ELENA MARLOWE'S POV
I let out a long, exhausted yawn as I carefully flip the eggs in the pan, the sharp scent of butter and crushed black pepper slowly filling the small kitchen. The morning air feels heavy, and my eyelids burn from the lack of proper rest. I barely slept last night. Every time I tried to close my eyes and surrender to sleep, my thoughts refused to quiet down. They kept circling around the same worries, the same fears, the same uncertainties that have followed me for three years.
I am certain there are dark circles beneath my eyes now. The kind that no powder, no concealer, and no hopeful thinking can properly hide.
I turn off the burner and gently slide the eggs onto a chipped ceramic plate. The kitchen is narrow and cramped, barely wide enough for one person to move without brushing against the walls, but I have learned how to maneuver through it with precision. Every step I take is careful and calculated. When you live in a small space long enough, your body memorizes its limitations.
I move toward the old blender sitting at the corner of the counter and begin preparing pineapple juice. I add a small piece of ginger for flavor, pressing down the lid firmly before switching it on. The loud whirring sound fills the apartment.
Initially, I had planned to make orange juice.
But I quickly dismissed the idea.
I sell oranges every single day. I stand under the sun arranging them, polishing them, convincing strangers that they are fresh and sweet. The last thing I want is for Leo to feel like he is living inside my fruit stall.
He deserves variety. Even if that variety is small. Even if it is something as simple as switching from orange juice to pineapple juice.
When I am satisfied that the mixture has blended smoothly, I turn off the machine and pour the juice into two glasses. One for him. One for me.
I carry the tray into the living room.
Just as I expected, Leo is lying flat on his stomach on the worn out rug. Both of his small elbows are planted firmly on the floor, his chin resting in his palms as he stares intensely at the television. His legs are bent upward, his feet swinging lazily in the air as he watches his favorite Saturday morning cartoon with absolute concentration.
The television screen flickers slightly. It is old. Very old. The speakers crackle from time to time. But it still works.
And for now, that is enough.
"Leo baby, come and have your food," I call gently, setting the small wooden table in front of him since I cannot afford a proper dining table yet.
He does not blink, or move, he just continues staring at the screen as though the world behind him does not exist.
I inhale deeply and try to remain patient.
I need him to eat before I leave him with Mrs. Harriet Cole. I need to head out early today. Yesterday was disappointing. I barely made enough money to justify the hours I spent standing in the sun. Since it is the weekend, I am hoping there will be more customers walking through the wealthy district. Weekends usually mean leisure walks, outdoor brunches, and people pretending to care about healthy eating.
"Leo. Have your food now," I say more firmly, pushing the plate of toast and eggs closer to him. I place his bottle of pineapple juice beside it.
Nothing.
Not even a glance in my direction.
I close my eyes briefly and count to three in my head before reaching for the remote and switching off the television.
That gets his attention immediately.
His head snaps toward me, his wide brown eyes accusing and shocked.
I raise one eyebrow and point toward the plate in front of him.
"No food. No television."
"But mummy," he whines loudly, his lower lip trembling in exaggerated protest as he gives me the most dramatic puppy eyed expression he can manage.
I almost laugh.
"Eat up, little man. Mummy is getting late."
I lift the cup of tea gently to his lips and he takes a reluctant sip. But the moment he bites into the toast layered with egg, his hunger takes control. He begins eating quickly, stuffing small bites into his mouth as though he had been starving moments ago.
I roll my eyes, but a soft smile forms on my lips.
Children are unpredictable creatures.
One minute they refuse to eat.
The next minute they eat as though the world is ending….
....
After making sure he finishes everything on his plate, I take him next door to Mrs. Harriet Cole.
"Thank you so much, Mrs. Cole," I say sincerely, handing her Leo's small bag containing his spare clothes, water bottle, and a few snacks.
She waves her hand dismissively with a warm smile. "I have told you many times, Elena, you do not need to thank me. I enjoy having him here. He keeps my house lively."
Mrs. Cole is in her early fifties. She has no husband and no children. Her home is always quiet unless Leo is around. She was the one who rushed me to the hospital three years ago when my labor began unexpectedly in the middle of the night. I had been terrified and alone. She never asked questions. She simply acted.
She never judged me.
She never mocked me.
Unlike the previous neighborhood where whispers followed me everywhere. Where people would point and refer to me as the second Virgin Mary as though my pregnancy were a public spectacle.
I had to move. I could not survive in a place where my existence was treated like a scandal.
"I will be back before you know it," I assure her.
"Take all the time you need, sweetheart," she replies gently.
Leo barely looks at me when I say goodbye. He waves dramatically for a second before returning his full attention to the television.
I shake my head softly as I step out.
One day, Leo.
One day I will give you a better life than this.
One day you will not have to share space with flickering televisions and borrowed furniture….
....
I finish arranging the fruits carefully into the large woven basket I use for selling when my phone suddenly makes a notification sound.
My heart sinks immediately.
Please let it be a promotional message from the network company.
Please let it be anything else.
I wipe my hands against my skirt before picking up the phone and opening the message.
"Meet me now."
That is all it says.
Three simple words.
Three cold and suffocating words.
My stomach tightens painfully.
I let the phone fall back onto the table.
Son of a b*tch.
He only contacts me when he needs something from me.
He never checks on me.
He never asks how I am surviving.
And worst of all, he rarely pays me fairly. Even when I successfully manipulate wealthy businessmen and extract information or money from them, Victor Duvall keeps the larger portion. I carry the risk. I stand face to face with powerful men. I risk arrest, humiliation, and exposure.
And yet I remain trapped.
If I refuse him, I know exactly what he is capable of.
I have seen what happens to those who disappoint him.
I press my fingers against my temples and close my eyes.
I do not have a choice.
I never truly did, I have no choice but to succumb to his twisted wishes like a loyal dog.
I'm trapped.
Pfft! Who am I kidding, I've always been trapped ever since I set eyes on him….
...
An hour later, I stand in front of the cream colored mansion that Victor calls home.
Security cameras are mounted in nearly every visible corner. The gates are tall and intimidating. Even before stepping inside, I can feel the weight of his presence.
"Welcome, Elena," his voice echoes the moment I enter his office.
The room is enormous. The floors are polished marble. The windows stretch from the floor to the ceiling, allowing sunlight to pour in. Expensive artwork decorates the walls. The furniture is sleek and modern. There is nothing about this place that resembles a criminal's hideout.
It looks like the office of a successful and legitimate businessman.
I close the door quietly behind me and lower my head, folding my arms behind my back the way he prefers.
He does not tolerate direct eye contact unless he permits it.
"Speak," he commands when I remain silent.
"I am here, sir," I respond carefully.
"Good. Pack a few important belongings and meet me at the airport in one hour."
And the moment his words sink in, I commit the grave mistake of lifting my head before I can stop myself.
"The airport?"
His eyes narrow slightly.
"We are leaving the country. The police will raid this estate soon. Someone betrayed us. Your travel documents are ready."
My pulse quickens.
Leaving the country.
With no preparation.
"What about my son?" I ask carefully.
He looks at me as though I have asked something unreasonable.
"Your son will be taken to an orphanage. Arrangements have already been made."
The air leaves my lungs instantly.
"No," I say, shaking my head. "No. Wherever I go, Leo goes with me."
His expression darkens.
He steps closer and slowly opens an antique wooden box resting on his desk.
For a brief moment, I do not understand what I am looking at.
Then it becomes clear.
Blood.
Fresh and dark.
And resting inside the box are human fingers.
My body reacts before my thoughts can form. I stagger backward, my hand flying to cover my mouth as nausea rises violently within me.
"They are quite remarkable, are they not?" Victor says calmly. "Either your son stays in the orphanage, or the next fingers placed in this box will belong to Leo."
My heart stops.
My entire world shrinks to that single moment.
But I remain standing.
Because I am Elena Marlowe.
And survival has never been optional for me.