Ebony
If you think of the word ebony, you think of something dark.
Like her name, her life was no exception. It was a long stretch of darkness. She hated her name, faulting it for the trajectory her life was always heading, below sea level. Not only did Ebony hate her name, she hated everyone and everything.
She hated herself, her long twiggy limbs and her light brown eyes on her dark skin. All her life she had been told she was ugly, eventually, she believed it. She hated the way the village people looked at her like she didn't belong, as if her very presence was an affront to their small, narrow world. She hated the harsh words, the whispers, the way her very existence was a stain on the perfection of her fairer, shorter, more delicate sister. Ebony hated the people who scorned her, the ones who laughed when she walked by, calling her a giant, a dark shadow that was too much of everything; too tall, too dark, too awkward to be beautiful, even her eyes rubbed them the wrong way. She hated the way her parents barely acknowledged her existence, they acted as if she was given a choice on whose genes to take after and she decided on her father's dark skin and tall frame. Still, what Ebony hated most was how everybody made it seem like it was her fault.
There were days when Ebony wished she could trade it all. Wished she could be lighter-skinned, shorter like her mother, someone who fit the mould, who could blend in and be accepted. Maybe, if she looked like them, life would have been easier. Maybe then she wouldn't have had to endure the cruel comments, the cold stares and the whispered insults.
Her reflection in cracked mirrors was a constant reminder of everything the villagers had whispered about her: an ugly girl, a giant among men, a misfit in a world that only valued those who fit in. Her four brothers barely looked her way or even tried to speak up for her, and her younger sister, the village's definition of beauty, was always smug about the fact that everyone was always fawning over her. Ebony's hair, soft but wild and untamed, never seemed to belong among the neat braids of the other girls.
At fourteen, her father had called her into their small, dimly lit home. The air was thick with the smell of stale tobacco, and her mother's eyes had glinted with disdain when her father spoke. "You will belong to the chief's son," he had said flatly, as though it were a mere formality, her fate already sealed. "It's for the good of the family."
Her mother's voice had followed swiftly, cold and biting. "You're lucky someone even wants you. You're an ugly girl, after all. No one else would ever take you." Of course, no one wanted that drunk either with his vulgar tongue. They were a perfect match.
Ebony had known, then, her life was not hers to control. Her body and her life was all a transaction, a way to uphold the family's reputation. She wasn't a person; she was an asset but she figured she would not starve at the chief's residence in the least. She was sent to high school only to earn a certificate; she was given the bare minimum, enough to ensure she didn't bring shame to the chief's family.
While the other girls dreamed of futures and boy crushes, Ebony had learned to silence her desires. She had already resigned herself to her role as the chief's son's future possession. Nothing more, nothing less.
After high school, the marriage came as expected. There was no ceremony, no vows, no papers. Ebony simply became part of the chief's family, treated as a belonging to be cast aside when no longer useful. A year passed. No child came. Her husband, cold and distant, finally cast her out in the early morning, his words cutting deep. "You're barren. I don't need you anymore."
Just like that, she was thrown out into the dirt of the world, left with no more than her documents and a handful of money she had secretly saved. She tried to return to her family, seeking refuge, but her father's cruel words echoed in her ears. "You've disgraced us, you are old enough to fend for yourself" he said, and turned his back on her. The look of ridicule on her mother's face cut her deep. Her heart had shattered, but she did not have the luxury of grieving for long. She had only one option: leave. In that small village they had called her ugly and she did not refute, they said her eyes creeped them out, she did not know how to help with that. Sure, she had accepted how they demeaned her all her life and how no one spoke up for her but she drew the line at dying there. If there was any ounce of control she had, she would make sure she did not die in that godforsaken village where people would probably sign in relief.
With a heavy heart and the last of her money clutched in her hand, Ebony had climbed onto a bus headed for the city. She had no plan, no destination in mind, only the hope that there, somewhere, in the endless, unfamiliar streets, she could find something more than the nothing she had known all her life. As the bus rumbled toward the city, Ebony had stared outside the window, her mind racing with the uncertainty of what lay ahead. Would she survive? Would she find a job? A place to call her own? Or would the city chew her up and spit her out, just like the world had done before.
***
Antoine was over it.
When his brother told him switching the scenery might give him an inspiration for his next collection, he figured he would go out there and find the next big thing and have his brother out of his hair for once about taking a break but ...
The road, the city, the entire damn continent; none of it had stirred anything inside him. He could've stayed home, scrolled through Pinterest, and ended up with the same mood board. Hell, maybe even better. The whole trip had been a waste of air miles and time; he could think of twenty things he could have been doing with that time instead he was sunburned, jet-lagged, and pissed off.
He leaned forward from the back seat, impatience twisting his jaw. "How far are we from the hotel?"
"Not far, sir," the chauffeur said with a glance through the rearview mirror. "Just a few more blocks. The traffic's a bit…"
"Yeah," Antoine muttered, already reaching for the switch to lower the window. The air that slipped in was warm and thick, scented with fumes and something floral from a nearby vendor stall. Not refreshing, not quite offensive. Same old shit.
He sighed, ran a hand through his tousled hair, and pulled a cigarette from his pocket. But he didn't light it yet.
The car inched forward, then stopped again. Typical. He turned his head toward the pavement, eyes scanning the street with detached boredom. Locals, streetlights, neon signs flickering from stores that hadn't aged well. He was about to lean back when he saw her.
Leaning against a tree like she had no business anywhere else in the world. Her head tilted down, half-hidden beneath a ridiculously oversized black hoodie that swallowed her frame. The pants matched, loose and silent like they were trying not to draw attention, but she did.
Even from across the street, something about her pulled at him. Antoine reached automatically for the camera slung at his side. One click. Then another, adjusting the focus.
The lens caught something strange.
A glint, no, a tear. A wet track gliding down the half of her face not swallowed by the shadow of the hood. It caught the streetlight just right, fragile and raw. The image that blinked back at him on the digital screen was haunting.
He exhaled, almost inaudibly.
She wasn't posing, she wasn't aware, she wasn't trying, but the camera didn't care. She looked like she had been born to pause time.
In his mind, she was already draped in the diaphanous tulle gown from next month's collection, hair slicked back, standing barefoot in an abandoned cathedral. Or maybe she'd wear the structured trench with the jagged collar, wind billowing, the tear replaced with kohl, defiance curled in the corner of her mouth.
"Pull over," he said.
"Sir?"
"Find a parking space. Now."
The driver didn't question it. He turned the wheel slowly, merging toward the curb. Antoine pushed the door open before the tires had fully settled and stepped out into the dim streetlight glow. The door thudded closed behind him.
He leaned against the hood of the car and finally lit the cigarette. The flame danced before catching. A moment of stillness. He took a slow drag, exhaled smoke and tension, and let his eyes return to her.
She hadn't moved.
The world buzzed and shifted around her, but she stayed still, like the eye of a storm no one else noticed. Antoine watched, studying the subtle way her shoulders curled inward, as if shielding herself from something heavier than the weather.
Cigarette nearly down to the filter, he pushed off the car.
His boots made soft, deliberate contact with the pavement as he strode toward her, not fast, not loud, just enough to be felt. When he neared, he veered ever so slightly to the side and flicked the cigarette into the public bin that stood just a few steps from her tree.
And then, casually, deliberately, he turned, now only a few feet from her, as if the thought of talking to her had only just occurred to him.
"Rough night?" he asked, voice low.
***
This was the third day she hadn't eaten a thing.
The city, the gleaming promise of it, had been a lie. In her village, people may have whispered, judged, pointed, but at least they looked at her. Here, no one even saw her. They just… passed. Hurried steps. Glowing screens. Bags of food swinging from careless hands. She might as well have been smoke.
Since getting to the city, she had stuck near people. The ones who milled outside clubs and convenience stores. It felt safer than alleyways or parking lots. But it wasn't safety, it was noise. A smoggy, reckless cloud that didn't want her either. The only words anyone had said to her in the sixty something hours came from a woman in a leather bralette and heels that bit into the cracked sidewalk. "Stop messing' up my business," she'd snapped before slipping away with a man who looked like he hadn't bathed in days. They vanished into a motel that moaned with every closing door. The meaning had come to her later, slow and grim.
And now here she was, back pressed to a tree, the rough bark biting through her oversized hoodie, hands buried deep in her pockets, legs weak beneath her. Her stomach was a hollow scream. Her mind was louder. The hoodie was the last comfort she had, but tonight she was considering taking it off. Cutting the bottoms off her pants too. Maybe if she looked like the other girls…
She didn't finish the thought.
She felt it instead. The shame. The cold. The tiny slip of a tear that slid down her cheek, warm against her cracked skin.
She was going to die one way or another. She knew it in her bones.
That's when the car slowed.
She didn't turn her head, only her eyes. Peripheral caught the luxury black vehicle, saw the smooth door open. A tall white guy stepped out. He lit a cigarette like he was in a movie. The kind that always ended badly for girls like her.
Her breath stilled in her chest.
He was looking at her.
Why was he looking at her?
Shit, is it that obvious I'm alone? Do I look that weak? An easy prey? Her mind raced. Her fists clenched in the safety of her hoodie pocket. Her fingers curled around into fists. Dull. Practically useless. But it gave her something.
He leaned against his car. Smoking. Watching.
What are you, an organ donor looking for inventory? she thought bitterly.
And then he moved.
She tensed. Her legs twitched, wanting to run but too tired to move. Her knees threatened to buckle. He walked toward her with the practiced grace of someone who always got what he wanted. Every step made her heart beat louder. Louder. Louder.
Then he veered slightly.
Stopped at the bin beside her.
And dropped the cigarette.
Her pulse didn't slow. Thankfully he must have just needed the bin.
Then he turned, casually, too casually, and looked at her like he'd only just noticed she existed.
"Rough night?"
Her throat locked. She wanted to run, scream, disappear into the tree behind her. Her fingers squeezed harder.
Shit. He spoke to me.
A dry sob wanted to escape her chest, but she shoved it down.
I really might just die before hunger does me in.
She looked up, slowly, from under the weight of her hoodie. Her voice was rusted, and her eyes still wet.
"…what do you want?" she croaked.
"You," he said, like it was obvious.
Ebony blinked; unsure she'd heard right. Her heart was thudding so loudly, it drowned out the city.
"Huh?" she breathed.
"I said…" He took a half-step closer, voice smooth, eyes unreadable. "I want you."
Everything inside her froze.
Shock first. Then dread. And then… calculation. A flicker of thought darted through her brain, sharp and bitter.
Why would he think I'm selling myself?
The was no one around and she did look pretty defenseless. Maybe he was after her organs,or maybe she fit the aesthetic that he liked in girl… maybe she was his type. Maybe this dangerous-looking man had a thing for dark girls with hollow cheeks and tired eyes. She could already see it, the headline if she ever followed him: "Runaway girl found dead in hotel room, dismembered after going with a stranger."
But then came the second thought, cruel but necessary: You're going to die anyway.
At least this one looked clean. Maybe he'd pay like the rude lady's "client" did. Maybe he had dollars, those would buy her a month. Or a room with soap. Or maybe he'd kill her, and it'd be over.
She swallowed, slowly. Forced her gaze up to meet his. "You're paying?"
His eyes narrowed slightly, but not in confusion. He tilted his head, studying her like a sculptor would study stone, already imagining what it could be.
"Of course."
Just two words, smooth as silk. Too smooth.
Ebony's hand relaxed a little in her hoodie pocket. Her lips were dry. She tried to lick them, but there was no spit left.
"I need a shower first," she said, voice flat.
He smiled, and somehow, that was more terrifying than if he hadn't.
Antoine studied her in the dim light. Her voice had been hollow; emotionless and transactional. But her eyes were something else. There was pain, yes. But also, an ember. Dull, but alive.
He pulled a sleek phone out of pocket and dialled.
"Réserve-lui une chambre au dernier étage. Quelque chose avec une bonne salle de bain. Immédiatement," he said into the receiver.
(Book a room on the top floor. Something with a proper bathroom. Immediately.)
A pause.
"et commander quelque chose à manger. à faire envoyer dans cette chambre."
(and order something to eat. to be sent to that room.)
He ended the call and turned to her. "Come."
She didn't hesitate.
They walked back to the car in silence. She didn't even glance at the sleek black vehicle, didn't seem to care that the leather was worth more than what she'd owned in her whole life. She simply sat. Stiff. Hands clenched. Eyes forward.
Antoine watched her in the mirror as they drove. Something was off. She hadn't asked why he wanted her. She hadn't asked what for. Most people, hell, even random people on the street, asked questions. But not her.
She had said one thing: she needed a shower and so he got her one.
When they arrived at the hotel, his assistant, Louis, was already waiting at the private entrance, his tablet in hand, professionalism radiating off him like a second skin.
He began speaking quickly in French. "Elle a une suite au dernier étage. Salle de bain spacieuse, baignoire profonde, j'ai aussi commandé à manger."
(She has a suite on the top floor. Spacious bathroom, deep tub, I also ordered food.)
"Parfait," Antoine replied with a nod.
(Perfect.)
He gestured subtly toward the elevator. Louis, catching the cue, turned and raised her hand to guide the girl, what was her name? but the moment he did, Ebony brushed past without even noticing him.
She followed Antoine. Right through the lobby. Into the elevator. And then…
Into his room.
He turned once they entered, blinking. "Wait…"
"Where's the bathroom?" she asked, already slipping off her hoodie. Her voice was rough, tired, like she was used to being ignored.
Antoine hand pointed mutely toward the frosted glass door, before a word could slip of his mouth, the door had already clicked shut behind her.
He stood in the middle of the room, frozen.
"…Did Louis not stop her?" he muttered to himself, baffled. "She wasn't meant to follow me. She has her own suite."
He looked toward the door she had vanished behind, still stunned. Somewhere behind it, the water began to run.
Antoine sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, dragging a hand down his face.
What the hell just happened?
Antoine stood up finally and sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose before dialing Louis again.
"She followed me into my suite. Didn't even look at you, did she?"
Louis chuckled lightly on the other end. "No. Walked right past me like I was invisible. I assumed you changed the plan."
"Well, I didn't," Antoine muttered. "Bring the food here instead. And the clothes."
"Understood."
A few minutes later, there was a soft knock at the door. Antoine opened it, took the tray and shopping bag without another word, and nodded once before shutting it again.
The water had stopped.
Moments later, the bathroom door cracked open with a whisper of steam, and she slipped out wearing only the plush white robe.
Her hair, still wet, clung to her jaw and neck. The robe hung loose on her thin frame, but her posture, stiff and cautious, remained.
Antoine turned, holding the shopping bag toward her.
"Put these on," he said simply. "And eat."
She stared at him, brow slightly furrowed with a flicker of uncertainty.
Then she reached for the bag, mumbling, "Okay," like this was a script she barely remembered reading.
He watched her carry the clothes and the tray of food to the low table near the window, but didn't say anything more. She hadn't asked what he wanted from her, not once. That silence spoke volumes.
Antoine exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I'm going to take a shower."
He left her there without waiting for a response, disappearing into the bathroom.
Behind him, she slowly peeled back the bag to reveal a soft-knit sweater, leggings, clean underwear, and a pair of socks. And next to it, steam still rising from the plate, was real food: rice, grilled chicken, vegetables, bread with a pat of melting butter. Food she barely got a chance to eat.
She sat down slowly, almost unsure if she was allowed to.
Antoine, in the bathroom, let the water crash over his head, confusion knotting deeper with every second.
What exactly does she think this is?