Chapter 8

• He sinks back into his chair and deliberately focuses on his cellphone, feigning indifference, though he catches a glimpse of betrayal and disappointment in Anastasia's gray eyes. He brushes it off—her and them. He'll have Lizabeth raise her pay, assuming she chooses to stay after this incident.
• Working in the household of any member of the Caza Nova carries its advantages and disadvantages. They pay heavily for services rendered, as well as for damages incurred.
• Damages can entail returning home missing a finger, being shot at during power struggles, or dealing with unwanted advances from entitled guests. Or worse.
• He has no idea how long they torment her, but it feels like an eternity filled with pain, anger, and suffocation.
• Alexander only releases her when Lauro has torn her skirt into such tatters that her black lace panties are exposed.
• Valerie remains silent throughout the entire ordeal.
• Giselle sips her drink.
• Sandro's Grandma Nina continues to eat. His cousins pick at their manicured nails while their husbands engage in business discussions.
• Women tend to outlive men in their world because they know when to refrain from interfering.
• If Alexander chose to, he could order his guards to shoot Anastasia, and not a single person at the table would react to the sight of blood or death. She is just a maid, a nobody. Her life bears little significance to an heir, and thus, it should hold little significance for him as well.
• The slightest sign of weakness would put him back in the game. He is determined that Anastasia will not become his vulnerability, as Priscilla once did. He refuses to become entangled with another man's woman and expose himself to the scandal, drama, and vulnerability that comes with such relationships. If Alexander desires her, then he can have her.
• Anastasia is none of his concern.
• ......
• Anastasia's Flashback.
• Deep blue eyes. Hard, emotionless, empty. They follow her as she steps out from the worn, battered door of her bedroom, and goosebumps prick her arms at the attention. He is the most beautiful man her stepmother has ever allowed in this space, but he might as well be a statue of cold indifference.
• A chill runs down her spine as she closes the distance between them. Her bare foot skids across the filthy rug, and her brown slip of a dress trails behind her, collecting the oil spills and puddles of soup and dried waste that cover the floor from her hurried preparations.
• His eyes don't light up the way others do when they see her in this sheer silk dress. There is no bulge in his trousers either. She doubts he is impressed. Perhaps she hasn't tried hard enough.
• Fear constricts around her throat like a vise as her stepmother's words echo in her mind: Mr. Harake is a very important man, Tasha. It would be a shame if he left... dissatisfied. If you disappoint him, you'll be working till dawn... with less discerning clientele.
• Hiding her trembling hands beneath the silk dress, she lifts it high, exposing smooth thighs, forcing a smile to mask the downward curve of her lips that threaten to spill tears. The smile holds her together, much like the glued pieces of a fractured picture frame.
• At just sixteen, Anastasia has already become the best performer.
• She drops to her knees at the man's feet, aware that his pristine shoes are worth more than everything in this house, including her stepmother's prized jewelry. She reaches for his feet, intent on removing his shoes.
• He allows her, observing her with an unsettling quiet.
• Her fingers slip on the shoelaces—three times. She struggles, her heart pounding furiously, her movements almost frantic. Sweat breaks on her forehead as she fails to unlace them.
• Suddenly, cold yet strong fingers grip her chin, forcing her head up until it aches, leaving her staring directly at him. Up close, she notices how sharply defined his features are; she could bruise herself just by caressing them. The candlelight casts a dark shadow over his sleek, blonde hair, catching a faint glimmer at the tips.
• "Anastasia."
• She gasps, feeling a strange sensation unfurl in her stomach. No man has ever looked at her long enough to make her feel as though he could see into every corner of her mind, navigating it like a maze, and claiming ownership of it. He tilts her head left and right, flicking his thumb over her skin intimately.
• "You waste away in this hole, precious." A gentle brush of his lips against hers sends tingles down to her toes. "Can you read?"
• The question surprises her, but she nods.
• Then, without warning, he slaps her. The force of the blow leaves her temporarily blind and stunned for the first few moments. Tears blur her vision as she blinks away the dark spots clouding her sight, flinching when Mr. Harake seizes her shoulders and lifts her onto his lap.
• Anastasia had never felt so small, so insignificant. Yet his hands glided soothingly down her back, caressing her until her zipper was undone and the loosened straps of her dress slid off her arms, leaving her breasts exposed to him.
• But he didn't glance at them. Instead, he held her gaze with unsettling intensity, speaking with an emptiness that sent chills through her. "Never lie to me again."
• She couldn't comprehend how he knew it was a lie, but fear had her throat tightening, and she nodded, terrified of what might spill from her lips should she speak. She feared provoking his anger once more.
• "Good," he purred, his seductive tone evoking sensations within her that no man had ever stirred, drowning out the sharp sting in her left cheek and the deafening noise in her ears.
• He briefly removed his hand from her lower back and placed a parchment and pen in her bruised fingers. "Sign them."
• Her gaze shifted from the thick documents filled with unreadable letters to his impassive face. "Why? What's in them—"
• A gasp escaped her as his lips brushed against her pulse point, causing her eyelids to flutter shut. No man had ever kissed her before. They had beaten her, stripped her, groped her, and defiled her in unimaginable ways, but this—his gentle kiss on her neck—was an entirely new experience. She could... she could get used to being kissed like this.
• The pen slipped from her fingers, and a soft moan escaped her as he dipped his head to her chest, digging his nails into her thighs. "Never ask questions, Anastasia," he whispered against her skin. "Never."
• ---
• Present
• Anastasia jolted awake with a gasp and rushed to the bathroom. She barely made it in time before the contents of her stomach surged upward, staining the floors and walls. Sobbing, she retched again and again until there was nothing left.
• Her nightmares were memories creeping back into her mind—fragments she had desperately tried to block out or suppress. Memories she wished to forget.
• Eager for fresh air to clear her thoughts, she grabbed a fur coat from the top of her nearly empty dresser and draped it over her shoulders before stepping outside. The wind whipped harshly around her, and she exhaled shakily as she trudged into the night, her hands deep in her pockets.
• She attempted to distract herself from thoughts of Jayson—wondering what he was doing, if he was searching for her, if he had lost his patience, or if he had contacted her stepmother yet.
• But her mind kept drifting back to that afternoon, to the hands that had squeezed her buttock so brutally that his thumb pressed deep into her middle. She had faced harassment and assault countless times, but nothing stung as sharply as Sandro's indifference. He had spoken to the blonde as if she wasn't being groped by one of his men.
• None of them had even attempted to defend her.
• Yet she knew they wouldn't. She was just the help. Nothing more.
• 'Still, it hurt like hell.'