A mute girl finds herself entwined with a powerful mafia billionaire who becomes dangerously obsessed with her.
Despite her silence, his intense feelings compel him to pursue her relentlessly, ultimately forcing her into a marriage she never desire...
Sunlight sliced through the curtains, illuminating motes of dust that hovered like ghosts.
Lucien stood in the doorway, already clad in a charcoal suit, his hair damp from a shower.
In his hand was a file folder, its edges crisp.
“Dress,” he said, tossing a black linen shift dress onto the bed. “We’re visiting the clinic.”
She sat up slowly, the sheets pooling at her waist. Clinic. The word sent a chill through her. Lucien’s “clinics” were fronts for his pharmaceutical operations places where stolen opioids were repackaged, where doctors on his payroll signed off on shipments of fentanyl disguised as antibiotics.
But why does he want to take her to his clinic ? She thought to herself while rubbing her eyes .
He watched her, waiting for the flicker of fear. She gave him nothing, rising to her feet with deliberate calm.
The drive was silent. Sorina stared out the tinted window, memorizing the route three left turns after the mercado, a narrow road flanked by crumbling colonial buildings.
The clinic was unmarked, its windows barred, its facade painted the same faded pink as the surrounding tenements. Inside, the air reeked of antiseptic and despair.
A nurse in scrubs rushed to welcome Lucien and led them into a back room. Lucien handed her the file. “Ensure Dr. Guerrero signs these. Today.”
The nurse palmed a wad of cash from his outstretched hand. “Sí, señor Thorne.”
Sorina lingered in the hallway, her gaze snagging on a half-open door.
Inside, a girl no older than Liora lay on a gurney, her arm hooked to an IV drip. Her eyes met Sorina’s wide, glassy, pleading.
“Ayúdame,” the girl whispered. (Help me.)
Sorina’s breath caught. She stepped forward, but Lucien’s hand clamped her shoulder. “Not your concern,” he said, steering her away to the reception of the clinic.
The receptionist froze mid-bite of a concha, crumbs dusting her keyboard. “S-Señor Thorne. Dr. Vega is ready.”
He gripped Sorina’s elbow, steering her inside.
The exam room smelled of bleach and resignation.
Sorina sat on the crinkled paper of the examination table, her black linen dress sleeveless, high-collared itchy against her skin. Lucien had chosen it, as always.
Her hair, hastily braided, frayed at the edges, strands clinging to her damp neck.
Dark smudges under her eyes like thumbprints of exhaustion.
Dr. Vega entered, her white coat starched, her eyes avoiding Lucien’s. “Buenos días, señora Thorne.” (Good morning, Mrs. Thorne)
Sorina’s hands trembled as she signed, Hello.
The exam was brisk. Blood drawn, ultrasound gel cold on her abdomen, the wand pressing like an accusation. Dr. Vega’s brow furrowed at the screen.
“Her BMI is critically low,” she said, addressing Lucien as if Sorina were furniture. “Nutrient deficiencies—iron, B12, folate. Uterine lining is thin.” She paused. “Conceiving would be… possible. But carrying to term?” A grim shake of her head. “High risk of miscarriage. Or worse.”
Lucien leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Fix it.”
Dr. Vega flinched. “I’ll prescribe prenatal vitamins. High-calorie diet. Rest.” She glanced at Sorina’s collarbones, sharp as blades beneath the dress. “Stress exacerbates—”
“Send the prescriptions to my home,” Lucien interrupted, straightening. “We’re done.”
Sorina’s reflection in the ultrasound monitor wavered a ghost with sunken eyes, lips bitten raw.
Her hands drifted to her abdomen, a hollow ache spreading beneath her ribs. A child. A life chained to his legacy.
In the car, Lucien lit a cigarillo, the smoke curling around his profile. “You’ll take the vitamins. Every morning. I’ll watch.”
She stared out the window, the mercado blurring into a smear of color.
A vendor sold elotes, the steam rising like a promise. Liora loved elotes.
His hand gripped her thigh, nails digging through the linen. “Look at me.”
She turned, her gaze empty.
“You’ll get strong,” he said, as if ordering a recalcitrant horse. “You’ll give me an heir...a son.” He demanded.
She didn’t want to give him a son who will end up like him ...another sadistic monster who loves tormenting innocents!!
She needs to find a way to not give birth to his child...she thought.
At home.....
Lucien’s phone buzzed a deal closing, a shipment secured. He dictated orders in a monotone, his free hand absently tracing the serpent on his cufflink.
After finishing the call he attended Dinner with Sorina.
Dinner was grilled steak, quinoa, spinach a grotesque parody of care. Sorina chewed each bite under the guard’s stare, the food ash on her tongue.
That night, Lucien took her again, his hands possessive on her hips, his breath hot at her ear. “Mine,” he growled, as if seeding the word in her bones.
After the intense moment, Sorina lied naked on bed staring blankly at the ceiling while Lucien half naked in his boxers went to kitchen to bring milk for Sorina.
He returned and handed her a glass of almond milk laced with chalky supplements. “Drink.”
She gagged but obeyed, the sludge coating her throat.
“Every morning,” he said, wiping a stray drop from her lip with his thumb. “No exceptions.”
Sorina waited until his breaths deepened into sleep. Then she slipped into the bathroom, vomiting the supplements into the sink.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
