymore.

There were drugs, yes. But to my surprise, there wasn’t an addiction.

.. or at least, none that I recognised. I don’t know if the sweating, the shakiness, the nausea, and everything else I endured in the hospital were symptoms of withdrawal or just my body’s reaction to the trauma. Even the doctors weren’t sure.

But to him, it’s easier to blame me. Easier to say I chose this than to admit I was kidnapped, sold, and used in ways no one should.

The sound of an engine pulls me from my thoughts. I peek through the white curtains as a car stops in the parking lot.

A man steps out, dressed in a sharp suit. His back is to me. Black hair slicked back. No grey hairs; that’s a plus. Unless, of course, he dyes it. Maybe he’s some old psycho waiting for his very young bride.

A bride he’ll want to impregnate. To fuck. To control. To break.

My future husband won’t be any better than my father. I made peace with that thought years ago, when I was supposed to marry Declan Byrne, but he chose my younger sister instead, after I was kidnapped.

Now, I’m not the same girl, and I’m certainly not ready for this. Not for marriage. Not for being a wife, a mother, or a man’s sex toy.

I’m not ready to be used again…

Will I ever be?

My heart races as my father greets him with a fake smile. He’s talking, nodding, probably telling the same story again.

Does this man even know what happened? How could he accept someone like me—a woman broken and impure? Why? What does he want?

I can’t stop picturing the old man who bought me when I was seventeen. I think his name was Roger. Is my future husband as repulsive as he was? As old? Older?

My stomach churns, and nausea grips me. I bolt to the bathroom and empty my breakfast into the toilet.

I can’t do this. He can’t do this. How can he care about nothing but himself? I’m his daughter! How can he not love his own children?

If it were up to him, I could die tomorrow, and my mother would be the only one to mourn me.

Why can’t he love me? Just a little?

I look at myself in the mirror for the twentieth time.

Mum found me crying a few minutes ago and had to redo my makeup.

She also helped with my hair, styling it into a cascading braid adorned with tiny white pins.

The makeup hides my under-eye circles and freckles, but it doesn’t hide how much I hate all of this.

After wiping off the lipstick she put on me, I replaced it with a simple gloss.

At least if the jerk tries to kiss me, he’ll be disgusted.

The dress I’m wearing is red, and I despise it. The cleavage is lower than anything I’ve worn since the rescue. It’s sleeveless, and because it has nothing on the back, I can’t even wear a bra with it. To make it worse, there’s a slit running up one leg.

I hate it.

Not even Mum’s attempt to soften my mood—bribing me with her pearl necklace—makes this tolerable. My father only knows terrible people, and now I’m destined to spend my life with someone who’ll see me as nothing more than a hole to fill.

My gaze returns to the mirror. I’m thankful I inherited Mum’s green eyes. If I’d taken after my father and ended up with his icy blue stare, it would haunt me every day of my life.

But even if I look like her, I don’t like what I see.

I’m beautiful, but it’s not me.

I’m not happy with the body I own because it has never belonged to me. It’s a dirty, ruined body, abused in countless ways. A body meant only for pleasing men. A body built to give birth.

The door creaks open. My father steps inside, speaking German. “Are you ready, püppchen ? Dante is waiting for you.”

“I don’t want to do this, Dad— Daddy ,” I correct myself as soon as he glares at me.

His nostrils flare. “I don’t care. This is the best I could get for you. Now, go and show him your tits if you must, but he’ll stay with you. Not me.”

Why does it still hurt so much, even after twenty years of his insults?

He storms out of the room, his footsteps heavy on the stairs. I stay rooted in front of the mirror, staring at the reflection I’ve come to despise.

I’m not a person. I’m a doll they can manipulate however they want. That’s all I’ve ever been to them.

“Come the fuck down!” his German voice booms from below.

Don’t cry. Crying only brings trouble. Fight instead.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to leave this house,” I reply in the same way. “I’m sick of you!”

I hope my future husband isn’t German.

Taking a deep breath, I steady myself and head down the stairs. I focus entirely on the handrail, each step deliberate so I don’t trip.

I don’t want to meet my fiancé’s eyes. I don’t want to see his face. Even picturing him makes me want to throw up again.

I don’t deserve this. I’m a human being. Why is this any different from being sold by strangers? My own father is doing this—giving me away to get rid of me and profiting from it.

“Look at him, brat,” my father snaps.

I obey, defeated. What choice do I have?

To my surprise, however, it’s not someone unlikeable.

The man in front of me looks only a few years older. His blue eyes are darker than my father’s—thankfully. His gaze is much more comfortable to look at. Softer.

A lock of black hair curls over his brow. A scar runs down his forehead, slicing to his cheek, another along his nose and one more across his lip. Is it strange that I think it makes him more attractive?

And the tattoos? God, the tattoos.

If I weren’t so broken, he might’ve caught my attention.

When he offers me his hand, memories crash over me like a wave. He’s a man. They’re all the same. He’ll want what they all want, what I’ll never willingly give.

But again, I have no other options.

I brace myself, expecting him to grab me or pull me towards him. Instead, he surprises me by asking, “May I?”

I can say no, right? Or is this one of those trick questions where yes is the only real answer?

I don’t want to find out, so I nod.

When his hand meets mine, I’m startled by how gentle and warm his touch is. Every other man who’s greeted me has been harsh, even when I extended my hand willingly.

But not him. He touches me as though I’m made of glass... or maybe I just imagine it that way.

“I’m Dante Cassano,” he says, his voice calm. He kisses the back of my hand, his thumb brushing over my skin, all while keeping his eyes locked on mine. “It’s a pleasure, ragnetta 2 .”

He’s Italian.

There’s a faint accent, but it’s there.

God.

I glance at my father, who nods at me with his usual fake smile. Then, I look back at Dante.

“Pleasure to meet you,” I manage to say.

“The wedding will be in three months,” my father announces. He doesn’t even bother looking at Dante before turning his gaze to me. “Be good, püppchen .”

To “be good” means following everything they taught me to be for Declan, and using everything I learned in that place.

What else could I expect from the same man who, instead of hugging me when I cried, crossed his arms and told me it all could have been good practice?

Dante gently squeezes my hand, pulling me from my thoughts, and leans in close to my ear. For a moment, I tense, my breath hitching, until the warmth of his breath brushes my skin.

“Just be you, amore 3 ,” he whispers. “You’ll be safe with me. I won’t force you.”

I won’t force you.

A genuine smile breaks free before I can stop it. When I glance up at him, I find that same smile mirrored in his expression. His eyes spark with something kind, something warm, and I can’t find even a trace of menace there.

Please, let it always be this good.

Notes:

1. Püppchen: Little doll/Dolly.

2. Ragnetta: Little spider.

3. Amore: Love.