Starting Over : Sold to the Billionaire

Kira

The coffee maker hissed, a familiar sound that usually meant the start of my day. Today, it felt like a warning. I stood by the counter in the small kitchen, my hands shaking just a little as I poured the dark liquid into a mug. It had to be perfect. Not too hot, not too cold. Just the way Vincent liked it. My life depended on me getting it right. Every single day was a test, and the only way to pass was to be invisible, silent, and perfect. I’d learned that the hard way.

I wasn’t allowed to eat with him. He said it was a privilege for when I was “a good wife,” a privilege I had yet to earn. My food, a small, cold plate of toast, sat on a different counter, waiting for me to eat it alone after he had left. My only job was to take care of him and this house. I was basically his maid. I was given a weekly allowance, just enough to cover the household expenses, and nothing more. Any extra clothes or any new things I had to buy from my own pocket, and I had no money of my own. My closet was a collection of old, faded jeans and T-shirts.

I carried the mug to the dining table where he sat, his presence a heavy weight in the room. His suit was perfectly pressed, his hair slicked back. To the people in this town, he was a pillar. The man who ran the biggest factory, the one who gave them jobs. To me, he was a ticking time bomb. I set the mug down in front of him, my hand trembling just enough to make a ripple across the surface.

He didn't have to raise his voice. He didn't have to do anything but look at me. He took a slow sip; his eyes fixed on mine. The moment stretched on forever. I could hear the clock ticking on the wall, each second a hammer hitting my chest. Then, he slammed the mug down on the table, the hot coffee sloshing over the side.

"Too hot, Kira. How hard is it to get this right?"

My throat was too tight to speak. He stood up, and his hand shot out. The slap came quick and hard, a sound that cracked through the silence. A white-hot pain bloomed across my cheek. Tears stung my eyes, but I didn't let them fall. I just stood there; this was nothing new. He stared at me for a long time, his eyes cold and empty, before turning back to his newspaper. He had made his point.

After he left for the factory, I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. A red handprint was already starting to appear on my cheek. I ran the cold water, splashing it on my face, letting the sting distract me from the hot shame. I was living a lie. The whole town thought I had it all, living in a nice house with the town's most powerful man. But they didn't see the little things—the way he'd "accidentally" brush against my arm a little too hard, or how he'd wait until I had something to say, then cut me off with a sharp look. He never took me anywhere; I wasn’t allowed outside without him. Answering the door was forbidden.

I remembered the early days of our marriage. He was so charming then. He’d bring me flowers and talk about our future. The townspeople would smile at me, their eyes filled with envy. They didn't see the way his smile never reached his eyes or the way he'd squeeze my hand a little too tightly, as if he was reminding me that I was his.

He slowly chipped away at my old life, my friends, and my freedom. He told me it was for my own good, that he was protecting me from the big, scary world. But the only thing he was protecting me from was my own life. I wasn't allowed to have friends.

Every Saturday, I had an escape for a little while. I had a small window of freedom on Saturday mornings. It was a visit to the local orphanage. Vincent said it was good for his reputation to have his wife volunteer, and I clung to it. Those hours with the kids were the only time I felt like I existed. They were the only ones I was allowed to speak to freely. My one solace in a world that had become a gilded cage.

That night at dinner, I sat at the small table in the kitchen. I ate my dinner alone. Vincent ate his in the dining room. I could hear the clink of his silverware, the sound like a constant reminder of my place. He was in the dining room, and I was in the kitchen. He had a glass of wine, a bottle of expensive red, a luxury I couldn't afford with the house money. I was eating a simple meal, something he would never touch. I was trapped. And in the oppressive silence of that house, with the man who claimed to love me, I knew there was no one in Emberhallow who could save me. I was completely alone.

The silence after dinner was a familiar weight, heavier and more profound than any conversation. I cleared my plate from the small kitchen table, the clink of the porcelain a sound that felt deafening in the stillness. Vincent had already gone to his study, and his absence was a strange kind of presence, a pressure that still filled every corner of the house.

I finished my tasks—wiping down the counters, putting away the few spices he allowed me to use, and making sure the kitchen was spotless. It was all a performance, a ritual of obedience that didn't end just because the lights were dimming. He would check. He always did.

When I was sure everything was exactly where he wanted it, I made my way to my room. My feet barely made a sound on the floorboards as I walked down the long, empty hallway. The house itself wasn't big, not in the way a city mansion would be, but every room felt vast because of its emptiness. There was no clutter, no personal photos, no warmth. Just clean lines and a suffocating silence.

My room was at the very end of the hall, next to a small guest bathroom. It wasn't a master bedroom or even a second bedroom in the way you'd expect. It was a space designed for utility, a place to sleep and nothing more. The bed was a simple twin, covered with a plain gray quilt. A small nightstand and a single, shallow closet were the only other pieces of furniture. There was nothing on the walls, no art, no photos of a life I used to have. The walls were sterile white, and the window looked out onto the same empty stretch of lawn I saw every day.