Sarima turned in her sleep.
Her brows were creased, drawn tight as if something unseen had its grip on her even in rest. Beads of sweat gathered along her skin, slipping down her neck before disappearing into her clothes.
Outside, lightning struck.
The flash split through the darkness of the room, briefly revealing a white envelope resting on the table.
Then came the thunder. Low. Heavy.
It rolled through the manor like something alive.
Sarima jolted awake.
Her eyes flung open in fear.
She sat upright, breath caught in her throat as the dream replayed itself in fragments—slipping back into her consciousness like a shadow refusing to leave.
She had been running for miles. Bare feet pounding against unforgiving ground. Behind her, bulky men chased relentlessly, their intent clear: they wanted to sell her.
Her chest tightened at the memory.
Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room. Reaching for her phone, she squinted at the bright screen as the time displayed itself clearly.
8:00 AM.
A quiet sigh left her lips. One predominant feature of this town had always been its constant heavy rainfall. At times, the skies grew so dark it became impossible to tell whether it was morning, evening, or the beginning of another storm-filled day.
She swung her feet down from the bed, instantly feeling the chilly breeze bite against her exposed skin. Rubbing her palms together for warmth, she stepped out of her room and made her way downstairs, her quiet footsteps blending into the silence of the manor.
Without hesitation, she headed straight for the dining room. The door was pulled open for her the moment she approached it.
Her family sat around the table.
And the instant she stepped in, the room went silent.
She noticed it. She had always noticed how her sudden presence often resulted in immediate silence, and for the longest time, she had assumed it had something to do with business discussions.
But after that night, she began to see them differently. Every single one of them.
Even her mother.
Remaining calm, she walked further into the room, took her seat, and murmured her greetings softly. Trying not to appear suspicious, she glanced around before speaking again.
"Isn't this room a little too gloomy for such gloomy weather?"
Her mother looked up at her, almost as though she was trying to decide which expression she should wear.
Before she could speak, her father replied casually,
"Maybe you wouldn't have noticed it if you were in your husband's house."
Sarima's expression fell instantly.
As though the storm itself reacted to the tension, thunder struck violently outside, leaving the entire table in heavy silence.
"If you weren't so eager to sell me off," Sarima shot back, "then maybe—just maybe—I would've found the right person by now."
"Sarima!"
Her mother's glare sharpened immediately.
"I see you've done a terrible job here, Theresa," her father said coldly. "In my absence, you've allowed the girl to grow wings."
His eyes narrowed.
"Shabby wings that should've been cut long ago."
"I don't think that's necessary. I'm not an insect… although I could manage a butterfly," Sarima continued, her tone calm and unaffected.
"Mmm. I see," her father replied dryly.
He leaned back slightly, then added, "Maybe we should remind the little butterfly what she really is."
His utensils dropped onto the plate with a sharp clatter. The sound cut through the silence.
He pushed his chair back, and it scraped loudly against the marble floor.
Theresa stood up quickly and blocked his path.
"Paul, stop this. Calm down! You shouldn't hurt her!" Her voice came out rushed and uneven.
"It's because of how loose she is," he snapped. "If not, then tell me why the Ellisons are no longer as interested in this investment as they were before. Unless she said something rude or disapproving to Oliver."
He scowled deeply.
"I'd rather she leave this house by being useful than sit here eating and eating and eating, only to end up in another man's house without ever being useful here!" Paul shouted angrily.
A soft laugh slipped from Sarima's mouth and the room went quiet.
Then it grew louder.
And louder.
Until she was cackling in her seat like a hyena. Tears glittered in her eyes as her body shook with uncontrollable laughter.
Paul snapped and shoved Theresa out of the way. Her body hit the edge of the table hard, and she winced, one hand bracing herself as pain surged through her side.
Paul stomped to Sarima's chair and hauled her up aggressively. Her hand instinctively tried to loosen his grip, but he only tightened it as he dragged her out of the dining room toward the abandoned wine room.
She was barefoot, and her nightgown offered little protection against the biting cold as her feet scraped against the freezing floor while she struggled to keep up. Her laughter had already faded. Now she stumbled repeatedly, pulled deeper into the manor against her will.
Her breathing quickened. Slowly, it clicked in her mind what he was about to do.
"Dad, stop!" she said, panic finally breaking through as thunder roared outside. Her breath hitched. Her face went pale.
"Let's see how the little butterfly handles a little nightmare," Paul said coldly, before throwing her into the room.
She stumbled into the dark room, her knees giving way beneath her as she crashed hard against the floor.
The door slammed shut behind her.
Keys jingled from the other side before a sharp click echoed through the room.
Panic surged instantly.
She scrambled back to her feet and pounded violently against the door.
"Dad, stop this! I have to go to school!" she screamed.
"And here you are… still thinking you have an option," Paul replied calmly from the other side.
Then she heard his footsteps retreating.
Goosebumps spread across her skin as fear slowly crawled up her spine.
"I'm not eight anymore, Dad! I'm not nine! I'm not twelve, I'm not fourteen, I'm not fifteen, I'm not sixteen, I'm not seventeen!"
Her voice cracked violently.
"I'm eighteen! Eighteen, Dad! You can't keep doing this! Dad, please!"
But the footsteps had already disappeared completely.
She continued pounding on the door as fresh tears threatened to fall.
"It's not funny…" she whispered defeatedly before sniffing softly.
The silence behind her was occasionally broken by the roaring thunder outside, and she stiffened before slowly turning around in fear.
Her eyes darted wildly around the dark room the same way they always used to.
Warm tears rolled down her cheeks as she forced her trembling feet to move forward.
Lightning flashed violently through the small cracks, briefly illuminating the room.
Her heart raced unevenly, pounding loudly in her ears while her fingers curled tightly into themselves in a desperate attempt to ease the tension crawling through her body.
Slowly, she squatted onto the dusty floor.
Flashbacks flooded her mind—countless times she had been thrown into this room over the years. Sometimes, they left her there for days without food.
She drew her legs closer to her chest, continuously reminding herself to breathe properly.
Her breaths came out heavy and uneven heaving with every shaky inhale, wheezing softly as her chest rose and fell rapidly.
Another loud roar of thunder tore through the silence, catching her off guard and she flinched violently.
Her arms immediately wrapped tighter around her knees, fingers gripping the edges of her gown desperately.
Back in the dining room, her brothers had already left.
Theresa slapped Paul with all the strength she had perfectly reserved for this moment.
Her eyes burned with fury as he slowly turned back to look at her.
He didn't even flinch.
"Why do you always do this whenever you come back home?" she demanded, her voice rising despite her attempt to control it.
"Theresa… my darling wife," he spat out with false concern etched across his face.
"You've groomed the girl poorly. Doted on her too much. Spoilt her."
His scowl deepened.
"And now she requires a decisive hand to correct her."
Theresa's gaze hardened instantly.
Her fist slammed against his chest. Again.
And again.
Until she completely lost control.
"Do you see, Theresa?" Paul said calmly. "This is all you can do."
His lips curved faintly.
"And I'd gladly allow you this little privilege."