The ghost of fifteen
877 Words
The ghost of fifteen
I have always hated the dark.
Everything terrible in my life happened beneath it, when the city slept, when silence swallowed the streets, when shadows became deep enough to hide monsters. The dark took everything from me, and now, trapped inside it again, I can feel panic clawing its way up my throat.
I force myself to breathe.
One sharp inhale.
Another.
Nothing works.
My lungs tighten painfully, refusing to cooperate no matter how hard I try.
“Sophia?”
My voice cracks through the darkness. No answer.
“Sophia!”
Silence.
Someone else is here.
I stumble backward, my legs suddenly weak beneath me. A shadow moves ahead of me, slow and deliberate, drawing closer with every second.
Without thinking, I scream.
For help.
For anyone passing the restroom to hear me.
For anyone at all.
Nothing comes.
One second I’m standing, the next I’m drowning , swallowed whole by the hands of a predator.
And just like that, reality slips from my grasp.
---
Aria — Age Fifteen
I hated school.
I hated the stares that lingered too long. The whispers trailing behind me in crowded hallways. The pity in people’s eyes whenever they looked at me.
Most of all, I hated needing Sophia to defend me.
Every time she stood up for me, it only reminded me how weak I really was.
“Aria.”
Miss Florence’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.
I look up from the blank sheet resting on my lap. I had been trying to write again — the only thing that ever makes me feel understood.
Miss Florence steps into my room carefully, her face flushed with exhaustion. She works endlessly in this house, enduring every tantrum Sophia and I throw her way without complaint.
“Yes?” I ask softly.
“Your uncle wants you in his study.”
Something in her expression shifts before she quickly turns away.
Cold dread slides down my spine.
My uncle doesn’t need to touch me to frighten me. His presence alone is enough.
Slowly, I climb off the bed and tug down the hem of my shorts. For a second I consider changing, but immediately dismiss the thought. He despises lateness.
Sophia’s bedroom door remains shut. She’s probably buried in another Korean drama marathon.
Lucky her.
I slip on my sandals and head downstairs, my heartbeat growing louder with every step toward the study.
Ever since my parents died, this mansion has become my home. It’s far bigger than the house I grew up in, yet somehow colder. Beautiful, expensive, lifeless.
The study doors tower over me.
Taking a steadying breath, I push one open.
My steps falter instantly.
Men fill the room.
Conversations die the moment I enter, every pair of eyes turning toward me. Heat crawls beneath my skin as I make my way toward my uncle seated at the head of the table.
He smiles at me.
The scar stretching across his face twists the expression into something crueler. I’ve heard the stories about how he got it — whispers of Italian retaliation and bloodshed.
His eyes narrow slightly, noticing my reaction.
Fear tightens in my chest.
My uncle hates weakness. I know that better than anyone.
He clears his throat.
“This is my niece, Aria,” he says. “The girl who lost her parents.”
The words sting more than they should.
I lower my gaze to the polished wooden table, blinking rapidly to stop the tears gathering in my eyes.
“She’s only fifteen,” my uncle continues. “Not ready yet.”
Relief flickers briefly inside me.
Then dies.
“But since my daughter’s hand has already been promised elsewhere, I see no issue forming the alliance with her instead.”
My blood turns cold.
No.
My fingers curl tightly at my sides as panic rises inside me. I always knew this day might come. Women in mafia families are bargaining chips long before they’re daughters.
Still, some foolish part of me believed my uncle would spare me that fate.
“What do you think?” my uncle asks the room.
“Why should we trust you, Eldorado?”
The unfamiliar voice slices through the silence.
I look up.
A broad-shouldered man sits across the table, his expression filled with open disdain. It’s the first time I’ve heard anyone speak my uncle’s name without fear.
My uncle only chuckles, low and dangerous.
Then I noticed him.
The man seated at the far end of the table.
He has been watching me the entire time.
Not casually.
Intently.
Like a predator studying prey.
Even after I catch him staring, he doesn’t look away. He looks younger than the others , maybe early twenties , but there’s something colder about him.
“Because if we don’t act now,” my uncle says calmly, “the Italians will destroy us once their men are released from prison. This alliance is our best chance.”
His gaze shifts toward the younger man.
“My niece is proof of loyalty. I’m sure Dominic understands that.”
Dominic.
The name settles heavily in my chest.
The man who just bought my future.
And for the first time in years, I truly hate being an orphan.
- Writer
