Sold To The Monster: My Silent Nightmare

Kole.

She formed the name in her mind, a shield against the darkness.

Come back.

Eva Bowen ran her fingers along the edge of the Egyptian cotton sheet. She didn't just touch it; she inspected it with the sensitivity of a bomb disposal technician.

One wrinkle.

It was barely visible, a hairline fracture in the pristine white landscape of the master bed, but it was there.

She snapped her fingers, the sound sharp in the silent room. She pointed at the corner.

The new maid, a girl named Clara whose hands hadn't stopped shaking since orientation, looked at the bed and then back at Eva.

"It looks fine," Clara whispered, her voice cracking. "Please. My back is killing me. If we redo it again, we'll be late for the west wing."

Eva didn't blink. She shook her head once, a precise, mechanical movement. She raised a hand and pointed a slender finger toward the ceiling corner.

The red light of the camera blinked back at them. A silent, unblinking eye.

Clara followed the gesture. Her face paled, draining of what little color the Crawford estate hadn't already sucked out of her.

"I... I didn't see it," Clara stammered. She grabbed the corner of the sheet, her knuckles white.

Eva walked to the floor-to-ceiling window while the girl scrambled to fix the mistake. She adjusted the heavy velvet curtain, ensuring the gap was exactly two inches wide.

Through the thick, bulletproof glass, the iron gates of the Crawford Estate loomed in the distance. They were black teeth biting into the grey sky.

Five years.

Her hand drifted to her pocket, fingers tracing the outline of the old, dented pocket watch hidden deep inside her apron. The metal was warm against her hip.

One more day.

The contract review was tomorrow.

The vibration of heavy footsteps in the hallway reached her before the sound did. It traveled through the floorboards, up through the soles of her cheap service shoes, and settled as a cold knot in her stomach.

Eva stiffened. Her spine locked into a straight line. It was a physiological response she couldn't control, conditioned over eighteen hundred days of terror.

Clara was still fussing with the pillow, muttering under her breath about "psychotic standards."

Eva spun around. She brought a finger to her lips, her eyes widening, hardening into steel. Shut up.

The double doors flew open. They didn't just open; they slammed against the stoppers with a violence that made the crystal chandelier tremble.

Alek Crawford walked in.

He brought the winter air with him, clinging to his wool coat, mixed with the acrid scent of expensive cigars and old whiskey. He was a large man, broad-shouldered and imposing, taking up too much oxygen in the room.

Clara jumped. Her elbow knocked into the silver water bucket on the nightstand.

It happened in slow motion. The bucket tipped. The water sloshed out in a clear, devastating arc.

It landed on the cuff of Alek's bespoke charcoal trousers.

The room went vacuum-silent.

Alek stopped mid-stride. He looked down at his pant leg, the dark fabric turning black with moisture. He stared at it for a second, then two. When he looked up, his eyes were void of anything human.

Clara began to sob. It was a high, thin sound.

Eva moved. She dropped to her knees before her brain even processed the command. She pulled a cloth from her apron, her hands moving frantically to dab at the hem of his pants.

She had to draw the fire. If he focused on her, the girl might survive the shift.

Alek's hand shot out.

He grabbed Eva's wrist. His grip was a vice, his fingers digging into the delicate tendons until she felt them grinding against bone. He yanked her hand away from his leg.

"Get out," Alek said. His voice was low, a rumble of thunder that hadn't yet broken.

He wasn't looking at Eva. He was looking at Clara.

Two men in black suits appeared in the doorway. Alek jerked his chin toward the sobbing girl. They moved instantly, flanking her and guiding her out.

The doors clicked shut. The sound was final.

Eva was still on her knees. Alek didn't let go of her wrist. He pulled, forcing her to stand, dragging her into his personal space.

"Always the martyr," he sneered, looking down at her. "Do you think saving her makes you holy, Eva?"

Eva kept her head down. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. Silence. Just silence.

Alek released her wrist only to cup her chin. His fingers were rough, callous pads pressing into her jaw. He forced her head up.

"Look at me."

She tried to focus on his nose, his forehead, anywhere but the eyes. But he squeezed harder, bruising the skin.

She met his gaze. His irises were dark, swirling with a chaotic mix of exhaustion and cruelty.

"I see the fear," he whispered, leaning closer. "It's the only honest thing about you."

He let his hand slide down her throat. His thumb rested over her pulse point. Her heart hammered against his touch, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone.

"Tomorrow is the review," he said softly. "You think you're walking out of here?"

Eva stopped breathing. Her lungs burned for air, but she held it.

"Jed Bowen sold you for a seat in the Senate," Alek said, his voice dropping to a terrifying intimacy. "He sold you to cover his debts. Do you think a piece of paper matters to men like us?"

He felt her tremble. A corner of his mouth ticked up.

He released her abruptly. Eva stumbled back, her hip colliding with the mahogany bedpost. Pain radiated down her leg, sharp and hot.

Alek turned his back on her, walking toward the liquor cabinet.

"I'm going to take everything owed to me," he said to the glass decanter. "With interest."

Eva straightened her apron. Her hands were shaking so badly she had to clasp them together. She bowed toward his back, a perfect, submissive angle.

He didn't turn around. He just poured the amber liquid, the clink of glass on glass echoing like a gunshot.

Eva backed out of the room. She kept her eyes on the floor until she was in the hallway.

She pulled the heavy doors shut. Her legs gave out. She leaned against the wall, sliding down just an inch before catching herself. She gasped, sucking in air as if she had been underwater for minutes.

"Careful."

The voice was soft, refined.

Arthur Sterling, the head butler, stood a few feet away. He was holding a silver tray. His face was impassive, but his eyes held a flicker of something that might have been pity.

He reached into his pocket and extended a clean, white handkerchief.

"Wipe your face, Miss Bowen," Arthur said quietly. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Eva took the cloth. She hadn't realized she was sweating. Cold dampness coated her forehead.

"Be careful tonight," Arthur added, stepping past her toward the master suite. " The mood is... volatile."

Eva clutched the handkerchief. She looked toward the window at the end of the hall. Rain was starting to lash against the glass, blurring the world outside.

Eva slipped into the narrow changing room adjacent to the staff quarters. It was little more than a closet, smelling of bleach and starch.

She locked the door. She jiggled the handle, ensuring the deadbolt had fully engaged. Click.

Safe.

She exhaled, a long, shaky breath that rattled in her chest. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of her uniform. She peeled the fabric away, revealing pale skin marred by the red imprint of Alek's fingers on her jaw.

She looked at herself in the small, cracked mirror above the sink. Her eyes were hollow, dark circles bruising the skin beneath them.

She turned on the faucet. The water ran cold. She splashed it onto her face, the shock of it grounding her, pulling her out of the panic spiral.

The doorknob turned.

It wasn't a rattle. It was a slow, deliberate rotation.

Eva froze, water dripping from her chin. She stared at the door in the mirror's reflection.

The sound of metal sliding against metal followed. A key.

The lock disengaged with a heavy thud.

Eva spun around, clutching her unbuttoned uniform together at her chest.

Alek stepped inside.

He filled the small space instantly. He didn't look drunk, which was worse. He looked focused. Predatory.

He closed the door behind him. He turned the lock, sealing them in.

Eva backed up until her hips hit the edge of the small vanity table. There was nowhere to go. The walls seemed to shrink, pressing in on her.

Alek took a step forward. His eyes dropped to her shoulder, where the uniform had slipped, revealing the curve of her collarbone.

"Hiding?" he asked. His voice was devoid of humor.

Eva opened her mouth to scream, but the conditioning choked her. Be silent. Be invisible. Only a harsh exhale of air escaped her lips.

Alek smirked. "Pathetic."

He reached out. He didn't go for her skin. He grabbed the collar of her uniform.

Rip.

The sound of tearing fabric was deafening in the small room. Buttons popped, pinging against the tiled floor like hail.

Eva gasped, instinctively bringing her hands up to push him away. Her palms hit his chest. It was like pushing against a marble wall.

He caught her wrists in one hand, pinning them above her head against the mirror.

With his free hand, he swept the toiletries off the vanity. Bottles of lotion and hairspray crashed to the floor, rolling into the corners.

He pressed his body against hers, trapping her. He buried his face in the crook of her neck.

His teeth grazed her sensitive skin. It wasn't a kiss. It was a claim. A bite.

Pain sparked, sharp and immediate. Tears pricked Eva's eyes, hot and stinging. Her body began to tremble, violent shudders racking her frame.

Alek stopped.

He didn't pull away, but he froze. He could feel her shaking against him. He could feel the terror radiating off her skin like heat.

He pulled back, just enough to look at her.

Eva's face was wet with tears. Her eyes were wide, pleading, terrified.

Something flickered in Alek's expression. His brows knitted together. The cruelty in his eyes wavered, replaced by a flash of confusion, maybe even... regret?

Click-clack. Click-clack.

The sharp staccato of high heels on the hallway tile cut through the tension.

"Alek!"

Hester Crawford's voice was a whip crack.

Alek flinched. The spell broke. The confusion vanished, replaced by a mask of annoyance.

Hester pounded on the door. "Open this door. Now. I know you're in there."

Alek cursed under his breath. He released Eva's wrists.

Eva slid down the wall, collapsing onto the floor amidst the scattered bottles. She pulled the torn edges of her uniform together, curling into a ball.

Alek straightened his jacket. He ran a hand through his hair, composing himself in a split second.

He unlocked the door and pulled it open.

Hester Crawford stood there, dressed in impeccable silk, her face a mask of icy rage. She didn't look at her son. Her gaze went straight past him, landing on Eva.

Her lip curled. Pure disgust.

"Mother," Alek said, stepping into her line of sight.

"Get out of the way," Hester snapped. "You're late for the conference call with the board. And you're here... playing with the help? Don't give me that pathetic, wide-eyed look, girl. I know exactly what you're doing."

"It's none of your business," Alek growled.

"Everything in this house is my business," Hester retorted. "Especially when it threatens the family name."

While they locked eyes, Eva saw the opening.

She scrambled to her feet. She grabbed a spare oversized janitor's jacket hanging on a hook near the door.

She bolted.

She squeezed past Alek and Hester, her bare feet slapping against the cold floor.

"Hey!" Hester shouted.

Eva didn't look back. She ran down the corridor, the oversized jacket billowing around her. She turned a corner, then another, her lungs burning.

She found a supply closet at the end of the service hall. She threw herself inside and pulled the door shut, sliding down into the darkness among the mops and buckets.

Eva sat in the dark for ten minutes. She listened to the house. When the shouting faded, she changed.

The spare uniform she found in the closet was two sizes too big. It hung off her frame, the gray fabric coarse and smelling of dust. But it covered her.

She pushed the door open.

Hester Crawford was waiting.

She wasn't alone. Two security guards stood behind her, their arms crossed.

Eva stopped. She lowered her head, trying to make herself small, trying to sidestep toward the service stairs.

Hester stepped into her path.

Smack.

The slap came out of nowhere. It was precise, practiced. Hester's ring caught Eva's cheekbone, cutting the skin.

Eva's head snapped to the side. She tasted blood.

She didn't make a sound. She brought a hand to her face, covering the stinging flesh.

Hester didn't yell. She pulled a wet wipe from her purse and began to clean her hand, scrubbing each finger as if she had touched rotting meat.

"You are a stain on this house," Hester said. Her voice was conversational, chillingly calm. "Do not think for a second that my son cares about you. You are a receptacle for his anger. Nothing more."

Eva stared at the floor tiles.

"Go to the lower levels," Hester commanded, tossing the used wipe into a nearby bin. "You are banned from the main wing until further notice. Go clean the filth where you belong."

Eva bowed. A reflex. A survival tactic.

She turned and walked away, her spine rigid.

"Increase the dosage," she heard Hester murmur to the guard as she walked away. "She's looking too alert."

Eva's heart skipped a beat, but she didn't falter.

She reached the servants' quarters in the basement. It was louder here, the air thick with the smell of industrial cleaner and cabbage.

Three maids were gathered by the vending machine. They didn't see Eva in the shadows.

"Did you hear?" one whispered. "Senator Bowen just announced his re-election campaign."

"The nerve," another scoffed. "After selling his own daughter to pay off his gambling debts? Man has no soul."

"Alek keeps her around as a trophy," the third said, laughing darkly. "A reminder of what happens when you cross a Crawford. I bet he drugged her to shut her up. No way she just went mute on her own."

Eva pressed her back against the wall. Her fingernails dug into her palms.

Is that what they think? That I'm broken?

She slipped away before they saw her. She ducked into the laundry room.

The hum of the massive industrial washers drowned out her thoughts. She walked to the nearest machine and began shoving dirty sheets into the drum.

Her hand brushed her pocket. She felt the small plastic bottle there.

She pulled it out. It was labeled "Vitamins - Daily."

She opened it. Inside were white pills.

Hester's pills.

Eva walked to the drain in the floor. She dumped the pills out, watching them dissolve in the gray water. From a hidden pocket in her undershirt, she pulled out a nearly identical bottle. This one contained actual vitamins she had pilfered from the infirmary supply months ago, exploiting a blind spot in the west-wing camera feed she'd discovered during her first year. She'd learned to manage the rare blood tests with forced hydration and carefully timed meals.

She wasn't drugged. She had been switching them for three years.

She was awake. She was aware. And she was angry.

The TV mounted in the corner of the room flashed a breaking news banner.

SCANDAL ROCKS BOWEN FAMILY.

Eva froze. She looked up.

A photo of a blonde woman appeared on the screen. Britt Bowen. Her half-sister.

The headline scrolled: BRITT BOWEN ARRESTED FOR DUI. DRUGS FOUND IN VEHICLE.

Eva stared at the image of Britt, looking disheveled and defiant in her mugshot. Britt, who had tormented Eva as a child. Britt, who was Daddy's favorite.

The machine behind her beeped loudly, signaling the end of a cycle.

The door to the laundry room burst open.

Felicity, the young kitchen maid, ran in. Her face was flushed.

"Eva!" she gasped. "You have to come. Now."

Eva raised an eyebrow.

"It's Mr. Crawford," Felicity said, wringing her hands. "He's asking for you. He saw the news."