Amina's breath caught when her father reached for the handset. Not a pause, just straight into rapid speech, as if delaying would make it worse. She had no clue whom he dialed, yet each syllable tightened the dread inside. His voice pushed air through the room, cold and sharp.
Dad… why is everything changing? Her words trembled through the quiet. A pause hung between them like smoke after a spark.
"Just… wait," he said, avoiding her eyes. "He'll be here soon."
A sudden honk from the street caused her to startle. A lanky figure stepped out in a long coat, climbing slowly from a dark, glossy vehicle and scanning the sidewalk. His gaze stopped when it reached where she stood. The man gave a small nod toward her father before shifting fully in her direction.
"This is her?" he asked.
"Yes," her father said shortly. "Take care of her."
Amina felt her mouth turn parched. Not a word came from her father about marriage—just that the man would look after her. Yet those phrases landed like stone. Final. Cold.
Her steps moved after him toward the vehicle, knees unsteady. Time stretched, each moment thick, while the past shrank in the glass behind.
Inside the gates, Amina stopped moving. Huge walls rose up, glass catching light, everything lined up just right—yet somehow distant, hollow, like no one truly lived there.
Fog filled her mind at the start. Amina would not eat, would not close her eyes, would not drink water. Through empty corridors she drifted, shadows trailing behind, memories of her mother, father, and siblings clinging tight. Not one plate touched her lips. Each mattress felt like stone beneath a stranger.
Soon enough, she noticed she wasn't by herself. Others lived there too—younger ones, older ones mixed in. They kept their eyes on her at first, hesitant about who she was. After a while, a few reached out instead of staying distant.
A crumb stuck to the edge of the plate when she pushed it forward. A soft voice, maybe fifteen, spoke. Food might help, the girl said without saying much else.
A tiny hand pulled at the fabric of her arm, small fingers bunching the cloth. The voice came quiet, close—just a whisper, unsure. Five years old, maybe even less, eyes wide with something like wonder. Tears were falling, though she hadn't noticed them.
"What makes your face wet?" the small voice asked gently.
Amina felt the shout rise in her throat, her hands tensing to shove them away. Yet something in their gaze—soft concern, quiet care—pulled her toward the food instead. One small bite gave way to another, even as knots twisted deep inside her. She kept eating, slowly, while unease and grief swirled beneath.
Time moved on. The sharp edge of shock softened, but something else crept in—unease. That night, as the light faded outside, Andrew broke the silence between them.
"You will marry me," he said calmly. "And you will take care of my children.
Amina stood there, legs trembling beneath her. At just seventeen years old, the weight pressed down. Children surrounded her—some barely able to walk straight, others nearly grown. Responsibility dropped on her like a sack of stones. Could she really handle all of this?
Out of nowhere, everything broke. Doors slammed shut, furniture took hits, her voice scraped raw from shouting. Handling it? That was impossible. Those older girls—once kind—now watched her closely, correcting her every move, enforcing rules she didn't understand.
Stillness pressed against the walls, heavy. Every sound—the children's laughter, the arguments, the cries—reminded her of the truth she couldn't escape: something important had been taken from her.
Fists tight, Amina stood still. Survival wasn't a choice—it was automatic, like breathing. Past struggles had shaped her, but this… this was different.
Amina sat on the floor, hugging her knees, trying to make herself as small and invisible as possible. The older girl, around twenty-five, sat across from her, tired but alert, as though she had lived a lifetime before ending up here.
"Don't worry… it's just me," the older girl said softly. "I'm the only one here who actually cares about you."
Amina's eyes lifted quickly to her face. "Why would you care about me?"
The older girl let out a small, bitter laugh. "You think you're the first girl to come here? You're not. And you won't be the last. Andrew does this with all the girls who come here."
She leaned back slightly, her hands twisting in her lap. "There's a boy here—the oldest. He's nineteen. His mother… Andrew kicked her out, just like that. It didn't matter how much she cried or begged. And him… he gets beaten, yelled at, mistreated for every little thing. He's not the only one. Many of us were brought here the same way you were. And every day… we get hit, yelled at, and scared."
Amina's chest tightened. "Even… his children?"
The older girl's eyes hardened. "Especially them. Andrew treats all the children in this house like property. They'll grow up with no one truly caring for them."
She paused, then sighed softly. "I heard you haven't been eating well. I brought something for you. Eat… and freshen up."
Before Amina could respond, the door suddenly opened.
Andrew stepped in.
"All of you," he called out. "Come downstairs."
His eyes landed on Amina.
"You too."