AllFreeNovel
Share Us
This man is dangerous. I might have been a little intrigued, but not enough for me to want to go to him.
When he cocked an eyebrow at me, his still poised hand lingering midair, I started to see the spark of anger in his gaze. He didn’t like waiting, apparently.
With a shaky hand, I placed my dainty fingers in his strong, rough palm, and off we went. He swept me past the rows of shocked and disgruntled individuals, and it seems that’s the moment I signed my life away on the dotted line.
I’ll never again be Ivy Davis. Instead, I’ll forever behis.
Santiago. Jefe.
I didn’t know who he was at first, only having heard his name in passing between the workers. When I saw him, though, I should have known. The power he exudes as he stands there. He barks orders without having to open his mouth. The way he holds himself as he walks, like the floor beneath him should be gold and crystals molded to hold his two feet. He holds control over everyone in this place. InLa Guarida.
Once I was claimed by Santiago, my lifestyle went from being a sex-trafficked recruit to being his prisoner. Some guards moved me into a little cottage, a tiny little house only steps away from his majestic mansion. My little abode held a bedroom and a bathroom. No kitchen, no living room. It was more like a hut compared to Santiago’s place.
His mansion was a large stone home with large columns holding the front of the structure. The stark white house was nearly startling with how much it stood out compared to the buildings that surrounded it. It held numerous windows and oversized terraces that extended from each second story window. It looked to be too much at first, but as I begun to realize the extravagant life Santiago lived, I realized the house fit him perfectly, all the way down to the perfectly manicured palm trees that were strategically placed in his front yard.
From the day that Santiago bought me, the following days would all pass by and be depressingly the same. I wistfully prayed that rescue was coming for me, but as the days passed, my pleading crumbled into dust and got lost in the desert. I just hoped I didn’t end up being as lost as dreams became.
2
Ivy
Past
The crisp white sheets feel cool against my skin as I rouse from sleep. For a moment, I forget where I am. But then I look outside the small window and see the palm tree in the distance, I once again realize I’m no longer in Ohio. Maybe tapping my heels together three times would wake me up from this horrid dream. I tap my heels together, anyway, rolling my eyes even as I do so.
At that very moment, Ms. Maria decides to make her entrance, opening the door as she always does. No knocking involved. No asking if I’m decent. She makes her entrance as if she’s in charge, which I guess in a sense, she is. She doesn’t spare me more than a heavy glance before making herself useful around the room. Her heavyset body moves about in a slight waddle, dressed in her black maid dress. Her brown hair is slicked back into a harsh bun. She’s unlike the other women around here. They all look ready for a evening drink, no matter the hour. Ms. Maria dresses in a more conservative dress, not to impress anyone, but instead to get her work done.
I'm not exactly sure who Ms. Maria is, but the moment I met her I knew I'd like her. In a roundabout way, that is. She's a strict woman who has an accent so heavy it’s hard to understand her. But she has a sliver of tenderness that shines through her hard exterior. Also, she doesn't seem to like Santiago all that much. The way she coldly looks at him whenever she's in the same room as him makes me believe I might have found myself an ally. But when I went up to her the first week, heart in my throat and eyes full of tears, begging for rescue, she shut down. She stopped fussing on me, all emotions in her eyes shuttered, leaving a blank stare in its place. Then she walked out of my hut without another word. She didn't come back for the rest of the day. She came back the following morning and acted like nothing happened. I figured I shouldn’t test my luck again. She won't be helping me. I'm not sure if it's loyalty or money, but something keeps her at least somewhat loyal to Santiago, and because of this, I can never fully trust her myself.
Ms. Maria doesn’t say anything to me as I lay in bed, looking at me curiously as she walks over to my closet. She picks out my outfit like she does every day, pressing it into my chest with a nod and clucking around the room like a mother hen. I accept her outfit with a sigh and get dressed in the bright yellow sundress she hands to me. The top sits to low and the hem is too short. I’m not sure why they want to dress me in things that are borderline slutty. I don’t want to be a fucking prude, but at the end of the day, I’m only fifteen.
My cleavage is only just starting to be cleavage, and the way some of the men walk through this place stare at me, with their heavy eyes and wet lips makes me more uncomfortable than a damn tarantula walking on my face.
Ms. Maria nods in my direction as she looks me over and walks to me with my hairbrush. I sigh as I slip it out of her hand and run it through my hair quickly, then toss it on my bed. I walk over to the bathroom and brush my teeth, refusing to look at myself in the mirror. Every time I do, I end up drowning in the endless sorrow in my eyes. I can’t look for too long, or else I don’t think I’ll ever find the surface. Walking back out into my room, Ms. Maria hands me a pair of cream-colored sandals that match my yellow dress, and off we go.
The moment we walk through the doors of Santiago's, the tension in my stomach turns into a rigid knot. Upon entering the front door, I’m met with ceilings as high as I’ve ever seen inside of a home. The floors look like glass and the milky white walls are filled with artwork from all across the world. This home is filled with more money than I can imagine, and always in pristine condition, shiny and spotless, as if someone spends the evenings polishing all the knickknacks and buffering the floors.
The secrets whisper in the walls and scream at me as Ms. Maria walks me through the hallway and towards the large dining area. The rich aroma of morning coffee and sweet scent of baked breads should make me melt in this extravagant home. But it doesn't. It feels fake. A lie. Everything in this place and every person that fills it are wrapped in tragedy.
I can hear the staff working in the nearby chef's kitchen. From the sounds of it, there are staff working in there at all hours of the day. I haven't had the opportunity to peek inside, but if it's anything like this house, it's built for a celebrity.
Ms. Maria places a hand on my shoulder and pushes me into my usual chair. I sit on the end like a queen, even though I’m very much a prisoner. A fresh plate of eggs with a side dish of fruit already sit in front of me. The eggs have a trail of steam coming from them, as if they were placed here only moments before I entered the room. A tall glass of orange juice sits next to it, and a memory flashes in my mind as I stare at my glass of the first day I was placed in this chair for breakfast. I can remember not being able to stomach any of my food, nerves making me sick and twitchy. Instead, I watched as the condensation dripped down the outside of the glass for nearly half an hour.
Snapping out of my memory, I glance up from the glass and grab my fork, spearing a piece of cantaloupe and popping it in my mouth. As I chew at my tasteless food, I look around the room that has been silently mocking me for months. The large pieces of art decorating the walls shine from the morning light and watch me in shame. The moldings along the ceiling are a rich brown and have the most beautiful details carved within them. It stares at me in pity. The expansive wooden table sits in front of me. In the middle of it sits a large, stone, centerpiece vase filled with a colorful bouquet of flowers that towers above me. It’s so tall that it’s taller than me even when I’m standing.
The table is large enough to fit at least ten people. The high wing-back chairs looks like thrones. I observe the room every morning, taking in more details until the air turns sharp and the crack of heavy, expensive shoes echo down on the stone floor. I avert my gaze to my plate, pretending to be immersed in my now cold dish as a large form fills the doorway.
"Good morning, Ivy." Santiago's voice holds an air of irritation, and I know it's because I'm not accustomed to his charms.
My eyes lift from his tone, seeing his pressed suit molding perfectly to his form.
"Good morning." I drop my gaze to my orange juice and go to take a sip, cringing as the sweat from the glass makes it start to slip from my fingers. My free hand shoots underneath the glass to protect the expensive furniture around me. I take a sip and listen as Santiago sighs and as he sits at the head of the table. I can smell the fresh scent of cologne swirl underneath my nose and do my best not to sneeze. One of the servers bustles out of the kitchen with a hot plate and sets it in front of him, giving a little bow before hurrying back into the kitchen.
We sit in silence. After a while, Santiago grabs the nearby newspaper and reads as he eats his breakfast. Once he's finished, I listen as his chair groans against the floor as he pushes his chair back. He walks out of the dining room without a word, and the tension in the room slowly leaves with him.
My body deflates, my limbs melting into the chair in relief of his departure. The man terrifies me, but is this what my life holds? A constant loop of meals with no talking, his presence continuously terrifying me? Why am I here? Does he only want company? He can pay to have someone sit next to him and eat, if that’s all he wants. No, not even that. He is good looking enough where he doesn't need to pay for someone to have someone sit with him and eat.
So, why me?
