His Puppet
1155 Words
Ella's Point Of View
“Okay, what is this?” I whispered with a tight voice.
My fingers traced the edges as if the paper could explain itself.
The contract stated that in exchange for the clearing of all my mother’s outstanding debts to certain, very unsavoury parties, one Ella would enter into a one-year contract of indenture as a live-in domestic servant at the residence of Kenny.
I read it again.
Slowly.
Word by word. Indenture.
Live-in.
Domestic servant.
My stomach turned. My hands shook. My brain tried to catch up.
“No,” I muttered under my breath. “This has to be a joke. This can’t be real.”
I flipped to the next page. Signature lines. Fine print.
Everything is perfectly legal. I could practically hear the lawyer who drafted it smirking from the margins, imagining how they’d trap a poor, desperate girl into a gilded cage.
My eyes burned with disbelief. My heart pounded in my chest like a jackhammer.
I felt light-headed, like someone had yanked all the air out of the room. And then it hit me.
He didn’t hire me. He didn’t offer me a job. He bought me as his puppet.
Every heated glance, every possessive touch, every moment of vulnerability he showed me, it was all premeditated.
Calculated.
Legal.
Planned.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry.
I pictured the last few weeks instantly. The almost-kisses that left me trembling.
His hands were adjusting me as if I were a piece of fine china.
The silk tie, the belts, the desk, the drawer, of every intimate, private moment we’d shared.
It wasn’t passion or desire; it was terms and conditions.
I felt like the air had been ripped out of my lungs.
I staggered back, the folder nearly slipping from my hands, and pressed myself against the wall for support.
“Wait a second,” I whispered.
I stared at the page as if it might change. I wish the words could suddenly rearrange themselves to be normal, kind, human.
“I can't believe this is.”
I couldn’t finish the sentence. My brain refused to cooperate with my lips.
My fingers grazed the stack of papers again.
I pulled one out, reading it aloud, hoping the sound of my voice would make it less real.
“In exchange for the clearing of all outstanding debts owed by Ella’s mother to designated parties, Ella shall reside as a live-in domestic servant at the residence of Kenny for the duration of one year. All tasks, duties, and obligations are to be performed as specified…”
I gagged on my disbelief.
“Obligations. Duties like a servant for a year?” My voice rose with each word. “I didn’t sign anything! I never…”
But the truth was, I didn’t need to sign it. The debts existed.
The people existed. And Kenny had the power to do this.
My hands shook so badly that the folder slipped from my grip, clattering to the desk and sliding open to reveal the full, humiliating weight of my reality.
I sank to the floor, back pressed against the wall, staring at the pages like they were a cruel joke played on me.
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, my knees pulled to my chest. “He bought me. He f*****g did.”
I felt a flush of anger rise, hot and sharp.
Not just at Kenny, though. I hated that he had taken my desperation, my family’s shame, and turned it into something he could own.
But I also hated myself, for even letting myself be here.
For thinking there was anything real between us. For trusting him, maybe even wanting him.
My mind raced. I remembered the way he had held me, the whispered commands, the way his lips had stolen mine in moments that I thought were personal, intimate.
And now I knew the truth: everything had been a transaction. A contract. A deal written in ink and law, not love.
The irony was brutal. I had thought I was falling into love.
Falling into some kind of trust. And instead, I had fallen into a contract. A cage.
I could almost hear him laughing in my mind, dark, sharp, inhumanly calm.
“All under control.” I imagined him saying. “All according to plan.”
I pressed my palms to my face, trying not to scream.
My heart was hammering.
My vision blurred.
I felt trapped, exposed, humiliated, and ridiculously, absurdly aroused all at the same time.
God, I hated him. I hated how much I had wanted him. I hated that I wanted him even now.
“Okay,” I whispered to the empty room, my voice shaking. “Okay, Ella. Think. Think. Don’t panic.”
I forced myself to breathe.
In. Out.
In. Out.
My hands were still trembling, but I forced them to pick up one sheet at a time, scanning the text.
Every line, every clause, every word reinforced the same horrifying truth.
I wasn’t an employee.
I was collateral.
I was property.
I was his for life.
I laughed bitterly, a short, sharp bark that echoed off the study walls.
“Great. Just great. Welcome to your new life, Ella. Enjoy it. Oh, and by the way…your every heartbeat is his now, legally speaking.”
The absurdity, the cruelty, and the humiliation rolled together like a bitter cocktail that I couldn’t spit out.
I let the folder drop back to the desk, the pages sliding out like spilled secrets.
I sank further into my chair, burying my face in my hands.
“Why would he do this?” I whispered, almost to myself. “Why would he destroy me?”
The silence answered. Nothing. Not a word, not a noise.
The room seemed to lean in, waiting.
Waiting for me to fully understand what I had just discovered.
And then the thought that I had been avoiding hit me like a punch to the gut.
Everything, all of it, was deliberate.
All those moments I had mistaken for affection were calculated.
Every touch, every glance, every whisper that had made me tremble, made me feel alive, made me feel wanted, it was all part of the deal.
I staggered to my feet, the folder forgotten on the desk.
My hands trembled so badly that I nearly toppled over.
I pressed one hand against the desk, trying to ground myself.
“Kenny,” I whispered, teeth clenched. “You son of a…”
And then, absurdly, I laughed. A short, sharp, hysterical sound.
Because if I didn’t laugh, I might just collapse entirely.
I stumbled to the window, staring down at the city below.
The streets went on, oblivious to m
y devastation, oblivious to the man who had legally purchased me like some expensive, unwanted painting.
I whispered again, softer this time. “I can’t believe this is my life…!”
- Writer
