CHAPTER 2: A RECIPE FOR DISASTER
1158 Words
Morning arrived like a bruise.
Samantha stood before the mirror—red-rimmed eyes, split lips, a body that felt borrowed.
She dressed in silence: soft trousers, a silk shirt that clung like a lie. She hoped the fabric could disguise what had been done.
The hall was an expensive maze—long, echoing, cold underfoot. She drifted through it without destination, fingers trailing the banister as if it might lead her to a way out.
The doors felt all wrong, like beautiful prisons.
Then she pushed open one and the air changed.
Cold morning, blue sky. The scent of flowers carried on a breeze that should’ve been freeing. Only that it wasn't.
Then suddenly, she heard voices—sharp, male, angry voices.
She crept forward and peered around the corner like something in her wanted to be hurt again.
The world stopped.
Two men held up a brutally battered man. While another stood in front, a pistol on his hand.
One she recognised by his stance.
That dark hair was the same hair she had gripped last night, her fingers tangled in it.
"The stranger from last night." She whispered to herself.
Her hand flew to her head, clutching her hair as panic tightened her chest. “What’s he doing here? Who is he? Why does he have a gun?” Endless questions raced through her mind, refusing to stop.
Blood streaked across the stranger's knuckles. His eyes were cold. And he pulled the trigger.
Bang.
The man crumpled. His body hit the earth with a sound she'd never forget—the kind of thud that stains your memory forever.
Her scream tore loose, raw and jagged. She stumbled back, bile rising.
Three heads turned.
They saw her.
And the worst part? None of them looked surprised or took a second glance. Not even the very man who had found his way into her last night.
Is this a set-up? She thought, as she could no longer hold it anymore, she began to puke.
Just then, a maid came running out to her. "Ma'am are you okay?"
Sammy turned to look at her. "None of this is okay," her voice broke.
The head-maid embraced her, helping her in. "You shouldn't be out here."
*****
The scent of tea curled in the air like a spell. The head-maid poured it into a mug and handed it to Sammy. “Drink. Mongolian tea. Helps with the pain.”
Sammy froze.
What pain? I didn’t tell her about last night, she thought, staring at the dark liquid. Her eyes darted around the dining room, muttering beneath her breath,
"secrets, lots of them."
The hotness hit her tongue hard when she finally sipped. Her face twisted with every swallow, hoping the bitter taste would wake her up from this terrible nightmare.
"Is there gonna be a party?" Sammy asked, staring at the piles of food and endless silverware on the table. She hoped there would be, thinking it might be her only chance to escape this house full of armies, monsters, and secrets.
"No," the head-maid smiled. "Signore Thorne would be joining breakfast."
She shivered, memories of last night flooded in. "Just the two of us?"
"Master Damon would be here too," the head-maid replied, cleaning one hand on her apron.
"Who's Damon?" Sammy asked too quickly. Curiosity? Fear?
As if summoned by her fears, he walked in—calm, confident and her whole world crumbled.
He's the one man she'd wished it wasn't. Her one night stand... is her husband's son.
She bit her fingers, trying to stop them from shaking.
"Good morning Sir," The maids chorused with their head bowed.
He sat without sparing her a single glance.
She felt utterly insignificant, like she didn’t exist. Is he pretending not to know me, or does he really not recognize me? she wondered.
Let it go. It was a one-night mistake. We didn’t even know each other’s names. She tried to wave it off, but her problem only multiplied.
She felt him—heavy, deliberate, Don Thorne.
The air in the room shifted. The maids panicked, trying to stand perfectly. The servers’ hands shook, and Sammy’s chest felt tight, as if it had forgot how to breathe.
She tossed the napkin onto the table, ready to make a quick exit.
“Sit.” He commanded.
His voice broke every bones in her body. She grabbed her napkin tightly, fingers clenching around it, teeth biting down—fury, perhaps.
Damon's eyes met hers and for the first time, they held something familiar. It was soothing.
Father and son sat across from her, their resemblance like a glitch in the matrix. One had rocked her body, the other now claimed it—great. A total recipe for disaster.
Her eyes darted to Thorne, who calmly focused on his food, oblivious to how suffocating his presence made the air feel. She studied his brows—thick strokes of charcoal art, his sharp jawline, and those eyes… so perfectly evil. Her fingers tightened around her fork, threatening to snap.
"I want him to pay," she whispered.
As if he’d heard her, he looked up. “Be ready. We leave for a party at exactly six today.” And with that, he rose and left the table.
She hated Don Thorne—his power, his control, his cold, cruel ownership. She hated what he’d done to her, and she wanted him to pay for it.
But first things first—Damon.
As soon as they finished eating, she cornered him in the hallway.
“Nice acting, stranger.”
“Hi,” Damon said.
“Hi? That’s your surprise speech?” She laughed bitterly. “Did you and your father plan this? Am I just a pawn in your big game?”
"I was at the bar to clear my head after a long business day. You were there. We were both drunk, and we had s*x. That’s all it was,” he said flatly.
“Is it? Because I’m going to tell him. And when he finds out his son has been down here before, he’s going to leave me alone.”
“No, he’s not,” Damon replied, voice low. “So you shouldn’t.”
She stared at him for a moment. “You’re scared of him, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Because I’ve known him longer than you have. He doesn’t like his things messing around with the people close to him.”
“Thing?”
He stepped closer. “That’s all you are to him, just another plaything. That’s all you’ll ever be. So dress up for the party, wear something nice, stay out of my business—because you’re going to see a lot of shooting and dead bodies. Then focus on being my father’s new wife. Just that.”
With that, he walked away.
“Play-thing,” Sammy whispered to herself. “That’s all I am.”
- Writer
