HIS to CLAIM

Everything happened in a blur.

One moment, I was curled up on the living room couch, legs tucked under me, laughing so hard I could barely breathe. My younger brother Adam had just cracked another one of his ridiculous jokes-the kind that made no sense but somehow left everyone in stitches. He was wearing that goofy dinosaur hoodie he refused to outgrow, his eyes glowing with mischief.

Across the room, my mother sat regally on her favorite burgundy velvet sofa, the one she always claimed made her feel like a queen. She was braiding my little sister Delilah's hair, her fingers weaving through the strands with a grace that only came from years of loving practice. Delilah, ever the perfectionist, squirmed under Mom's touch but smiled anyway, her face lit with innocent joy.

The house was warm, not just in temperature but in feeling. It smelled of cinnamon candles and fresh linen. The late afternoon sun spilled through the windows, casting golden streaks on the walls. There was laughter. So much laughter. And for a fleeting second, everything felt perfect.

I should've paid more attention.

To the way Adam's eyes sparkled when he laughed.

To the gentle rhythm of Mom's hum as she worked her fingers through Delilah's hair.

To the way our home breathed-alive, safe, sacred.

Because that was the last time I would ever hear it.

The last time I would feel it.

The explosion came without warning.

A thunderous roar shattered the windows. The air turned to fire. The walls cracked open and groaned like they were screaming, and smoke poured in like a beast unleashed from hell. A blinding flash of light-and then chaos.

I was thrown from the couch, landing hard against the floor. The impact knocked the air from my lungs. My ears rang, high-pitched and sharp. For a moment, I couldn't move-I could barely think.

Then came the screams.

High-pitched. Raw.

My sister. My mother. I couldn't hear Adam.

I scrambled up, every muscle screaming in protest, and turned toward the sound of my mother's voice-but it was fading. Everything was fading. Thick, acrid smoke burned my eyes. The walls, once filled with pictures and warmth, were collapsing inwards.

Armed men-cold-faced, dressed in black-poured into the room through the smoke. Their guns were already raised. They didn't look around. They didn't speak. They shot at anything that moved.

I dropped to the floor again, crawling through broken glass and wood, my knees slick with blood. My hands stung, cut open from the debris, but I didn't care.

"Adam!" I shouted, coughing, crying, choking on the ash. No answer.

"Delilah?!"

Nothing.

And then I saw her.

My mother.

Trapped beneath the rubble of what used to be our kitchen wall. Her hands were trembling, reaching-clawing-for something. For me.

I forced myself forward, ignoring the stabbing pain in my knees and palms. I was so close. Inches away.

"Mom!" I screamed, reaching for her.

Our fingers nearly touched.

Then the shots rang out.

Five. One after the other. Brutal. Final.

Her hand jerked.

Then it went still.

Her blood spread like a shadow across the floor, soaking into the wood, seeping toward me.

She wasn't moving.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry. Something inside me snapped so violently that I became still. Frozen in place, as if the world had paused just for me.

The men noticed me.

One of them pointed his weapon.

I closed my eyes. I wasn't ready, but I didn't care. Maybe I deserved it. Maybe it was easier this way.

But death didn't come.

Gunfire erupted again, but it wasn't aimed at me. I felt something-no, someone-pulling me up, lifting me off the floor with strong, firm arms. My head rolled weakly to the side. I caught a glimpse of the gunmen falling-fast, like puppets with their strings cut.

I was being carried, cradled like I was weightless. I couldn't fight. I couldn't speak.

All I could do was breathe. Barely.

"Keep your eyes open, princesa," a voice murmured, rough and commanding, like gravel soaked in smoke.

I tried. I really did. But the pain was too much. The grief swallowed me whole.

And then everything went black.

Only silence followed.

Only darkness.

I opened my eyes but quickly shut them again.

The world was spinning. My head throbbed with a sharp, unforgiving pain. Groaning, I gripped the sides of my head and took a few shallow breaths before slowly cracking my eyes open again.

This wasn't my room.

Gone were the familiar pink walls. The warm, floral scent of lavender I loved so much had vanished. My fluffy pink rug wasn't beneath me, and the dresser that once held photos of my mother and me was nowhere in sight.

Instead, I found myself in a massive, unfamiliar space; clean, white walls with elegant paneling, sleek crown molding, and a high vaulted ceiling that let in soft morning light through expansive, arched windows. The king-sized bed I lay in was dressed in crisp, ivory sheets and layered with velvet throw pillows in muted tones. A chandelier dangled above, glittering in the light like fallen stars.

Everything screamed wealth. Sterile, quiet, luxurious wealth.

And absolutely none of it was mine. That's when it hit me.

The explosion.

The gunfire.

My mother's lifeless body.

I bolted upright, heart slamming against my ribs. I stumbled out of the bed, frantically searching for a way out.

Just as I reached for the ornate door, it creaked open, and an elderly woman stepped in.

"Oh my! You're awake!" she gasped, placing a hand over her chest. She hurried toward me, reaching out with trembling fingers, but I flinched away.

"Who are you? Where's my f–family? We... we were just together..." My voice cracked like fragile glass.

Before I could finish, she wrapped her arms around me. Her embrace was soft but firm, like a mother trying to hold together what little was left of a broken child.

"I'm so sorry, dear," she whispered, her voice full of sorrow. "I'm so, so sorry."

I didn't move. I couldn't cry. I didn't feel anything. I just sank into her arms like dead weight.

She pulled back and cupped my face gently. Her wrinkled skin was pale, her hazel eyes glossy with empathy. Age had softened her appearance, but I could tell she'd once been stunning-high cheekbones, thick silver hair pulled into a neat bun, and a delicate beauty that hadn't fully faded.

"I'll run you a hot bath," she said, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. "You've been unconscious for nearly two days. I'm just so relieved you're alright."

She offered me a soft smile before disappearing through a door, which I assumed led to the bathroom.

Moments later, she returned. "The bath is ready. Let me know if you need anything, darling." Then she was gone.

I stood there for a moment, numb, before heading toward the bathroom.

It was bigger than my old bedroom. Marble floors and a freestanding tub that looked like it belonged in a palace. Everything gleamed with luxury, but it all felt cold. Hollow.

My heart ached. My house-the only place that ever felt safe-was now a pile of broken memories.

I paused in front of the mirror.

The girl staring back at me looked like a ghost.

My hazel eyes, once so full of light, were dull and distant. My lips were dry and cracked. My face was swollen and pale, though I hadn't shed a single tear. My wild curls were tangled beyond recognition.

I looked shattered.

As I peeled off my clothes, I noticed a tight bandage wrapped around my ribs. Slowly, I unwrapped it, revealing sutures. A long, neat wound stitched together, proof that someone had saved me. But why?

I had no memory of what happened after my mother fell.

I forced the thought away and slipped into the tub.

The warm water wrapped around me like a second skin. I sank deeper, closing my eyes and letting the heat try to melt the sorrow away.

When I finished, I returned to the bedroom. A soft floral dress lay across the bed. Beside it, a small card in loopy handwriting read:

"Come down for breakfast when you're ready."

I slipped on the dress, still confused, still lost.

Why me? Why did they kill my family and let me live? And who was the person that carried me away?

Driven by the need for answers, I stepped outside the room.

The hallway was as extravagant as the room-artwork hung in perfect symmetry along the cream-colored walls, a long Persian rug ran the length of the corridor, and intricate gold sconces illuminated everything in a warm, amber glow.

Eventually, I found a spiral staircase with polished mahogany rails that led down into what looked like a grand dining hall.

The old woman from earlier was there, setting the table.

A crystal chandelier sparkled above her, and the table-long enough to seat twelve-was covered in fine china and silver cutlery.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked sharply.

She turned toward me, startled. "Why am I setting the table?" she asked with a raised brow.

I followed her gaze and realized she'd set two places.

"I mean... why are you helping me? What is this place?" I pressed.

She gave me a soft smile. "Sit, dear. Eat something."

I hesitated but obeyed, thinking she'd sit with me. But instead, she turned and walked away without another word.

I was about to stand and follow her when a deep voice-no, a command-froze me in place.

"Sit. Back. Down."

The voice was painfully familiar.

I turned slowly.

A tall man entered the room like a shadow stretching across the walls, broad-shouldered, dressed in black, his muscular frame cutting a sharp silhouette against the light. His dark hair was tousled but neat, his jawline sharp enough to wound, and his eyes-dark, unreadable-held the weight of authority.

He didn't need to raise his voice to be obeyed.

But I wasn't one to obey.

I stood. My height was no match for his, but I tilted my chin defiantly.

He looked surprised as if no one had ever dared stand up to him before.

"Didn't you hear me?" he growled, taking another step forward towards me.

His voice was like smoke-rough, dangerous... and addictive.

I should've been afraid. Instead, I found myself wanting him to speak again.

I glared at him. "Who are you to tell me what to do?"

And that's when his lips curled-half anger, half intrigue. Like he'd just found a challenge.

"I own you now, Lucía."

The way he said my name, it slid off his tongue like silk laced with venom. Smooth. Deliberate. Dangerous.

But his words made my blood boil.

Own me?

A bitter laugh escaped my throat. "Own me?" I echoed, disbelief and rage knotting in my chest. "You're insane."

I shoved at his chest, tried to push past his towering figure. I didn't want his mansion. I didn't want his pity. I didn't want him.

But he grabbed my wrist.

His grip was tight, unyielding. His touch seared against my skin like fire. I yanked, twisted, but he didn't budge. He stepped closer.

So close I could see the flecks of gold in his dark brown eyes. So close I could taste the danger rolling off him in waves.

"Let me go," I snapped, but my voice cracked betraying the fear that was crawling its way up my throat.

He leaned in, eyes dark and cold. "I saved your life. That makes you mine. You don't walk away until you've repaid the debt."

My heart froze.

"Debt?"

His gaze narrowed. "Everything your father took from me. I'm taking back through you."

I blinked, stunned. "My... father?"

A cruel smile curled on his lips. "Your father stole from me. Millions. And when I came for him, the coward vanished. Left everyone behind, left you behind. But now I have what he loves most. His daughter."

I felt like the ground beneath me cracked open. My chest tightened. "Fuck you..." I hissed. "And fuck Alex. That man is dead to me. He left us long before you came. He stopped being my father the day he chose himself over us."

His jaw clenched. But I wasn't done.

"And you-you were there that night." My voice rose, shaking, broken. "You were there when my house was blown to pieces. When my mother was murdered. Were you the one who gave the order? Were you the monster who stood back and watched as my family was slaughtered?"

Something flickered in his eyes. A pause. A shift. Regret? Guilt? No-he buried it before I could name it.

"DID YOU?!"

I was screaming now. Hitting his chest with clenched fists. I didn't care how solid he felt, or how tall he stood over me. Rage poured out of me like acid.

"You fucking psychopath!" I screamed, tears blurring my vision, pouring freely now. "You killed my mother! My sister! My brother! Why didn't you go after Alex? Why didn't you find that bastard and put a bullet in his head instead?"

My body shook uncontrollably. I couldn't stop the flood.

"I hate you! I fucking hate you!" I sobbed, still hitting, my fists turning weak and useless against his unmoving chest. "You ruined everything... and now you want to claim me like I'm some prize in your sick game?"

His arms shot forward, grabbing me. I thrashed, screamed louder. I couldn't breathe. The room spun. My chest heaved. My throat closed.

Panic took over.

I was spiraling. Hyperventilating.

Then I felt a sharp pain in my arm. A prick. Cold spreading through my veins.

I turned my head in time to see a man in black lower a syringe.

"Wha... what did you-"

Darkness crept in. Everything became distant.

"Take her back to her room." The chandelier above me blurred. The man's voice was a muffled echo in the distance.

Life wasn't just different now.

It was stolen. Twisted. And rebuilt into something unrecognizable.

I used to belong to a family. Now I belonged to a man.

Marcelo Dominique.

According to him-and everyone else in this suffocating mansion-I was his property.

Not a person. Not a survivor. A possession.

And it all traced back to one man-Alex.

My so-called father.

The man who failed us as a husband, as a protector, as a human being. He didn't just vanish like a coward-no, that would've been merciful. Instead, he dragged us all into the depths of his betrayal, tying our lives to the wrath of someone far more dangerous than he could ever comprehend.

Then he ran.

And left me behind to pay for his sins. Marcelo's price.

His words still echoed in my mind, cold and deliberate: "Live by my rules. Obey my standards. When you're old enough to repay every fucking cent your father stole from me, then and only then will you have your life back."

The audacity. The cruelty.

Even Gwen, the sweet old woman who treated me with motherly kindness, warned me in hushed tones. "Lucía, please," she'd whispered once, her frail hands trembling around mine, "don't push Mr. Dominique. He's not like other men. He may seem like your enemy, but he's the only thing standing between you and a much worse fate."

I wanted to scream every time someone defended him.

Marcelo wasn't a savior. He was the monster who burned down everything I loved.

The reason my home was reduced to ash. The reason my mother died screaming beneath the rubble. The reason my little brother and sister would never laugh again.

I didn't care how many bodyguards he paid to shadow me or how many gourmet meals Gwen left untouched on the table. This house-his house-was nothing more than a gilded cage.

I tried escaping once.

Slipped through my bedroom window under the veil of night, barefoot, desperate, my breath caught in my throat like a prisoner gasping for freedom. I barely made it two steps before I saw them-two men stationed on the balcony, rifles slung over their shoulders, eyes flat and emotionless.

Marcelo had thought of everything.

But so had I.

Someday, I would find a way out. Even if it meant setting fire to every wall he'd built around me.

☾

The morning sunlight pierced through my curtains like blades, stabbing straight into my skull.

"Rise and shine!" Gwen's chipper voice rang through the room as she swept open the blinds, flooding the space with golden light.

I groaned and buried my face into the pillow, clinging to the last strands of sleep.

"Up you get, dear. It's your first day of college," she said brightly, as if that explained anything.

My head snapped up.

"Wait-college?"

She nodded, unfazed. "Yes, sweetheart. Mr. Dominique has arranged everything."

Panic flared. "I didn't apply for anything. I was taking a year off. It's not even close to over yet!"

"Just get dressed and come downstairs," Gwen said with a knowing smile. "He'll explain."

His name sent a shiver down my spine.

Marcelo.

Not fear-something worse.

Hatred.

And hate, I was beginning to understand, was dangerously close to obsession.

Still, I dragged myself to the bathroom. The hot water did little to soothe the cold pit in my chest. Afterward, I slipped into the dress Gwen had left for me-red, floral, too soft for how hard I felt inside. It clung to my frame, accentuating curves I didn't even want him noticing. But maybe that's why I let it.

I applied lipstick with a shaky hand, dabbed blush on my cheeks, and drew a razor-thin line of eyeliner along my lashes. In the mirror, I looked like a woman in control.

But beneath it, I was just a girl burning.

I descended the stairs slowly, the tension coiling tighter with every step.

And then I saw him.

Marcelo.

Standing in the foyer like a king awaiting an audience. A crisp white shirt hugged his chiseled torso, the sleeves rolled to his forearms, veins visible and taut. A tattoo curled up from his collarbone, dark and intricate, begging to be touched.

I hated how good he looked. Hated how effortlessly he commanded space.

I hated that my body noticed.

"What the hell is this?" I demanded, my voice sharp and my chin high.

His eyes locked on mine, unreadable. "You'll watch your tone when you speak to me, girl."

"Girl?" I repeated, scoffing. My fists clenched. "You don't own me."

He took a step forward. "Don't I?"

The question slithered down my spine.

Before I could respond, he continued. "You want to repay your debt, yes? How do you plan to do that without a degree? I pulled strings and got you a spot in the business program. No questions. No complaints. You'll go, you'll graduate, and you'll stay the hell out of trouble."

I stared at him, seething. "How thoughtful. Will I at least get a dorm room with this... generosity?"

His expression darkened.

"The fuck you will," he growled. "You're mine. You live in my house. Under my roof. Two armed guards will escort you to class and bring you right back. Every. Single. Day."

The way he said mine lit something wicked inside me. Possessive. Brutal. Final.

And God help me-it didn't just scare me.

It thrilled me.

"I fucking hate you," I whispered.

"Say it louder."

"Fuck you, Marcelo!"

In a flash, his hand was on my throat-firm but not cruel.

Not choking. Just reminding.

I gasped, breath catching, not from pain-but from the force of him. The heat. The nearness.

You will speak to me with respect," he said, his voice dark, trembling with restraint. "Fight it all you want, Lucía. But it won't change what we both know."

He leaned in, so close his breath tickled my lips.

"You're mine."

My knees nearly buckled. My heart thundered. And in that instant, I hated him so much.

Then, just as suddenly, he released me.

Turned away like none of it happened.

Like he hadn't just branded me with his touch.

Gwen rushed in with my bag, her eyes flicking between us. "Lucía, please. Don't provoke him. Just take this. Go to college. Try to live."

I didn't speak. Couldn't.

I grabbed the bag and stormed out the front door.

Two guards stood waiting beside a sleek black car. One opened the door for me.

I slid in without a word and slammed it shut.

The engine purred to life, and the house began to shrink in the distance behind me.

But it wasn't far enough.

I pressed my palm to my chest, trying to calm the chaos beneath my ribs.

My pulse pounded like war drums. My skin still tingled where he'd touched me.

And I hated that a part of me wanted to feel it again.

I whispered into the silence of the car, bitter and broken,

"I fucking hate you, Marcelo."

But even I could hear the lie.