Beauty in the Broken

“I warned you,” he snarls, shaking my wrist in front of my face. “Dami won’t like this.”

“Will he like you hitting me?”

“Oh, he may. He may even enjoy watching.”

The statement hits a nerve, memories from a previous life I can’t face.

He must’ve mistaken the reason for the grimace on my face, because he continues with a smirk. “You really don’t know what Dami is capable of, do you? Don’t worry. You’ll find out soon enough.”

When he lifts his hand again, I steel myself for the blow, but it’s only to yank the covers down. “A word about any of this to Dami, and I’ll make your life so miserable you’ll wish you never set foot over this threshold.” He pulls me to my feet by my arm. “Get dressed and remember what I said about staying out of my way.”

When he’s gone, I dash to the bathroom. My arm is coming to life with pins and needles. After massaging the muscles to get the circulation going, I do my grooming and get dressed.

Despite last night’s big meal, I’m hungry. Do I need permission for food? Damian said he’d be gone until tonight, and Zane asked me to stay out of his way. I’ll optimistically assume that means I can help myself to whatever there is to eat in the house, provided the kitchen is stocked. I don’t have a cent of money on me, and no access to my bank account. Unless Damian withdraws the money for me, my hands are tied. I can’t take a measly rand of my inherited wealth, not that I want to. It’s Jack’s money, which makes it dirty.

The feeling of helplessness isn’t new. I’ve lived with it for all of my life. I’ve been treated like a minor into adulthood. My independence has been stripped. It’s not easy to be a certified mental patient. It’s even harder to get back a status of normalcy. Once you’re on the list of crazies, you’re branded. You have to pass many tests and convince a jury of psychologists that their torture has healed you, a pointless exercise when your legal guardian testifies against you. Being marked as mentally incapable left me vulnerable and alone. Even if I had access to money, I have no one to ask to drive me to a supermarket. Not having a driver’s license or a car, I can’t drive myself. When I got home from the institution, Harold refused to let me learn how to drive. He limited my freedom in all regards. He’s been in charge of my decisions. Now, those decisions are in Damian’s hands, which doesn’t stop me from testing my boundaries. I’m famished enough to risk it downstairs in search of the kitchen.

Russell is at the door. I presume he got some sleep, because he gives me a cheery, bright-eyed greeting. Thankfully, Zane is nowhere to be seen. I pass a living and dining room before I find what I’m looking for. The kitchen is spacious and old-fashioned with a corner fireplace. The house must be old. The double-door fridge pulls my attention. Hurrying to it, I pull on the doors. It’s not locked, and it’s stocked to the brim with cheese, eggs, meat, and milk. I can have scrambled eggs or French toast. No, wait. Scones with cream and strawberry jam. Or scones and bacon. Or bacon with pork sausages and baked beans. Except that I don’t know how to prepare any of it. I was a prisoner in Jack’s house, locked up in my bedroom. Harold always had a cook. When I returned to Harold’s house a widow, my meals were rationed, and the kitchen was off-limits.

“Good morning,” a female voice says behind me.

Giving a little start, I bump my head before extracting it from the fridge. A young woman with red hair and freckles faces me. She has a pretty face, made even prettier by the smile she wears. It comes easily, that smile, and it makes me warm to her.

“Hungry?” She winks.

It takes me a moment to catch her implied meaning. “Oh. No. He left. I mean, it’s not what you think.”

She crosses the floor with an extended hand. “There’s no need to explain. I’m Jana. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hart.”

We shake hands. “Please, call me Lina. Are you a guest here?”

Her brow pleats. “Mr. Hart didn’t tell you?”

“Um, we didn’t have much time to talk. He left for business last night.”

“On your wedding night?” Flushing, she adds hastily, “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business. It was an inappropriate remark.”

“Don’t worry about it. I know it must seem strange, but we haven’t…” How do I explain it? She’s obviously not aware of the dynamic of our forced relationship. “He hasn’t told me much about the running of the household.”

“He hasn’t?”

“We haven’t exactly been dating. Not long, I mean. We haven’t been dating for long.”