Dangerously Mine

Chapter 3

I didn't move for a long time. The house was quiet now, but it wasn't a peaceful quiet. It was the kind of silence that happens after a bomb goes off. My thumb was still throbbing from the burn earlier, but the pain in my chest was much worse.

I looked at the piece of chicken Theodore had thrown at me. It sat there on my lap, greasy and cold.

Sold. The word kept repeating in my head like a broken record. I wasn't a daughter. I wasn't even a human being to them. I was a check. A way to pay the bills. I thought back to the nuns at the orphanage—how they smiled when the Santos family picked me. They told me I was lucky. They told me I was going to a home.

"Home," I whispered, the word tasting like poison.

I stood up slowly, my legs feeling like they were made of lead. I had to clean the table. Even now, even after being told I was being sold like a piece of meat, I knew that if I didn't clean up, Tina would find another reason to scream at me tomorrow morning.

I started stacking the plates. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. The clink of the porcelain sounded like thunder in the empty room. I took the tray to the kitchen and stood over the sink.

The other maids were gone, probably hiding in their quarters, glad that they weren't the ones Theodore had targeted tonight. I was alone.

I turned the faucet on high, watching the water splash against the expensive plates. I looked at the undercooked chicken and felt sick to my stomach. I threw it in the trash. I couldn't eat it. I didn't care if Theodore found out. I felt like if I put one more thing in my stomach, I would throw up everything—eight years of memories, eight years of "Yes, Mom," eight years of lies.

Who is he? Theodore had said he was a billionaire. The son of an associate. In my head, I imagined an old man with cold eyes, someone just like Theodore. Someone who wanted a doll he could lock in a room and ignore.

I leaned my forehead against the cool tile of the kitchen wall.

Maybe Shaina is right, a small, dark part of my mind whispered. Maybe it’s a way out. Maybe anyone is better than them.

But I knew better. People who buy wives don't do it because they want to be kind. They do it because they want to own something.

I finished the dishes and walked up the back stairs to my room. It wasn't really a bedroom; it was a converted storage space near the attic. It was small and cold, but it was the only place in the world where I could breathe.

I sat on my thin mattress and looked at the small window. The storm had finally started. Rain lashed against the glass, blurring the world outside.

I reached under my pillow and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper. It was a drawing I had made years ago, a house with a red door and a big tree. I didn't know where it came from. I didn't know if it was a memory or just a dream.

"Who am I?" I asked the empty room.

The red lights. The salt water. The sound of a boat engine. The flashes were getting stronger that night, triggered by the fear. I closed my eyes and tried to see the face of the man from my flashes, but all I saw was Theodore’s calculating eyes and the red ink on his bank statements.

I wasn't Jhannara. I know I am not. It is a name given to me by the nuns because they ahd no idea who the little girl that appeared on their door. But now, all I could ever think about is that I was just a girl with a price tag.

I laid down and pulled the thin blanket over my shoulders, shivering as the thunder rolled over the house.

Tomorrow, I thought. Tomorrow they’ll tell me his name. Tomorrow they’ll tell me when I have to leave. Tomorrow, or soon, I will learn who this mystery man is.

I didn't sleep. I just watched the shadows on the ceiling, waiting for the sun to come up and take away the only life I knew, even if that life was a nightmare.

THIRD PERSON’S POV

Jhannara didn't know it yet, but across the city, in a mansion much bigger and darker than the one she lives, A big bad man is looking at a file with her picture on it. And he wasn't planning on being a savior.

He was planning on being a king.

“Jhannara Santos…”