A Caged Life
1608 Words
3rd Person POV:
“Can’t you even do a single thing right?”
Veronica Smith’s voice sliced through the air like a whip, her anger as sharp as the slap that followed. The impact sent Rosaleen crashing onto the cold, hard floor, her breath leaving her in a strangled gasp.
A burning sting spread across her cheek, but the ache in her chest was worse—deeper, heavier. It was the kind of pain that never left, the kind that settled in her bones and refused to fade.
“I-I’ve already m-mopped the fl-o-or, Aunty,” she stammered, her voice barely a whisper as she curled into herself.
Veronica’s lips curled in disgust. “Are you accusing me of lying?” Her words dripped venom, her fury dark and unwavering. Without warning, her foot struck Rosaleen’s stomach, a brutal kick that sent her body jolting.
A choked cry escaped her lips. Her arms instinctively wrapped around herself, trying to shield her ribs from further harm, but she knew better than to plead for mercy.
Veronica sneered. “I want that floor spotless before the guests arrive. If I see even a speck of dust—” She let the unspoken threat linger before turning away, her heels clicking against the polished wood as she disappeared into the hallway.
Rosaleen lay there for a moment, the dull throb of pain settling deep within her. Tears pooled in her eyes, but she blinked them away. She had long since learned that crying changed nothing.
This was her life.
A life where pain was routine and kindness was a distant dream.
Shaky hands pressed against the floor as she forced herself upright, ignoring the sharp sting in her abdomen. The mop bucket had been knocked over, its filthy water spreading in murky puddles across the tiles.
Of course, it wasn’t an accident. Veronica never acted out of carelessness—only cruelty.
Rosaleen clenched her jaw and reached for the mop, pushing through the ache in her muscles as she started cleaning again. She worked in silence, each stroke of the mop erasing the evidence of her suffering.
By the time she finished, her body screamed in protest, but there was no time to rest. The guests would arrive soon.
She dragged herself to her small room—a cramped space at the farthest end of the house, once a storage closet but now her only refuge. The walls bore stains of time, and the roof leaked when it rained, but it was hers.
The only place where she could breathe.
She stripped off her soiled dress and stepped into the freezing shower. The icy water bit at her skin, but she welcomed the sting—it was better than feeling nothing at all.
After a few minutes, she changed into a simple black turtleneck dress. Her fingers trembled as she ran them over the soft fabric. It was the only decent piece of clothing she owned, one she had salvaged from her mother’s belongings.
She hesitated in front of the mirror, her reflection a ghostly silhouette in the dim light. The woman staring back at her wasn’t the Rosaleen she once knew.
Her face, now marked with faint bruises and the lingering echo of past punishments, was barely recognizable.
Her long, thick hair cascaded in voluminous waves down her back—a silent rebellion against Veronica’s wishes. She usually kept it tightly tied, but today, she let it flow freely.
A small act of defiance.
She exhaled, tucking her emotions away as she hurried toward the kitchen. The scent of spices and roasted meat filled the air as she worked tirelessly, her hands moving on instinct.
Chicken Street Tacos, Corn-Jicama Salsa, Sopes, Slow-Cooker Beef Barbacoa—each dish carefully prepared, each spice measured to perfection.
Her mother’s recipes.
The only part of her heritage that still brought her comfort.
By the time she finished, the house was pristine, and the food was set. The sharp chime of the doorbell sent a jolt through her.
They were here.
She quickly draped a scarf over her face, as was customary. No one outside her family had seen her face in years.
“Rosaleen, water for the guests,” her grandmother’s cold voice rang from the living room.
She obeyed, carefully filling two glasses before placing them on a tray. Her hands trembled slightly as she stepped forward.
“Put the tray here and go set the dining table,” her grandmother snapped.
Rosaleen set the glasses down and turned to leave, but not before stealing a glance at the guests.
They were from the Royal Moon Pack.
A pack known for its power. Its prestige.
A pack completely different from her own.
But what caught her attention wasn’t their presence—it was the girl among them.
She stood tall, dressed in a crisp white shirt, a tailored black coat, and fitted black pants—clothes that no woman in Rosaleen’s pack would ever be allowed to wear.
Rosaleen’s heart pounded.
The girl was different.
She was bold. Defiant.
"You will show them to their rooms, Rosaleen," Veronica ordered before walking away.
Rosaleen led them through the dimly lit hallway, the weight of her silence heavier than the tray she had carried.
She stopped in front of a simple, unadorned room and pushed the door open. “You can stay here,” she murmured.
The tall, broad-shouldered boy with sharp features glanced around. His dark eyes flickered over the room’s modest furnishings before he gave a small nod. “It’s fine.”
Rosaleen quickly stepped back and led the girl to another room.
“This will be yours,” she said softly.
The girl stepped inside, running her fingers over the soft quilt. “It’s small but cozy,” she commented.
Rosaleen hesitated. “Thank you,” she murmured.
The girl turned, watching her with an unreadable expression. “Wait. What’s your name?”
Rosaleen’s hands clenched her dress. No one ever asked.
Before she could respond, her grandmother’s sharp voice echoed.
"Rosaleen, set the table for dinner!"
Rosaleen hurried away, leaving the girl more curious than before.
---
At the dining table, the tension in the air was thick.
Rosaleen carefully placed the dishes, the rich aroma of the meal filling the space.
The girl spoke first.
“Wow, this is the best Mexican food I’ve ever smelled! Who made this?”
Rosaleen stiffened. Compliments were foreign to her.
“Rosaleen made it,” her grandmother answered curtly.
The boy raised a brow. “Are you Rosaleen?”
Rosaleen opened her mouth to respond, but Veronica cut in.
“Yes, she is,” her aunt said dismissively.
The girl frowned. “Then why is she hiding her face?”
Silence.
Rosaleen’s heart pounded.
Her grandmother’s voice was sharp. “She follows the customs of our pack.”
The girl scoffed. “In today’s world? Who still follows such rules?”
A deadly silence stretched across the room.
“You may come from a large pack,” her grandmother said icily, “but here, things are different. She must follow the customs.”
Rosaleen kept her head bowed.
She could feel the girl’s gaze on her—intense, questioning, almost… frustrated.
No one had ever looked at her like that before.
No one had ever cared.
As silence stretched between them, Veronica finally set her cup down with a soft clink and folded her hands neatly on the table. “The Alpha has decided that you will shift back to his house tomorrow morning,” she stated smoothly. “Your stay here was only for the night.”
The girl’s brows furrowed slightly, but her expression remained neutral. “That’s odd,” she mused, her tone deceptively light. “If the Alpha wants us at his house, why not tonight? Why send us here in the first place?”
Rosaleen felt her breath hitch, her fingers clenching at the fabric of her dress. No one ever questioned orders in this household. No one ever challenged decisions made by those above them.
Veronica’s smile didn’t waver, but there was a sharp glint in her eyes. “The Alpha has his reasons,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument. “He sent word ahead, ensuring the arrangements were made. It isn’t our place to question him.”
The girl, however, didn’t seem satisfied with that answer. She leaned forward slightly, her gaze unwavering. “And what were those reasons?”
A beat of silence passed. The tension in the room thickened, pressing against Rosaleen’s chest like a heavy weight.
Veronica’s expression didn’t falter, but there was a stiffness in the way she held herself now. “That is not for me to say,” she replied, her voice clipped. “But I suggest you rest for the night. You have a long journey tomorrow.”
The girl studied her for a long moment before finally leaning back in her chair. Her expression was unreadable, but Rosaleen could see the sharp intellect behind her eyes. She wasn’t convinced.
Still, she said nothing more. Instead, she turned back to her plate, lifting her spoon with an air of practiced ease. “I suppose we’ll find out soon enough,” she murmured.
Veronica gave a polite, dismissive smile before turning her attention elsewhere, signaling that the conversation was over.
But even as the dinner continued, Rosaleen couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. For the first time in years, someone had questioned the way things were. And for the first time, it felt like the fragile foundation of her world had begun to tremble.
- Writer
