She watches, She moves
2448 Words
The rain tapped gently against the tall glass window, a steady rhythm in the stillness of Dimitris Nikolova’s room. He sat motionless in his wheelchair, eyes fixed on the sprawling driveway below. The world moved, but he did not.
Then came the roar of engines—three black cars pulling into the estate courtyard, their polished surfaces gleaming under the overcast sky. Dimitris narrowed his eyes.
Men in dark suits stepped out first—alert, well-armed, their movements sharp and rehearsed. And behind them emerged Maxim Nikolova, his father, every inch the powerful man he was known to be. Cold, calculating, unreadable. He didn’t speak—just motioned forward.
What caught Dimitris’s attention wasn’t the men. It was the figure they dragged behind them.
A girl—young, limp, unconscious—was being carried in the arms of one of the guards. Her head hung low, hair falling like a curtain over her face. Dimitris leaned forward slightly, as much as his frozen body would allow. Something about her presence unsettled him.
The group passed through the garden path, heading toward the eastern wing—the part of the estate Maxim used for… private matters.
But moments later, something unexpected happened.
Most of the men disappeared inside. One guard remained outside with the girl, adjusting his grip as he waited by the lower gate. That’s when she stirred. Slowly. Then suddenly.
With terrifying speed for someone who’d been unconscious just seconds ago, the girl lunged up and sank her teeth into the guard’s arm.
The man screamed.
She dropped to the ground and bolted, barefoot, desperate.
Dimitris’s breath caught
She was small—maybe 5'4", with a wiry, agile frame. Her deep brown skin glistened with sweat and rain, and her sharp jawline held the kind of strength that only came from surviving things no one should. Her hazel eyes, though blurred by panic, held a fierce light as she sprinted. Her jet-black hair whipped behind her, soaked and wild.
She wore a kurti and jeans tattered and muddied from the struggle, the fabric torn slightly at the sleeve. Not something you'd expect in this place, in this world of suits and weapons and cold stone walls.
She made it only a few meters before two others tackled her hard into the wet grass. She struggled—wild, fearless—but it was no use. They dragged her back inside like she was nothing more than cargo.
From behind the glass, Dimitris didn’t move. Couldn’t.
But his mind was racing.
Who was she?
They dragged her through the eastern wing, past tall wooden doors and echoing marble tiles, until they reached a room. The lock clicked behind her before she could even turn.
She stumbled forward, catching herself against the edge of a low table.
It was a bedroom — clean, modern, almost too neat to be real. The white linens on the bed were untouched. A sleek vanity mirror gleamed from the wall opposite her. A tall wardrobe, probably locked. A standing lamp. Light grey drapes framing a wide window that looked out into what she guessed was the back garden.
Everything was polished, almost sterile. Almost like a display.
She spun around and slammed her fists against the door.
“You’ll regret this!” she shouted, her voice sharp, unshaking.
“I swear, I’ll get out of here! You can’t keep me in this place!”
From the other side came only muffled voices and retreating footsteps. No response. No keys turning. Just silence.
“Open the damn window at least!” she shouted again, but there was no answer.
She stood there, breathing hard — furious, not frightened. Her fists were clenched so tightly that her knuckles turned pale.
After a few moments, her breathing slowed. Her body was still wired, but her face settled into something calmer. Not peace. Focus.
She turned and scanned the room again. Not just to see — but to search.
No cameras she could see. No vents wide enough to climb. The window wasn’t barred, but it was sealed shut. Thick. Reinforced.
She dragged one of the room’s chairs across the floor — the legs scraping with a stubborn screech — and placed it squarely beside the window. Then she sat, arms crossed, hazel eyes fixed on the outside, unmoving.
She wasn’t waiting. She was calculating. Watching. Memorizing.
The sky grew darker. The hallway stayed silent. No one came to check on her.
She didn’t lie on the bed. She didn’t cry.
She just sat beside the window — like a soldier in her own kind of war.
The early morning light spilled across the room, casting a pale gold hue over the marble tiles. Amera sat rigid in the chair she had dragged to the window hours ago, her face unreadable, her body still but alert. Her eyes—those deep, sharp hazel eyes—were fixed on the gates in the distance. She hadn’t slept. Not for a second.
The sound of a key rattling in the lock pulled her attention away. The door creaked open, and Maxim Nikolova stepped inside.
He was in his fifties, but nothing about him was frail. His posture was straight, his shoulders broad, and his presence sucked the air out of the room. Dressed in dark, tailored clothes, he moved with calm confidence—like a man used to power, and expecting obedience.
Amera didn’t move. She simply stared at him.
Maxim stopped a few feet away, his eyes roaming over her like she was property.
“You’ll marry me,” he said flatly, his voice like cold steel.
Amira blinked once. Her lip curled. “I’d rather die.”
Maxim’s jaw twitched.
“You’ll regret this,” he warned, stepping closer. “You have no idea what kind of life I’m offering you.”
She stood up, chest rising with slow breaths. Her voice was calm, but laced with fire. “You’re old enough to be my father. And you're disgusting.”
Without warning, Amira slapped him. Hard.
The sound cracked through the air.
For a second, there was silence.
Then, Maxim’s eyes darkened—and he struck her back, the force of his palm sending her stumbling against the dresser.
She caught herself, one hand against the marble top, eyes burning but unbroken.
Maxim leaned in,grab her, voice low and dangerous. “Get ready. The wedding will happen. And if you dare cause a scene... you’ll see the worst of me.”
He turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The lock clicked again.
Amira stood there, her cheek burning, her breathing sharp—but her eyes never wavered.
---
Amira sat beside the sleek glass table near the window, her back straight but her heart burning. She hadn't slept, and now that morning sunlight slipped between the blinds, it only made the sting of reality sharper. The ache in her arms where they had dragged her, the bruises on her wrists, the words of that man—Maxim—echoed in her ears. But none of it hurt more than the memory of her uncle.
How could he do this to her?
She pressed her trembling hands against the table and lowered her head. She remembered the moment she stepped into her house the night before, exhausted from work, only to find her life unravel in an instant. The living room was filled with unfamiliar faces—six men in sharp suits, their expressions cold and assessing. At the center stood one man she would never forget: tall, built like a wall, and dressed in all black. Maxim Nikolva
His eyes were cold. Calculating. Dangerous. And beside him, sitting awkwardly with trembling hands, was her uncle—sober.
She frowned. “What’s going on?”
Her uncle stood, avoiding her gaze. “Amira… this is Maxim Nikolova.”
The stranger’s name dropped like ice in her veins.
Maxim didn’t move, didn’t smile. He simply stared at her, his presence alone suffocating.
Then, without ceremony, her uncle added, “You’re going with him.”
Amira blinked. “What?”
He cleared his throat. “You heard me. You’re going with him. It’s done.”
Amira’s breath caught in her throat. “You sold me?” she asked, voice trembling with disbelief and fury.
Her uncle didn’t flinch. “Yes. I did.”
Her heart pounded. “After everything I’ve done for you? I’ve fed you, worked day and night to keep this roof over your head—while you drank, while you gambled—while you wasted your life!”
He stepped forward, eyes sharp and bitter. “Don’t act so righteous. You owe me. You think I forgot what you did?”
Amira’s face twisted in confusion. “What I did?”
“You killed my brother!” he spat. “Your father. You’re the reason he’s dead, and your mother too. All this time, you’ve been trying to wash away that guilt by playing the good girl. Well, this is your punishment.”
She shook her head, stunned. “You’re sick.”
Maxim signaled to his men. “Enough of this.”
As they moved toward her, Amira planted her feet. “I will never go with you.”
They grabbed her arms. She thrashed against their grip, kicked, elbowed—one man hit the floor, another stumbled back—but the others swarmed her. Her strength wasn't enough.
She screamed in rage as they dragged her out of her own home. Her uncle watched from the doorway, arms crossed, unmoved.
Her last words before the door slammed shut behind them: “You’ll regret this.”
After recalling the nightmare of the night before—her betrayal, the sale, the struggle—something flickered in Amira’s eyes. Not tears. Not panic. Just a quiet shadow of fear… not because she was still afraid, but because she had already endured so much. Too much.
---
She sat motionless by the window, her body present, but her mind far away.
When the door creaked open and someone entered with a tray of food, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t even look up. The food was placed in front of her without a word. She ate in silence, not out of hunger or comfort, but because she had to—because survival demanded it. There was no emotion in her eyes, only resolve beginning to harden beneath the surface.
After a moment, she looked at the figure who lingered at the door.
“Can I have some hair pins?” she asked, calmly. “My hairs are getting in my face. It’s… irritating.”
She didn’t say please. She didn’t smile. It wasn’t a request to make herself look better. It was a soldier’s request—to keep the battlefield clear.
The maid hesitated for a moment, startled by the calm in Amira’s voice. Then, without a word, she nodded and disappeared through the door.
A few minutes later, she returned with a small handful of simple black hair pins. She placed them gently on the corner of the table and stepped back.
Amira didn’t thank her.
She picked up the pins, walked slowly to the mirror, and began tying her hair back—tight, precise, out of her face. Every movement was controlled, almost mechanical.
The girl in the mirror didn’t look broken.
She looked like someone preparing for something.
Because she was.
---
Night fell like a blanket of silence over the Nikolova estate.
The maid came into Amera’s room, placing a tray of food on the table and checking if the girl had settled into the bed. Amera lay still, eyes half-closed, breathing steady. She turned and left, the door clicking shut behind her.
But the moment the footsteps faded, Amera’s eyes snapped open.
She threw off the blanket, sat up, and reached into her hair. With a practiced hand, she pulled out one of the black pins and made her way to the tall, sealed window. Earlier, she had tested the glass—thick, reinforced, unbreakable. But not unopenable.
Her fingers moved quickly. Her uncle had often locked her in rooms like this, and she had learned then how to get out. A few twists, a firm push, and with a soft click, the latch gave way. The window creaked open.
Cool air brushed her face.
Outside, the night was still, and the grounds glowed under scattered lights. She had watched the pattern for hours, memorizing the guards’ movements. Now was her window. Two guards had just circled to the west side. She had two minutes—maybe less.
The window was high, but not high enough to stop her. Not tonight. The fall was quick, the landing rough but quiet. She crouched low in the shadows, listening. She knew exactly where the guards were. She had watched them all day. She counted steps, measured their breaks. The back gate was unguarded—only for two minutes. And her time had come.
She sprinted for it, heart hammering.
Just as she reached for the latch—
A voice behind her.
“Going somewhere?”
She froze.
Her breath hitched. The hairs on her neck stood up.
Slowly, she turned.
And met a pair of cold, predatory eyes staring back at her from the darkness.
A moment passed. A shiver ran down her spine.
Who was he?
And what was going to happen?
- Writer
