Amara's throat tightened. She didn't answer him.
Instead, she quietly placed the fork down on the table, her fingers trembling. She rose from her seat without lifting her gaze from the floor. Her voice came out soft, barely above a whisper.
"I… I'm feeling sleepy. I'll go and rest."
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
The easy warmth of the dining hall froze, the air turning sharp and heavy. Even the chandelier's lights seemed dimmer. The tension crawled up the walls and settled like a shadow between them.
Lucas pushed his chair back, the scrape loud, grating.
"Stop."
Amara froze mid-step.
Lucas's boots echoed on the marble floor as he approached her. She kept her eyes down, afraid to look at him. But he didn't like that—he never did.
He grabbed her arm.
Not gently. Not warning her. Just a sudden, strong grip that made her gasp.
His fingers dug into her skin hard enough that she felt her pulse throbbing painfully beneath his hold. The pressure kept increasing, to the point where her breath hitched. Her knees felt weak, pain blooming beneath his tightening grip.
"Look at me," he commanded.
Amara tried, but her eyes flickered away. The instinct to shrink, to disappear, pulled stronger than her will. Her silence only seemed to fuel his anger further.
"Don't walk away from me when I'm talking to you," Lucas growled, stepping closer, towering over her.
Her hands shook involuntarily. Her heart pounded in her ears. Her skin felt like it would split where he held her.
"I asked a simple question," Lucas continued, voice low but sharp, "and you think you can just ignore me?"
She swallowed, unable to speak properly. "I-I wasn't ignoring… I just—"
"Oh don't play innocent," Lucas snapped, tightening his grip even more.
A sharp sting shot through her arm—she felt nails or rings digging into her soft skin. She winced, sucking in a breath of pain. It radiated up her shoulder and down her fingers, almost enough to make them numb.
The sound of raised voices brought others rushing in.
Elena stood frozen at the archway, eyes wide. Marco hovered behind her, tense and uncertain. Two junior staff members peeked in, unsure whether to intervene.
Lucas didn't notice them. He was too far gone.
"You live in my house," he barked, voice echoing across the hall, "eat my food, wear the clothes I provide—and when I ask you something, you answer. You don't get to dodge."
Amara's breath hitched. Her chest tightened painfully. Her arm burned under his grip.
She finally lifted her eyes to him—wide, pleading, terrified.
Lucas saw the fear. Mistook it for attitude. And snapped again.
"You really think staying quiet will help you? You—" he scoffed harshly, "you're the girl whose parents SOLD her."
The words ripped through her like a blade.
Her breath stopped. Her vision blurred. The humiliation dropped like a weight on her shoulders.
The presence of everyone watching hit her all at once—eyes filled with pity, shock, and helplessness. It made her feel exposed, stripped bare.
Her lips trembled. Her throat burned. Tears welled up, uncontrollable.
She lowered her gaze—shame and pain overwhelming her.
And that made Lucas explode.
"LOOK AT ME!" he thundered.
He shook her—hard.
Her head jerked, her hair whipping across her face. Pain shot through her arm as his fingers dug deeper, almost bruising to the point of breaking skin.
"ANSWER ME!"
The shout crashed over her, deafening.
Amara broke.
Her entire body trembled violently. A sharp sob tore out before she could stop it.
"I'm sorry!" she cried, voice cracking. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to… I'm sorry…"
Her knees nearly buckled as she pulled her arm free with sudden desperate strength. She stumbled back, tears blurring her vision, and then—
She ran.
Her footsteps echoed down the corridor, uneven and panicked, until her door slammed shut somewhere far down the hall.
Lucas stood frozen in the middle of the room, chest heaving, still in disbelief.
He hadn't expected her to break. His temper was normal to him. He didn't understand why she reacted like he'd hit her.
Then he turned—and saw the staff.
All of them. Witnesses. Staring.
His expression shifted. Confusion → irritation → anger. A sudden flush of embarrassment burning beneath his control.
"What the hell are you all doing here!?" he roared. "Get back to work! Are you paid to stand around and watch?"
Everyone scattered instantly.
But the echo of Amara's sobs still lingered—louder in his head than the sound of his own voice.
****************************************************8
The door slammed behind her with a force she hadn't intended, but her trembling hands could barely hold the knob steady. Amara's breath came in sharp, broken gasps as she staggered backward.
She didn't even make it to the bed.
Her legs gave out halfway, and she sank to the floor, back pressed against the wall, knees pulled to her chest. Her entire body shook uncontrollably—part fear, part humiliation, part heartbreak.
Her arm throbbed.
She finally looked at it.
Under the dim room light, the mark of his fingers stood out in deep, angry purple. Blackened patches had already begun forming, dark and ugly against her bare skin. The imprint of his grip was unmistakable—like someone had clamped iron around her arm instead of a human hand.
A choked sob escaped as she touched it. The pain burned sharply, but not as much as his words had.
"You're the girl whose parents SOLD her."
She covered her mouth, trying to quiet the sobs, but they only came out louder, more jagged.
Why did those words hurt more than his grip?
Because they were true.
Because they dragged open a wound she tried every day to stitch shut.
Her mind blurred, dragging her back to the small, broken house she grew up in.
Her mother's tired eyes.
Her father's silence.
The nights filled with shouting, desperation, hunger.
The way she had always hoped they'd make it through together.
She never once thought of running.
Never once believed they would let her go.
But they did.
And worst of all—they didn't even fight for her.
Her breath hitched painfully.
Her chest felt like it was caving in.
"Is there anything good for me in this lifetime?" she whispered, voice hollow.
The question hung in the air unanswered.
She curled further into herself, dragging her knees into her chest, burying her head between them. Her tears fell silently at first, then steadily, becoming a torrent. Each sob shook her whole body.
Eventually she crawled under the table in the corner—the smallest, darkest place she could reach. A spot where the world couldn't see her. Where she could hide from all the sharp edges life kept throwing at her.
There, in that cramped space, she let her grief spill unchecked.