BENEATH HIS MERCY

Aliyah stood just outside the towering gates of the French estate, her heart thudding violently against her ribs as if it were trying to escape her chest. The wrought-iron fence gleamed beneath the gray morning light, pristine and cold, a stark contrast to the state she was in. Behind her was nothing—no safety, no certainty. In front of her was her last shot at peace. The guard at the post eyed her like she was something the wind had blown in. His lip curled slightly in distaste, but his gaze betrayed him. It lingered. Roamed. Ate her alive. She knew what he saw. Despite the grime on her cheeks, the worn sneakers, and the faded jeans that had seen better years, Aliyah’s body was still impossible to ignore. Curves that defied logic hugged the fabric, hips that swayed even when she stood still. Her waist dipped like an hourglass carved by fire and time, and the low neckline of her stretched, once-white tank top hinted at full breasts that hadn’t lost their shape even after months of stress and fear. Her natural beauty hadn’t dulled. It was just covered in exhaustion. The guard pulled his gaze upward—too late. She had caught him staring. His eyes narrowed, now angry at himself more than her, and he sneered as he picked up the phone inside the small security box. “She says she’s expected,” he muttered in French, not taking his eyes off her. “Says the Madame knows her.” Aliyah stood silent, her arms tight around the old suitcase that had barely survived the trip from the train station. It was stained with oil and time, one of the zippers missing entirely. Her hair, once her pride—soft, thick, and coiled in beautiful waves—was now tied into a frizzy bun that looked like it had been styled in a hurricane. Her skin, a warm brown kissed by sun and sleepless nights, was dry around the lips and beneath her eyes. Still, she stood with her back straight. Still, she had made it this far. The guard spoke into the intercom, waited for the reply, then gave her a slow nod of acknowledgment. “Madame said to let you in.” Aliyah swallowed hard, the tension in her chest releasing just slightly. She took a cautious step forward as the gates began to open, their heavy screech echoing across the gravel driveway like a warning. He stopped her with one glance. “You’re lucky she remembers you,” he said with disdain, even as his eyes flickered down her figure one last time. “Women like you don’t usually make it this far.” She didn’t respond. What was there to say? He wasn’t wrong. Women like her—broke, hunted, dragging the weight of too many secrets—didn’t usually end up in places like this. Grand estates nestled in the rolling hills of the French countryside, with stone walls older than most cities in America and money that practically oozed from the earth. She could feel the history of the place in the air, taste it on her tongue. It smelled like wine, old money, and polished wood. The moment she stepped inside the gates, her breath hitched. The estate was more beautiful than she remembered. It looked like something out of a period drama: ivy curling up the corners of the main house, pale stone kissed by decades of golden sunlight, and windows so tall they practically touched the heavens. The gravel crunched beneath her thin soles as she walked slowly toward the entrance. With every step, the sense of not belonging grew heavier. A maid answered the door before Aliyah could knock. The young woman gave her a tight smile, the kind reserved for stray dogs that looked a little too close to wild. “Madame Genevieve is in the conservatory,” she said, clearly instructed to expect her but not particularly pleased about it. Aliyah murmured a thank-you and stepped inside, her eyes flicking quickly over the polished floors and towering ceilings, the marble that gleamed like ice. Her fingers gripped the suitcase harder. It felt like walking into a life she’d never been meant to see, let alone touch. Then she saw her. Genevieve. Seated amidst a garden of glass and green, sipping from a delicate porcelain cup as if she didn’t look like the embodiment of grace and old nobility. Blonde hair swept into a sleek chignon, diamond earrings winking in the light, a pale blue silk dress that looked like it belonged in Vogue. But when she saw Aliyah, her composure cracked. She stood up so fast her chair scraped the floor. “Aliyah,” she breathed, and crossed the room without hesitation, wrapping her arms around her like nothing else mattered. Aliyah froze for a second, then let the suitcase drop to the floor with a thud and clung to her old friend. The scent of roses and vanilla enveloped her, and for the first time in months, she let her eyes close and breathed. “I thought you might not come,” Genevieve whispered, pulling back to look at her properly. Her hands brushed the wild strands from Aliyah’s face. “You look…” “Like hell?” Aliyah offered with a tired laugh. Genevieve didn’t laugh. Her brows pulled together in a worried frown. “Like someone who’s been through too much. Come. You’re safe here.” Safe. The word nearly broke her. She followed Genevieve upstairs, catching glimpses of the grandeur around her—chandeliers hanging like stars, art framed in gold, a hallway longer than her old apartment block. Every step reminded her she had no place here. And yet… she was here. Genevieve opened a door at the end of the west wing, revealing a guest room that looked more like a suite at a luxury hotel. Pale cream walls, a bed big enough to drown in, and a view of the vineyards rolling into the distance like a dream. Aliyah stepped inside slowly, afraid to touch anything. “I’ll have fresh towels brought in,” Genevieve said gently. “And we’ll get you new clothes. Dinner is in two hours. Just… rest.” Aliyah nodded, eyes still wide. “Thank you. Really.” Genevieve smiled. “You saved me once. This is the least I can do.” The door closed behind her, leaving Aliyah alone in the room that smelled faintly of lavender. She stood there, unmoving. Then she finally dropped onto the edge of the bed, the mattress sighing beneath her weight. Her reflection in the mirror caught her eye—dusty, tired, a ghost of the girl she used to be. But still beautiful. Still standing. Still fighting. Outside, the vineyards whispered secrets to the wind. Inside, Aliyah pressed her forehead to her knees and exhaled. She had made it to France. But she knew deep down—this was only the beginning.