Billionaire Redemption

Ayra’s POV • • • A sharp splash of water smacked my face, dragging me out of the only peaceful thing I had_sleep. I shot up, coughing and blinking rapidly, my hair soaked, my shirt clinging to my skin. My eyes darted in panic… until they landed on him. My father. His eyes burned with rage, nostrils flaring like he hadn’t gotten enough pleasure from ruining my night already. “Get up,” he barked, voice low but deadly. “Lazy brat.” “Dad… I swear, I did all the work last night,” I stammered, wiping water off my face. “Even the ones for this morning. That’s why I slept late.” He hissed, eyes narrowing, and before I could say more, Slap! My head snapped sideways from the force. My cheek burned instantly, tears welling up, not from the pain, but from the sting of helplessness. “Go out there and look at the kitchen. Look at the living room, you good-for-nothing b***h!” he growled. “I regret the day I accepted you into my home. You came into this world to take, never to give. Always taking my money, eating my food but never give to me.” And just like that, he stormed out, leaving the door wide open. My legs felt like jelly, but I forced myself out of bed, heart pounding as I stumbled toward the living room. The second I stepped out, my breath caught in my throat. The kitchen was a mess, plates shattered on the floor, leftover food smeared on the tiles. The living room wasn’t any better, pillows tossed, drinks spilled, broken glass glinting under the light. But I cleaned all this. I cleaned it. And then I saw her. Marla. Seated on the couch like she owned the place, legs crossed, a smirk painted across her glossy lips. Beside her, my father sat calmly, sipping from a cup like he hadn’t just shattered me with his words minutes ago. “What… what is this?” I whispered, voice shaking. “Why are you doing this?” Marla giggled. “You really ask that like you don’t already know, Ayra” I turned to him, desperate. “Dad please!, I didn’t do this. You know I didn’t!” He set the cup down, rising slowly, walking toward me with a calmness that made me step back. “The day you dare raise your voice at me… that’s the day you’ll die,” he said coldly. “But before that, I might just make you earn your keep. Maybe send you to my friends. A filthy mouth might be useful there.” I choked, my knees giving out as he walked past me. Marla stood too, laughing lightly as she leaned closer. “You should’ve been thrown out a long time ago. You think pity will save you? It won’t.” She left with him, their voices fading into the hall as I dropped to my knees. My fingers dug into the tiled floor, my chest heaving. I stared at the mess around me, but I wasn’t even seeing it anymore. All I could hear was that line again and again…”You came to take, not to give.” And just like that, my morning began with pain, like every other day. Only this time, something inside me cracked a little deeper. It hurts, yunno. I’m hurt. ** I started cleaning. It was the only thing I could do without getting slapped again. I didn’t wait for orders. I didn’t cry anymore either. What was the point? No one in this house cared if I bled, broke down, or disappeared. So I did what I always did, picked up the broom, swept through the broken mess in the living room, and pretended not to hear their laughter in the background. I crouched low, my knees aching from the cold floor as I gathered broken glass. My fingers stung from old cuts that never healed properly. This wasn’t new. Every week, it was something, vases shattered, wine poured across the rug, furniture ruined. And I always cleaned it all. I barely slept last night, doing all the chores ahead to avoid this exact drama. And yet, they made the mess anyway, then woke me with cold water to fix it. Typical. As I scrubbed at the wine-stained couch, I heard her laugh, Marla. My dad’s girlfriend. I never called her stepmom, and she never treated me like a daughter. She treated me like dirt with a name. I leaned against the wall, breathing hard. My shirt was soaked with sweat. I was exhausted, and it wasn’t even 9 a.m. Oops. I forgot to introduce myself. I stood up slowly, my bones tired like I was fifty instead of nineteen. I’m Ayra Kessler and I’m twenty. Only daughter of Jerald Kessler, the man who wishes I’m not in existence. I live out in Phoenicia, in New York City. A quiet, hidden hamlet where the roads fade into forest and it’s not surprising if you buy a car and the maps don’t even show this place. Phoenicia feels like a place for the unknown… or maybe for hiding. And back to my parents, I talked about my Dad, here’s the little I know about my mom. I don’t know who she is. Never seen a photo. Never heard a story. He never talks about her, just spits every time I ask. I guess she either ran away… or didn’t survive long enough to regret me. Some part of me used to hope she was watching me from afar, maybe searching for me. But that part of me died around age ten, right after my dad told me, “Even your mother didn’t want you.” I stared at my reflection in the TV screen. Thin. Pale. Tired. There were bags under my eyes that no amount of sleep could erase. I sighed. If this was a movie, this would be the part where I discover I have powers or a secret grandma who’s royalty. But nah. Real life doesn’t work that way. Or does it? I turned away and walked to the kitchen. Trash bags. Broken bottles. Spilled noodles on the floor. I cleaned everything. Quietly. Just like always. When I came back to the living room with the last trash bag, I paused. My father was sitting with Marla on the couch, legs crossed, wine in hand, even this early in the morning. He looked up at me like I was a stain. “Still here?” he asked, voice sharp. “I thought trash took itself out.” Marla laughed and rested her head on his shoulder. “She’s slower than usual. Maybe she wants another wake-up slap.” I didn’t respond. Just turned around and headed for the door. “That’s right,” he called after me. “Walk away like your mother did. Useless bloodline.” The words stung, but I didn’t flinch. Not in front of them. Never in front of them. Outside, the morning air was cooler. Quieter. I dragged the trash to the bins behind the house and stood there a moment, letting the wind hit my face. No birds. No kids playing. Just me and the silence. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. I stayed there a little longer before walking back in. As I reached the stairs, Marla’s voice floated from the dining room. “You should’ve seen her face when I spilled the wine. Priceless. Like she thought her cleaning could fix anything.” My father’s chuckle followed. “Maybe I should finally get rid of her. Sell her off. She’s no use to me anyway.” I froze. Every time he said that, a piece of me died. But I didn’t cry. I just walked up the stairs and shut my door. I sat on my bed, my arms wrapped around my legs. My cheek still stung from the slap earlier. I touched it gently. No blood. Just pain. I stared at the ceiling. That’s just my everyday book. “Ayra time to prepare for tomorrow.” I said to myself, standing up.