Attempting Reclaiming Control
1321 Words
Back in the cottage, Tamia sat frozen on the bed, staring at the plain gold band on her finger.
When the door opened and Lucian walked in, loosening his tie, she looked up with wide, haunted eyes.
“I need to ask you something,” she whispered. “Did you know your father wouldn’t help mine unless I gave him an heir?”
Lucian froze mid-step, every muscle in his body taut.
Tamia searched his face for denial, for shock, for outrage anything.
But he gave her nothing.
His jaw flexed, his gaze averted, and silence filled the room like poison.
Her heart cracked. That silence was louder than any admission.
“So you did know,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
“You knew and you said nothing.” Still, Lucian said nothing.
Tamia’s knees nearly gave way beneath her. She stumbled back, clutching the edge of the bed for support, her throat closing around a sob she refused to release.
“Do you have any idea what it feels like?” she said hoarsely.
“To be treated like… like cattle? To have my father’s life dangled over my head as payment for my womb?”
Lucian’s silence answered her again.
Tamia laughed bitterly, tears spilling now. “Of course you do. You’re his son. Why won’t answer me, be man enough and take responsibility. You’ve learned silence is a weapon.”
He turned then, just slightly, but whatever emotion flickered in his eyes was gone before she could catch it. And without answering, he turned away.
She could no longer breathe in that room. She grabbed her coat and stepped outside into the night air, her chest heaving, her mind spinning.
The following morning, Tamia sat at the up on the bed. She barely got a shot eye yesterday night.
Her father’s gaunt face haunted her. The hospital room. The IV stand standing uselessly still. Frederick’s voice, cool and unyielding: “Bear an heir, or watch him die.”
She clenched her fists.
No.
She refused to be cornered like this.
If Frederick thought she was going to bend, he was wrong. She would find another way.
“Morning,” he said without glancing up.
It startled her more than if he had ignored her entirely.
“Morning,” she answered, sliding into the chair across from him.
He pushed the toast rack closer to her. “Eat something before you bury yourself in whatever it is you do all day.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And what do you assume that is?”
He finally looked at her then, one brow raised. “Brooding.”
Tamia resisted the urge to throw the toast at him. Instead, she poured herself a cup of coffee and kept her voice even. “Actually, I was planning to work.”
Lucian’s gaze lingered on her for a moment before returning to his tablet. “Work? You don’t need to. That’s the point of this arrangement.”
“That’s your point,” she corrected. “Mine is different.”
He closed his tablet and leaned back in his chair. “And what would you do, Tamia? Volunteer at the local bakery? Knit sweaters for tourists?”
Her jaw clenched. “I’m educated. I can apply for real jobs. I’m not going to sit here like a decorative vase while you run around playing puppet to your father.”
For a second, she thought he might argue. Instead, he stood and buttoned his jacket. “Suit yourself. Just remember one thing appearances matter. Don’t go putting our name on anything that could cause trouble.”
“Our name,” she muttered under her breath, but he was already moving toward the door.
“I’m going into town,” he said without turning back. “Business.”
She didn’t ask what kind of business. She didn’t care.
When the door shut behind him, the silence he left behind seemed to pulse through the house.
She pulled out her old laptop, the screen cracked in one corner, and opened a blank document. Her résumé hadn’t been touched in years. She hadn’t needed to. Back when her family’s company was thriving, her path seemed secure. But now, stripped of safety nets, she had only her own hands and mind to rely on.
And those hands had always been good at one thing: creating.
Tamia had spent her university years sketching gowns in the margins of her notes, designing dresses her friends begged her to sew. She had once dreamed of launching her own fashion label, but that dream had been buried under her father’s expectations and Gabriel’s distractions.
Now, when she thought of survival, of saving her father, the answer returned to her like muscle memory.
She would design.
The hours slipped by as Tamia rebuilt her portfolio. She dug through old files, scanned sketches from years past, and pieced together a collection that told a story not just of fabric and form, but of resilience, of beauty in struggle.
Each sketch was a rebellion. Each line of thread was defiance against Frederick’s cold decree.
She applied to every design house and boutique within fifty miles, uploading her portfolio, typing cover letters until her fingers ached. She applied to retail stores too anything that might get her foot in the door.
By nightfall, her eyes burned, but a spark of determination glowed in her chest.
She wasn’t going to wait for Lucian. She wasn’t going to beg Frederick.
She was going to carve her own way.
The hours slipped by as Tamia rebuilt her portfolio. She dug through old files, scanned sketches from years past, and pieced together a collection that told a story not just of fabric and form, but of resilience, of beauty in struggle.
Each sketch was a rebellion. Each line of thread was defiance against Frederick’s cold decree.
She applied to every design house and boutique within fifty miles, uploading her portfolio, typing cover letters until her fingers ached. She applied to retail stores too anything that might get her foot in the door.
By nightfall, her eyes burned, but a spark of determination glowed in her chest.
She wasn’t going to wait for Lucian. She wasn’t going to beg Frederick.
She was going to carve her own way.
Lucian returned late, his presence filling the small cottage like a shadow. He noticed the papers scattered across the table the sketches, the application forms, the lists of addresses.
“What is this?” he asked quietly.
“My life,” Tamia said without looking up.
“You don’t need to do this,” he said.
Her laugh was sharp. “My father is lying in a hospital bed untreated because your father is playing god with my womb. So forgive me if I think I do need to do this.”
Lucian’s jaw tightened. “You won’t find enough money fast enough.”
“Watch me.”
He said nothing more, only gathered his things and retreated to the couch.
Tamia stayed at the table long into the night, sketching by lamplight, determination etching itself into every stroke of her pencil.
The next morning, Tamia checked her email with shaking hands.
Rejection. Rejection. No response.
Then, at the bottom of her inbox, one message stood out:
“Interview Invitation – Eden House of Couture.”
Her breath caught. Eden House. A prestigious design house in the city, known for bold creativity and impeccable craft.
Her hands trembled as she opened the email.
They wanted her in for an interview next week.
Tamia pressed a hand to her lips, her chest aching with relief.
Finally a sliver of hope.
But when she turned, she saw Lucian standing in the doorway, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
“You think Eden will save you?” he asked.
His tone was quiet. Almost mocking.
And Tamia’s heart pounded with the fear that maybe he was right.
- Writer
