His Stolen Obsession

"I’m nothing." The words echoed in my mind, a familiar refrain whispered by unseen voices. They said it, at least. I knew it wasn't true, not really. But when a lie is hammered into your spirit for long enough, it begins to chip away at your own conviction, leaving a hollow space where certainty should be. My entire life, nothing had been expected of me. No dreams nurtured, no potential acknowledged. My mother had splintered from my life when I was thirteen, leaving me with him—the monster I once called my father. His abuse had begun when I was five, a terrifying cycle of beatings and violent outbursts that shredded not just the house, but my fragile sense of safety. My mother, my sole shield against that brutal existence, had whispered promises of "us forever," only to seize an opportunity and run, vanishing from everything, even me. At first, I couldn’t comprehend her abandonment, the bitter taste of that broken vow. "You b***h! What are you standing there doing? Go get me a new bottle before I give you something to think about deeply." For a reckless second, I let my mind linger on the edge of defiance, a dangerous indulgence that would certainly cost me another beating. My body still ached from last night's bruising reminder of his wrath. I swallowed, the fear a cold knot in my stomach. I rushed to the fridge, my movements jerky, fumbling for his usual can of beer. I pressed the cold aluminum against my throbbing temple for a fleeting moment, a desperate attempt to quell the rising panic. "Your boss called me today," his voice, slurred and heavy, sliced through the tense silence of the kitchen. "Told me you're stressing him and he's threatening to sack you. I'll tell you just one thing, Elara: if you by mistake lose that job, just know you'll be sleeping in the streets forever." My head snapped down, a rapid, involuntary shake. Fear, cold and insidious, crept up my spine, constricting my breath. Losing that job, however unbearable, meant losing my only precarious foothold in this wretched existence. He rose from the living room couch, his bulk a looming shadow that devoured the space between us at the kitchen counter. "I don't hear a word from your lips, but your f*****g head is shaking. Are you really asking for a nice beating this Monday morning?" "No, sir," I stammered, my voice barely a whisper, barely my own. "I'm sorry. I won't make such a mistake again." I bowed my head so low, my chin nearly grazed my chest. Any lower, and I was sure my forehead would meet the worn linoleum. "I believe that's cleared now. Get the f**k out of my face." I spun on my heel, retreating as fast as my trembling legs would allow, hurrying to the supposed sanctuary of my tiny room to change for school. You see, I come from nothing. A poor family, born and raised in London. Yet, here I am, a scholarship student at one of London’s most prestigious colleges, studying art. It’s a life I hate, made worse by a boss who mirrors my father's cruelty. He’s a friend of Jack's, ensuring I'm assigned unbearable shifts and that my meager salary goes directly into my father's liquor fund. He’d even tried to touch me, his hand groping my backside, and I, foolishly, reacted. A resounding slap across his face, then I ran. Now, I’m the one at fault. I shouldn’t have done that. It wasn't his fault my 'butt area' was 'big'. I sighed, shaking my head. Nothing is truly interesting about me. Just dull blue eyes that rarely meet another's gaze, a cascade of unruly brown curly hair, and freckles I fight so hard to cover up, each one a tiny flaw. And I'm tiny, too. Just 5'4" at twenty years old, a fact that always felt like another failing. I picked a simple, unassuming outfit for the day – faded jeans, a soft, oversized jumper that hid my frame, and worn sneakers. After changing, I gripped my bag tightly and ventured back into the living room. Jack was still sprawled on the couch, lost in a haze of cheap beer and loud, meaningless television. I grabbed an apple from the kitchen counter, its crisp skin a fleeting comfort, and slipped out the front door. Already, I dreaded the day. Class by nine, then work by twelve. The thought of facing my boss, the second nightmare in my life, made my stomach clench. It was going to be a long day. The morning air was crisp, carrying the distant hum of London awakening. I walked, my worn sneakers hitting the pavement with a quiet rhythm. The distance to the college was familiar, each step a small act of rebellion against the life I’d left behind the front door. At school, it was the same as always. I moved through the bustling corridors like a ghost, unseen, unacknowledged. And I was okay with that. More than okay. It was comfortable. Friends meant questions, expectations, emotional baggage I couldn't afford to carry in my already overflowing life. Being invisible was a shield, a silent agreement with the world to leave me to my quiet misery. Classes passed in a blur of abstract concepts and artistic techniques. My mind, usually a whirlwind of anxieties, found a temporary reprieve in the lines and forms, the endless possibilities of a blank canvas. But the relief was fleeting. The digital clock on the wall, a relentless countdown, announced the inevitable: time for my shift. My stomach knotted. I slung my bag over my shoulder, the weight of it suddenly oppressive, and began the familiar walk to the small parlor. It was conveniently located, nestled between the college and our wretched house, a popular spot in the area. I reached it faster than I’d hoped, the dread building with every hurried step. The bell above the door jingled softly as I entered, a sound that usually meant the start of routine, but today it felt like a summons. The parlor was already buzzing with a respectable number of customers. Nothing overwhelming, but enough to keep me constantly in motion, serving with forced smiles and polite chatter. Four hours into this hell hole, I felt myself draining, each interaction another sip of my dwindling energy. The dread of Mr. Davies’s office still gnawed at me, a persistent ache behind my ribs. I reached for my apron in the back room, when the door to Mr. Davies’s office creaked open. My breath hitched. He was there, my boss, Mr. Davies. A smirk, cold and knowing, twisted his thin lips as his gaze swept over me. My heart began to pound a frantic drum against my ribs. "Well, well, if it isn't our little slut, Elara," he sneered, his voice a low, venomous hiss that only I could hear. "Still here, are we? I warned your old man about you. If it wasn't for the pity I have on him, and on you, I would have sent you packing weeks ago. Consider yourself on thin ice, girl." The words hit me like physical blows, each one chipping away at the fragile composure I tried so desperately to maintain. My head bowed automatically, my gaze fixed on my scuffed sneakers. My hands, hidden behind my back, began to tremble uncontrollably. I just listened, taking it all in, letting the verbal abuse wash over me, hoping it would be enough. Praying he wouldn't do anything more than shout. I was easy to intimidate, always had been. It was safer that way. Then I felt it – his presence closing in, a shadow looming over me. My breath caught in my throat as his hand began to move, a slow, deliberate reach towards me. My entire body stiffened, a silent scream trapped in my chest. No, please, no more. Not here. Not now. Just as his fingers brushed against the fabric of my jumper, a voice cut through the air. "Mr. Davies? Got a question about the new inventory." Mr. Davies's hand snapped back as if burned. He cleared his throat loudly, the smirk vanishing, replaced by a forced composure. "Yes, Thomas? Coming." He shot me one last warning look, then his voice dropped to a barely audible growl. "My office. After your shift. Don't be late." My hands shook so violently I clasped them together behind my back, digging my nails into my palms, trying to anchor myself. I raised my head, forcing my gaze to meet his for a split second, my voice a thin, reedy sound I barely recognized as my own. "Okay." Thomas, my colleague, strode past, oblivious, absorbed in his own thoughts. He didn't spare us a glance. He never did. No one ever did. With Mr. Davies gone, the air in the back room felt thin, suffocating. I quickly changed, my movements clumsy, fumbling with the ties of my apron. I emerged, forcing my signature customer service smile back onto my face, the practiced cheer returning to my voice as I began taking orders. My body moved on autopilot, delivering coffee, ringing up pastries, my focus scattered, the dread of his office still a heavy weight in my gut. Then, a flicker of movement outside the large parlor windows caught my eye. A sleek, shiny black car, the kind that looked like it cost more than my entire family's existence, glided to a silent stop at the curb. My breath hitched. This wasn't the usual clientele. A figure emerged from the driver's side, a man in a crisp black suit, moving with a silent, controlled grace as he opened the back passenger door. And then he stepped out. Damon Volkov. The name, often whispered in hushed, fearful tones across London, immediately sprang to mind. He was more than just a man known for his cruel and intimidating ways; some said he wasn't just a part of the mafia, he was the mafia. He was a force. Easily six feet, seven inches of intimidating power, a stark silhouette against the London streetlights. His dark hair, thick and lustrous, was pulled back in a severe, tight ponytail that emphasized the sharp planes of his cheekbones and a jawline that could cut glass. Wrapped in an expensive black suit that seemed molded to his broad, powerful frame, he exuded an aura of dangerous wealth. A cold, shiny watch glinted at his wrist, heavy with a collection of rings that looked lethal even from this distance. I had never seen someone so utterly, breathtakingly beautiful, so commanding, so worth looking at. My gaze, usually trained on the ground, snagged on him like a moth to a flame. He straightened from the car, his head turning with an unnerving slowness. And then his dark green eyes, eyes the color of a storm-tossed sea, found mine through the parlor window. I flinched, pulling back as if burned. My cheeks heated instantly, a mortifying flush spreading across my face. Oh, I was disgracing myself, caught gawking like a foolish, star-struck girl over a man who would never, could never, even glance in my direction. Before I could gather my scattered thoughts, he walked inside. His presence didn't just enter the room; it commanded it, silencing the casual chatter, drawing every eye. His gaze, hot, intimidating, and yet strangely fascinating, remained firmly fixed on me as he approached the ordering section where I stood. I plastered on my signature customer service smile, but it wavered, a fragile mask over my rapidly beating heart under his relentless scrutiny. Yes, he was intimidating. Terribly so. "What can I get for you, sir?" My voice was barely a whisper, a stark contrast to the practiced cheer I usually offered. It trembled, betraying me. He didn't answer immediately. His dark green eyes roamed over my face, taking in every detail – my dull blue eyes, the runaway curls, the freckles I tried so hard to hide. I suddenly feared I had something on my face, a smudge of dirt, a stray crumb, anything to explain the intensity of his stare. Finally, he blessed me with his voice. Deep. Raspy. A low rumble that vibrated through the air, sending another shiver down my spine. "Where is your boss?" I blinked, confused by the abrupt question. It wasn't my business, really, but the force of his presence made me answer without hesitation. "He… he stepped out a few minutes ago, sir. He'll be back soon." He gave me one last, sharp gaze, then a slow, deliberate smirk spread across his sculpted lips. It wasn't a friendly smile; it was predatory, promising trouble. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the parlor, his movements as silent and commanding as when he entered. I watched him go, a shiver running through me even after the door chimed shut behind him. Who was he? What did he want with Mr. Davies? He seemed scary, utterly terrifying, yet… something about him tugged at a strange, dangerous curiosity deep within me.