The Monster Who Became My Man

The silence in Damien Harrison' s penthouse was a heavy thing, pressing down on me. I was a ghost in this polished cage, a former bartender now a prisoner, all because my father' s death was called an accident, and Damien knew I knew it was a lie. He walked into the room without a sound and told me to get on my knees, a command, not a request, then threatened my sick mother' s life and expensive new treatment for defying him. Slowly, I knelt on the cold marble, the humiliation a burning in my gut as he watched with cold satisfaction, telling me to stay there because he had guests coming. Two stone-faced men in dark suits entered, and Harrison' s voice cut through the air: "Don' t fight back. Don' t make a sound. Endure it." The first blow was a heavy slap, blood filling my mouth, followed by a kick to the ribs that stole my breath, but I didn't scream, clinging to the memory of my father. When it was finally over, Harrison knelt beside me, his scent filling my senses, telling me I was resilient, "Just like him," and that my father' s principles got him killed. He left me alone, bruised and aching, but under the pain, a cold, hard resolve took root. I pushed myself up, limping to the bathroom, seeing a stranger with swollen features in the reflection. He thought he could break me. He was wrong; he had only shown me what I was truly fighting for.