Lashirah_Hash

She thought she was free.

Until a billionaire and his daughter saw her — and decided she was theirs.

One wanted a wife.
The other wanted a mother.
Neither asked if she agreed.

They watched her for two years. Followed her every move.
Until one day, they flew across the world and bought her future — with smiles, paperwork, and charm that smelled like roses but felt like chains.

Now, she sleeps in silk sheets she didn’t choose.
Wears clothes she didn’t buy.
Answers to a name she didn’t earn.

Every touch is a test.
Every night is a transaction.
And every whispered “I love you” is a warning.

She hides pills beneath her tongue.
She dreams of running.
But there is no escape — only a cage made of wealth, obsession, and unbearable intimacy.

Because he doesn’t just want her body.
He wants her compliance.
Her mind.
Her loyalty.
Her womb.

And when the daughter discovers the truth —
she doesn’t cry.
She accuses.

Now the doors are locked.
The smiles are gone.
And the only thing more terrifying than being watched…
is being needed.

This isn’t love.
This is possession with a wedding ring.
This is family, twisted into obsession.
This is what happens when a girl becomes the answer to someone else's madness.

THE WIFE,THE MOTHER,THE PRISONER

Roman's mother called her "foreign soil" during breakfast.

His father asked if she knew how to use a fork "properly."

Gloria wore one of Roman's old shirts like a trophy and paraded it through the halls.

Not a broken smile. Not a bitter one.

She stood by the garden that morning, the cold air stinging her cheeks, the birds singing nonsense, her fingers wrapped around a cup of stale tea — and she smiled.

If Gloria stayed — if the family stayed — maybe she could fade into the wallpaper.

No more shared beds. No more whispered rules.

Maybe she'd just become another ghost in the house.

Roman hadn't come to her room in three nights.

With perfumes. With hairbrushes. With smug, sticky laughter.

"I think he's coming back to me," she said last night, brushing her lashes in the mirror. "He still remembers my skin. Men don't forget that."

At dinner, he pressed his knee against Gloria's under the table. Let her giggle. Let her call him "darling" again.

She played with her food. Didn't look at Serene. Didn't look at Gloria.

But once — just once — she reached under the table and grabbed Serene's hand.

As if saying, don't forget me. Don't forget who you belong to.

That night, she wrote in her journal for the first time since being taken:

> "If they keep this up, I think they'll let me go.

Or maybe they'll just forget I was ever here.

THE FIRST SMILE