The night air was heavy and damp when Odette pushed
open the door to their room. She paused for a moment,
her eyes sweeping across the cramped space that she had
known her whole life. The walls were cracked, the paint
flaking away in dull patches, and the faint smell of damp
wood clung to the air. In one corner, two thin, worn-out
mattresses lay directly on the cold floor. She and her
sister shared one, curling into each other at night for
warmth, while their mother slept on the other, her back
often aching from the hard ground.
A crooked wooden chair sat against the wall, one leg
shorter than the rest, and the only small table wobbled
with the slightest touch. This was their world—hidden in
the farthest corner of the house, hidden like a shameful
secret.
Her father's voice broke the silence, sharp and
commanding as he entered.
"Girls," he said, his dark eyes sweeping over them.
"Tonight, you will not embarrass me."
The words hung in the air like a threat, though his tone
carried an unusual edge of pride. For the first time in
years, he tossed folded fabrics at them—clothes that were not torn or second hand, but neat and presentable.
Odette's heart skipped a beat as she touched the dress, a
simple cotton gown, clean and whole. It felt strange
against her skin, like something that didn't belong to her.
Her father's attention shifted to his son. "Be ready.
Tonight is important. Show yourself as the man you
are." His tone softened in that moment, thick with pride,
as though speaking to a king in the making.
When the evening came, the dining room felt like
another world entirely. The table was dressed with food
they rarely saw—roasted chicken, rice, and bottles of
wine that shimmered under the weak glow of the
hanging bulb. Odette and her sister sat stiffly, every
movement measured, as though even a misplaced breath
could ruin everything.
The guests arrived—men in fine suits and women with
jewellery that sparkled like stars. They smiled politely,
sipping from their glasses, as her father boomed with
laughter, acting the gracious host. For a while,
everything went smoothly. The guests made small talk,
and everyone was enjoying themselves
Until it happened. Sophia took the opportunity to eat
proper food, and as she ate, she felt a burning sensation
in her throat. The food was spicy, too spicy. As she
reached for the jug of water, she met her father; they
were here. In that moment of fear, Sophia's hand
trembled, and a splash of water dropped on one of the guests' laps. Sophia was mortified as she immediately
began apologising profusely.
Her father's eyes flickered with tension, his jaw
tightening, but he forced a laugh, waving his hand
dismissively. "Accidents," he said smoothly, his voice
hiding the storm brewing beneath.
The guests smiled again, reassured. The evening went
on.
Then came his son—stumbling into the room long after
dinner had begun, the smell of alcohol clinging to him.
His shirt was unbuttoned, his eyes glassy, but instead of
shame, their father rose to his feet with pride.
"This," he declared, beaming, "is my son. My heir. A
man already."
The guests chuckled politely, raising their glasses. No
one mentioned the staggering steps, the slurred words.
The front door closed with a hollow thud behind the last
guest, and the entire atmosphere of the house shifted like
air being sucked out of a room. The polite laughter, the
clinking of cutlery, the carefully staged smiles—all of it
vanished in an instant. Silence fell heavy, the kind that
makes every breath feel loud, dangerous, like a secret
that might escape.
Odette sat frozen in her chair, her small hands resting on
her lap, the fabric of the new dress her father had given her wrinkling beneath her clenched fists. She didn't dare
move, didn't dare breathe too loudly. She could already
sense it—the storm. Her father's shoulders were rigid,
his jaw tightened so hard a vein pulsed against his
temple. His eyes, once sharp with counterfeit charm, had
grown darker, colder.
Across the table, Sophia, her elder sister, shifted
uneasily. She tucked a strand of loose hair behind her
ear, but her hand trembled. Odette could see her sister's
lips part slightly, as if to whisper an apology again, but
the words stuck in her throat. Their mother, Isabella, sat
on the edge of her chair, her eyes darting from her
husband to her daughters, like a bird trapped in a cage,
desperately searching for a way to shield her chicks from
a predator she couldn't fight.
Their father pushed his chair back. The scraping sound
against the floor was louder than thunder in Odette's
ears. His expression didn't falter, but his movements
were precise, calculated. He stood, slowly unbuttoning
his cuffs, rolling his sleeves with deliberate calmness.
That calmness was worse than any outburst—it meant he
was preparing.
"Up," he said, his voice low, almost a growl. He didn't
look at Odette. His eyes were fixed on Sophia. "Stand
up."
Sophia's chair wobbled as she scrambled to her feet, her
legs unsteady, her breath shallow.15
"F–Father, I'm sorry," she whispered quickly, her voice
breaking. "I didn't mean to—"
"Silence!" His hand slammed against the table, rattling
the cups that remained. Odette flinched, her heart leaping
to her throat. His teeth clenched, his nostrils flaring with
every heavy breath. "Do you know what you've done?
Do you understand?"
Sophia shook her head rapidly, tears already spilling
down her cheeks. "I–It was just water, Father, I didn't
mean—"
"It was not just water!" he barked, stepping closer,
towering over her. His eyes twitched as he pointed a stiff
finger at her trembling form. "Those men… those men
are important. Do you think I can afford your foolish
mistakes? Do you think I can afford you?"
He raised his hand suddenly. Elise shrieked, flinching
back. But it wasn't a slap—it was worse. His fingers
twisted into the neckline of her dress, the very one he
had given her hours ago, and he yanked her forward. The
fabric strained and ripped as he dragged her away from
the table, her bare feet stumbling against the floor.
"Father, please!" Odette cried, instinctively standing.
Her small voice cracked under the weight of terror. She
wanted to run to Sophia, to hold her, but her mother's
weak hand shot out, grabbing her wrist tightly.
"Don't," Isabella whispered, shaking her head with desperation. Her nails dug into Odette's skin, not to hurt
her, but to keep her alive.
Their father pulled Sophia into the centre of the room.
His fists clenched and unclenched, the tendons in his
neck straining. For a moment, he didn't move, just
glared at her, as though deciding which punishment
would burn deepest. Then, his hand cracked across her
cheek with such force that her head snapped to the side.
A gasp escaped her lips as she stumbled, nearly falling.
Odette's knees buckled. She wanted to scream, to shield
her sister, but her mother's grip only tightened.
"You embarrass me," their father snarled. "In front of
your future husband."
Both Odette and Sophia froze, their wide eyes locking
with each other's. Future… husband?
Sophia's lip trembled. "F–Future… husband?" she
whispered, her voice so soft it was almost a thought.
Her father's eyes narrowed, his teeth baring in something between a smile and a snarl. "Did you think I would feed you and clothe you for free? Did you think
you were anything but a burden? You will marry. You will pay off my debts. That is your worth."17
Odette's breath caught. She felt her stomach twist, a cold
shiver rushing through her bones. The words echoed in
her mind like a curse.
Sophia stumbled back, shaking her head in disbelief.
"No… no, Father, please… I don't—"
The second slap was harder than the first, silencing her.
Blood trickled from the corner of her lip.
Odette pressed her hand against her mouth to stop
herself from crying out. Her heart pounded so hard it
hurt. She had known her father was cruel, selfish,
obsessed with appearances and his precious son, but
this—this was different. This was betrayal wrapped in
cruelty.
Her father stood over Sophia, his chest heaving, his
shadow long and menacing under the dim light. Then he
straightened, brushing off his hands as though her pain
was nothing more than dirt on his palms.
"Get out of my sight," he spat, pointing toward their
cramped little room at the back of the house. "Both of
you. Now."
Isabella immediately rose, guiding her daughters with
trembling hands, whispering for them to move quickly.
Odette clutched Sophia's arm, holding her upright as she
stumbled. They hurried down the narrow hallway, every
step heavy, suffocating.
When they finally shut the door behind them, Sophia
collapsed onto the mattress they shared, burying her face
in her hands. Her shoulders shook violently with sobs,
muffled but raw. Odette sat beside her, wrapping her
arms around her sister, her own tears streaming silently
down her face.
In the corner, their mother leaned against the wall, her
eyes hollow, her lips trembling as though she wanted to
speak but couldn't find the strength.
For a long moment, no one said a word. The room was
filled only with the sound of Sophia's crying and
Odette's shallow breaths. Then, finally, Sophia lifted her
head, her swollen cheek glistening with tears.
"Future husband…" she whispered again, her voice
cracking. "What did he mean, Odette? Who… who is he
giving me to?"
Odette's chest tightened. She had no answer, no comfort
to give. All she could do was hold her sister tighter, her
own mind racing with fear.
Somewhere in the house, their father's laughter rang out, cruel and satisfied.
The sisters huddled together in the darkness, clinging to
one another like shipwreck survivors in a stormy sea—
trying desperately to make sense of the nightmare that had just begun.