Chapter three: Terms of stay
938 Words
The sharp scent of antiseptic and smoke clung to the guest room's sheets. Alzira stirred, blinking into the half-light streaming through the blinds. Her limbs ached — not just from exhaustion, but from everything that had folded into the last twenty-four hours.
Her father's hands.
Her mother’s silence.
Zion’s face at the door.
She sat up slowly, eyes scanning the unfamiliar room — sleek, cold, distant. Much like the man who owned it.
The events replayed. Her mother’s voice echoing in disbelief, the sting of a slap, the humiliating car ride to Zion's house. Now she was here, in a house too clean to feel real, and a silence too loud to ignore.
She didn’t cry. Not anymore.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cool. She made her way to the door, following the faint sound of movement. The house was open, modern, dimly lit — and intimidating.
Zion was in the kitchen, shirtless under a hanging hoodie, sipping black coffee, the glow of the fridge casting a shadow across his jawline.
He was handsome, she couldn't deny.
The feelings rose in her stomach, but she shut it off. She couldn't love this man. He had hurt her, he had disrespected her. He was off the charts.
He didn’t say a word when she entered. Just looked at her, like she was a problem he hadn’t decided how to solve yet.
“I’ll clean up,” she said quickly, looking away. “Help around the house.”
He raised a brow. “Don't say it like you're doing me some favor,” he said flatly. “This isn’t charity. You stay here, you follow my rules.”
Alzira clenched her jaw. Shame washed over her but there was no other choice.
“No drama,” he continued. “No noise. No weird moods. You do your part — clean, cook, keep out of the way. That’s it. I don’t want to deal with… anything else.”
It stung more than she expected. Maybe she thought he’d care. Maybe she thought he remembered her differently.
She only nodded and turned away. She felt humiliated but there was nothing she could do. He was helping her anyways, and this was the least she could do. And she was gonna be here without expecting much from him. He was a bastard anyway.
—
She started immediately — cleaning every surface, scrubbing the bathroom tiles, folding laundry that wasn’t hers. She didn’t want to sit still. Sitting still meant remembering.
The scent of garlic filled the kitchen as she sauteed onions. She’d found a pack of rice and some plantains — familiar, safe. The rhythm of the knife against the board gave her focus.
She hummed a low song as she walked over with a cup to get little water from the sink.
She was far more okay here, she just had to endure the s**t he was gonna put her through.
As she made to turn, a glass cup toppled from the sink and exploded on the floor.
The sound — sharp, loud — triggered her like a bullet.
Suddenly she was back in her mother’s kitchen. Her father's hand slamming the plate against the table. His voice. The menace in his eyes.
Blood trickled down from her slim fingers.
She gasped, falling to her knees, glass shards inches from her palms. Her breaths came short and fast, chest tightening. She pressed her back against the cabinet and squeezed her eyes shut as the pain ran through her body.
Then—footsteps.
She opened her eyes to see Zion standing in the doorway. His expression unreadable.
She expected anger. Yelling. The same heat her father used.
"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to, it was an accident." she made to pick the glasses up but the pain in her fingers increased.
" Argghh" she cried out as she fell back to her knees.
But he just said, “Clean it up before you hurt yourself,” and walked away.
That was worse. What was f*****g wrong with him? Why did he have to treat her like she wasn't a damn human? She didn't want him to care anyways, but the way he acted still puzzled her.
—
Later that night, Alzira sat on the bed, fingers tracing the outline of an old scar on her arm. The ache in her chest wouldn’t go away.
She wasn’t sure what hurt more — that her mother didn’t believe her, or that Zion acted like he didn’t care.
She got up, walked down the hallway barefoot, and passed his study. The door was cracked open. His voice leaked through.
“She’s here,” he was saying. His voice was low, tight. “I didn’t plan for this. It’s temporary.”
Pause. He didn't want her here. Did he help her because he was guilty? Sadness washed through her body as her breath hitched.
“No. She doesn’t know. And she won’t.”
Alzira froze. Doesn't know what? What was he hiding?
She leaned in closer.
“I’m not trying to fix anything. She came to me. I’m just… letting her stay. That’s it.”
Her throat tightened. It hurt her that he didn't wanna fix the s**t he did to her.
She backed away slowly, quietly, and returned to her room.
She lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
This wasn’t safety. This was something else. A different kind of danger.
But somehow, it still felt better than home.
She felt safer.
She felt free.
She couldn't trade this for anything.
She just shouldn't care.
About whatever.
- Writer
