HIS BROKEN SAINT

CHAPTER 4: BREAKFAST RULES

Elias woke up to silence.

Not the silence of Embakasi. No matatus honking at 5am, no neighbors fighting over water, no Dad’s kettle whistling while he tied his boots in the dark.

This silence was expensive. The kind that cost millions. The kind that swallowed sound.

He sat up. The bed was massive. Bigger than his old bedroom + the kitchen combined. Silk sheets, cool against his skin. He was still in yesterday’s jeans and hoodie. No one had told him where to sleep. No one had told him anything.

A soft knock. Three times. Polite. Final.

“Come in,” Elias said automatically. Dad’s rule: always answer the door, even if you’re scared.

The door opened. Damien.

He was already dressed. 8am sharp. Black suit, black shirt, no tie. Hair damp at the temples like he’d just stepped out of a shower Elias wasn’t allowed to use. He looked like he’d been awake for hours. Like he owned 8am.

“Good morning,” Damien said. Voice low. It didn’t echo in the room. Nothing echoed here. “You slept eleven hours. You needed it.”

Elias scrambled to his feet. Knees almost buckled. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop.” Damien cut him off. One word. Quiet. “Rule one of this house: you don’t apologize for existing. Not to me. Not ever. You’re 19 years old, Elias. Not a child. Not a burden.”

He stepped aside. Held the door open. “Breakfast is downstairs. You have five minutes. After that, breakfast rules apply. And you don’t want them to apply.”

Damien left. Door closed with a soft click that felt louder than a slam.

Elias stared at himself in the mirror. Eyes red-rimmed. Cheeks hollow from not eating for 2 days. Hair a mess. Dad’s hoodie 3 sizes too big. He looked 15, not 19. He looked lost.

He splashed water on his face. Cold. It didn’t wake him up. Nothing would until he figured out what “belong to me” really meant.

He ran.

*The dining room was obscene.*

Marble floors that reflected the glass ceiling. A chandelier that probably cost more than Dad’s truck. A table long enough to host a wedding. Only 2 settings. Only 2 chairs pulled out.

Damien was already seated. Back straight. Coffee in hand. Black. No sugar. No milk. Like the man himself.

“Sit,” Damien said, without looking up.

Elias sat. On the far end. 10 chairs between them. Safe distance.

Damien’s eyes lifted. Black. Patient. “Closer.”

Elias moved. 5 chairs between them. Still safe.

“Closer,” Damien said again. Softer this time. Like a command disguised as a request.

Elias moved until he was 2 chairs away. Close enough to see the scar on Damien’s left hand. 3 fingers missing. Dad’s truck. 12 years ago.

A maid set down plates. Ugali. Scrambled eggs. Sliced avocado. Tea with milk on the side. Fresh fruit cut into perfect shapes. Too much food. Food for 4 people. For a 19-year-old boy who’d been living on bread and tea.

Damien didn’t touch his plate. He watched Elias.

“Eat,” Damien said.

Elias picked up the fork. Hand shook. Not from hunger. From the weight of Damien’s stare. It felt like being x-rayed.

“Rule two,” Damien said as Elias forced down his first bite. “In this house, we eat together. Every meal. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. No exceptions. One year, Elias. That’s 1,095 meals minimum you’ll eat across from me.”

Elias nearly choked on tea. “One year of breakfast?”

“Of everything.” Damien set his cup down. No clink. Perfect control. “You signed for one year. Your time belongs to me. Your schedule belongs to me. Your body belongs to me.”

The word ‘body’ hit Elias like a slap. He was 19. Old enough to work, old enough for debt, old enough for this. But no one had ever said it like that before.

Elias put the fork down. “What does that mean, exactly? ‘My body belongs to you’?”

Damien leaned forward. Elbows on marble. For a second he didn’t look like a billionaire. He looked like a man carrying something heavy.

“It means you don’t collapse from hunger like you almost did in that alley,” Damien said. Quiet. “It means you sleep 8 hours a night, not 4. It means you stop fixing laptops for 200 shillings in cyber cafes with no security. It means I decide what’s good for you for 365 days.”

Elias’s jaw tightened. Dad’s voice: _A man makes his own choices. A man owns himself._

“I’m 19,” Elias said. Voice steady even though his chest hurt. “I can decide for myself.”

Damien’s smile was small. Almost sad. “No. You can’t. Not for one year. You signed the contract, Elias. Your signature bled into the paper next to mine. That means for 12 months, I decide.”

Silence. Just the maid clearing a plate that was still full on Damien’s side.

“Rule three,” Damien said finally. “You ask before you leave this house. You ask before you speak to strangers. You ask before you touch anything that isn’t yours. Including yourself.”

Elias’s fists clenched under the table. Nails dug into his palms. “I’m not a child. I’m 19.”

“No,” Damien agreed. He stood. Walked to the window. Nairobi spread behind him. His city. His rules. “You’re 19. Old enough to inherit 1.8 million in debt. Old enough to kneel on my office floor and say ‘I’ll do anything’. Old enough to belong to me for 365 days.”

He turned back. Morning light cut across his face. Made him look like sin and salvation at once.

“Rule four,” Damien said. “You will learn what it means to be kept. Protected. Owned. For one year, Elias. No one touches you. No one hurts you. No one gets to you except me.”

Elias stood too. Legs shaky. “I’m not a pet. I’m not property.”

Damien crossed the room in 3 strides. Stopped inches away. Close enough that Elias could count his eyelashes. Close enough to smell cedar and something darker. Power.

“You’re not property,” Damien murmured. “You’re the son of David Wanjiku. The only man who ever pulled me out of a wrecked car without asking for money. Without asking for anything. He lost 3 fingers for me and never told you.”

His hand lifted. Slow. Like he was asking permission he didn’t need. Thumb brushed under Elias’s eye. Caught a tear.

“You cried in your sleep last night,” Damien whispered. “Calling for him. Saying ‘Dad, don’t leave me’ over and over.”

Elias jerked back like he’d been burned. “Don’t—don’t say his name.”

“Why?” Damien’s hand dropped. But his eyes didn’t. “Because it hurts? Good. It should hurt. He was your father. He raised a 19-year-old boy alone after malaria took his wife. He taught you soldier rules and how to change tires. He deserves to be said.”

Elias’s throat closed. He couldn’t breathe. The mansion was too big. The silence was too loud. Dad was too gone.

“I don’t want your pity,” Elias choked out.

“This isn’t pity,” Damien said. Voice hard again. Billionaire again. “Pity is what those loan sharks had for you. This is a debt. And I pay my debts.”

Breakfast ended. Damien left his plate untouched. He walked to the door, paused.

“Rule five,” he said without turning around. “After breakfast, you tour the house. Then we measure you for clothes. You have nothing suitable for a year here. You’re 19, not 9. You’ll dress like it.”

He left. Door closed.

The maid approached Elias. “Mr. Cross said you’ll start training after measurements. He has rules for how you walk, talk, eat, sleep. For one year.”

Elias looked at his plate. Half-eaten ugali. First real meal in 2 days.

He looked at the empty chair where Damien sat. Watched him. Owned him for 365 days.

He thought the alley was the worst night of his life.

He was wrong.

The worst part was that Damien’s house was quiet.

And for the first time since Dad died, Elias wasn’t alone in the quiet .