Fake Destiny

Chapter 3: Memories

ISABELLA'S POV

The memories of my mother come to me in flashes, soft and painful like a distant dream I can never fully grasp. I remember her warmth, her gentle hands, the way she’d run her fingers through my hair and tell me everything would be okay. I’d believe her, because mothers are supposed to fix things, right? But now, I wonder what she would have thought if she could see me now.

Would she still comfort me, still reassure me that everything would be okay? Or would she see the shame in my eyes and realize that no amount of love could ever undo the pain that’s been carved into me?

I can still hear her voice sometimes, a soft whisper in my mind. "You’ll be okay, Isabella. You’re strong." But that was before the world turned cold, before my father’s debts dragged me into this nightmare. Before I was sold.

It’s been three years since I was ripped away from everything I knew. From my family. From my life. And now all that’s left is a hollow shell of a girl, trapped in a gilded cage, unable to escape.

I think of her every day. My mother. And I wonder if she would have cried for me, if she knew what I’ve become.

The door to my chambers opens, and I blink away the tears before they can spill over again. The same routine, day in and day out. It’s always the same.

The food is brought to me by a silent servant, a woman with dull eyes who avoids meeting my gaze. She sets the tray of food down on the table without a word, as if I’m not even here. As if I’m not a human being with feelings, with a soul that still cries out for something more than this.

I don’t even have the energy to thank her. I don’t even want to eat anymore. The food is tasteless, the kind of bland, sustenance-only fare they serve to people like me, people who don’t deserve the luxury of a real meal.

I pick at the food for a while, not really hungry. My stomach churns, but not because of the food. No, it’s something deeper. Something inside me that refuses to die, no matter how many times they try to break me.

After I’ve barely touched my meal, there’s a knock on the door.

"Come in," I whisper, though I don’t want them to come. I don’t want anyone near me. But they come anyway.

It’s the doctor. The one who administers the weekly dose of drugs. His face is impassive, like all the others who serve the Young Master. The same people who have no choice but to follow orders, to keep me in this hellhole.

The doctor gives me the usual treatment: a cocktail of pills and injections that will ensure I don’t become pregnant. They think they can control my body like this. They think that, by preventing a child from growing inside me, they can break me even more.

He places the needle in my arm, and I flinch, the sharp sting only a small reminder of the cruelty I face every week. This is the price I pay for being useful. For being alive, but not really living. Not really breathing.

The doctor finishes and leaves without a word. He never says anything. I’m just another body to him, just another patient to drug and move on from.

I sit there in silence, staring at the empty plate in front of me, my stomach hollow, my heart even emptier. This is all I know now, this is all I have.

I’ve become so numb to everything, even to the pain. But there are still moments when it breaks through, when the weight of it all crashes down on me like a wave.

That’s when the maids come in.

They don’t knock, they rarely do. They enter the room with soft footsteps, their eyes cast down as if they’re afraid of looking at me. They don’t want to see what I’ve become. They don’t want to see the broken girl who’s been torn apart by this cruel world.

"Miss Isabella," one of them says in a soft, almost apologetic voice. "It’s time to prepare you."

I hate those words. Prepare you. It’s the same thing every night. It’s always the same. They come in, strip me down, and dress me in something for him. Something to please him. They clean me, bathe me, make sure I’m ready to be his. But I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready.

I stand up, my knees shaking, and I walk toward the mirror. I don’t recognize the girl staring back at me. She’s not the girl I used to be. She’s not the girl with hope in her eyes. She’s not the girl with dreams. She’s just a shadow. A shell.

I want to scream at them. To tell them to leave me alone. But I don’t. Because I know they have no choice. They don’t have the luxury of refusing. They don’t have the luxury of being free.

So instead, I stand there in silence as they undress me. I don’t look at them. I don’t want to see their pity. Their eyes dart from me to each other, as if they’re ashamed to be here, ashamed of what they have to do. But they do it anyway. They have to.

The tears come then, the ones I can’t hold back. They fall silently down my face as I stare at my reflection. What happened to me? What happened to the girl who used to laugh, who used to dream?

"Please," I whisper, my voice trembling. "Please, just leave me alone."

But they don’t leave. They continue with their task, gently brushing my hair, applying oil to my skin, making sure I’m ready. Ready for him.

One of them places a soft, silk gown over my head, the fabric cold against my skin. I can’t stop crying now. I wish I could scream, wish I could break free from this torment. But I can’t. I’m trapped. And no one is coming to save me.

"We’re sorry," one of the maids says, her voice barely above a whisper. "But we don’t have a choice. We have to do this."

Her words stab at my heart. They’re right. None of us have a choice. Not me. Not them. Not anyone in this hell.

As the maids finish dressing me, I catch a glimpse of my reflection again. A broken girl, dressed in silk and sorrow, waiting for the cruel man who calls himself Master.

And in that moment, I feel the weight of the chains that bind me, the ones I can never escape.

But I can’t stop crying, the tears won't just stop threatening to pour out.