Chapter4
946 Words
Xochi didn’t sleep.
She lay curled on one side of the massive bed, the silk sheets tangled around her ankles like vines. Her eyes stayed open, fixed on the ceiling. Not even the chandelier’s soft glimmer distracted her. There was nothing beautiful about a cage, no matter how it sparkled.
Her body was still. Her thoughts were not.
She kept replaying his words—You’re mine. Don’t make me lock the windows too. The threat was quiet, almost gentle, but it had lodged deep inside her like glass beneath the skin.
She felt small. So small. Smaller than she ever had in her life.
And pathetic.
Even when things at home were bad, at least she’d had her sisters to hug, her old hoodie to wrap herself in, her tiny room to hide in. But now, surrounded by wealth, by cold perfection and crystal chandeliers, she had nothing familiar. Not a scent, not a sound. Even her reflection in the gilded mirror looked like someone else. Someone hollow.
When morning came, she didn’t move.
The knock came at exactly eight.
She didn’t answer.
Another knock.
Then, a pause.
The door opened slowly.
She expected one of the maids, maybe even the woman from last night. But it was Chris.
Of course it was.
He stood in the doorway, fully dressed in a slate-grey suit, hands tucked in his pockets. His gaze swept the room, landed on her small, still form huddled beneath the sheets.
“You’re not dressed,” he said flatly.
Xochi blinked slowly. “I didn’t know what to wear.”
“Bullshit.”
She flinched at the coldness in his tone. Her fingers clutched the sheets tighter, as if they could shield her from the weight of his eyes.
Chris walked in, slow and deliberate. He stopped beside the bed and looked down at her like she was a broken doll someone had dropped on the floor.
“You think this is going to work?” he asked. “Lying there, playing the part of the helpless girl?”
“I’m not playing,” she whispered.
Something in her voice—fragile, worn—made him pause.
Xochi didn’t look up at him. Her eyes were on the ceiling again, wide and glassy. “I haven’t slept. I can’t think. I don’t know what you want from me.”
Chris crouched beside the bed now, leveling his face with hers. “I want you to start behaving like someone who belongs here.”
“I don’t belong here,” she said, so quietly he almost didn’t catch it.
“You do now.”
She shook her head, the movement barely visible. “You think signing a contract makes me yours? Like I’m a car or a house you can just buy?”
Chris didn’t answer.
He reached for the sheet she was hiding under and yanked it down.
Xochi gasped, pulling her arms around herself, suddenly very aware of how thin the silk nightgown was.
But Chris didn’t touch her. He just looked.
And then something strange happened—his brows furrowed slightly, as if the pathetic sight in front of him wasn’t what he’d expected. As if she was too real.
“Get up,” he said.
“No.”
His jaw tensed. “You don’t say no to me.”
“I just did.”
A beat passed.
Then, he stood. Walked to the wardrobe. Opened it.
“Get dressed,” he said without turning around. “You’re coming downstairs, even if I have to carry you.”
She didn’t move.
He turned, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Don’t test me, Xochi.”
But her voice was barely a whisper. “Then carry me.”
And that’s when it hit him—how broken she looked. Her hair limp, her skin pale, her frame trembling ever so slightly. Not out of defiance, but sheer exhaustion.
He didn’t say anything after that.
Just left the wardrobe open, the clothes swinging slightly, and walked out of the room.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Xochi stayed still a moment longer. Then slowly—too slowly—she sat up, her shoulders slumped, her face blank.
She dragged herself out of bed.
Every movement was sluggish. Robotic. Her body obeyed, but her soul felt miles away.
She picked out the simplest dress from the rack. A navy-blue thing with no frills, no flash. Just enough to cover her and make her presentable.
As she stepped into the hallway, the cold marble floor sent a shiver up her legs. She didn’t know where she was going, only that the house was too big, too quiet, and she couldn’t stop trembling.
Downstairs, she found the dining room.
Chris was seated at the long table, sipping coffee and reading the paper like he hadn’t just torn her apart with his words an hour ago.
He looked up when she entered.
She looked like a ghost.
And something in his expression flickered—something unreadable.
“Sit,” he said.
She did.
A maid poured her tea. Another placed a plate of food in front of her—eggs, toast, something expensive-looking she couldn’t name.
She didn’t touch any of it.
Chris watched her in silence. Then, finally, “You’re not eating.”
“I can’t.”
His voice softened, just a fraction. “Why?”
“Because if I eat, I’ll accept this.”
Silence.
And then—
“Good,” he said, setting down his mug. “Because you will.”
Xochi didn’t argue.
She just sat there, staring at her untouched plate, looking every bit like a girl who had lost her fight.
- Writer
