"KILL HIM!" A deep voice thick with malice emerged from the darkness.
The only visible sign of the speaker was the lone red ember and smoke from his burning cigar.
Murray Carter sat in the middle of a dark room, an overhead light surrounded him. His hands rested on the arms of a wooden chair, his breath frail. His finely tailored black suit, now ruffled and dust-smudged, did nothing to conceal the danger he was in.
"Who are you? What is this about?" His brash tone bounced off the empty walls, the air smelled of concrete and old blood.
The click of a cocking firearm behind him shattered the illusion that he was unafraid. Cold steel pressed on the back of his head, his shoulders stiffened. His chest rose and fell rapidly as if he could already smell death breathing down his neck.
"Kill him!" The deep voice repeated, heavy smoke surrounded him like a shield.
"What? Please don't! I will give you any..." He paused. His voice, though firm, trembled with unease. Panic surged through him at the realization of whose nest he was caught in.
"Matteo Ramirez?"
Beads of sweat rode down his temples as he swallowed hard.
"Ramirez, I promise to pay you back soon. It doesn't have to come to this," he pleaded.
An oppressive silence filled the room, a stifling quiet. The gun barrel still resting on the back of his head, a cruel reminder of how little control he had.
"I have an offer."
Anastasia Carter hurried out of the towering vintage building, the golden rays of the setting sun reflected off the sleek black SUV parked outside the building.
Her bodyguard hastened his steps to hold the door open for her.
She dropped the makeup trolley box beside her as she slid into the plush leather seat.
She had just finished glamming Lori for her modeling photo shoot. Her hands still tingled with the thrill and her eyes beamed with excitement.
She didn't do makeup to earn money, but for the love of art.
One day, she wants to make it to Hollywood as one of its elite makeup artists. Crafting custom looks, cinematic effects and glamming the biggest stars.
The ride home was longer than anticipated, with a few stops to pick up personal supplies.
Her free will, however, had its limits.
Her father, Murray Carter, made sure of that.
He believes his twenty-three-year-old daughter can't look after herself, far from it.
His name carried along the weight of power and danger. He often played with fire, counting enemies like a gambler, counting his poker chips. And drags the lives of his family into the firing line. Like he did her mother.
The clicking sound of the door's latch being opened jolted her. She stepped out of the car, walking towards the metal entrance door to the house.
"Miss Anastasia, welcome," the butler said, holding the door for her.
"Thank you, Edward."
She replied, climbing up the stairs.
"Please tell the chef to prepare tacos for me, and also, send up my smoothie," she added.
"Yes, Miss"
The mansion was an enormous expanse of wealth. Gleaming chandeliers, high ceilings adorned with intricate molding and polished marble floors that reflected her every step. But beneath the opulence was a cage.
"Woof! Woof!" a small figure with white fur darted towards Anastasia as she opened the door to her bedroom.
Its tiny paws tapping excitedly on the floor. Giving Anastasia no time to drop the bags she was holding before jumping on her feet, wagging its tail frantically.
Laughing, she dropped the box and bags and scooped the puppy up.
"Did you miss me, Peach?" She giggled, pressing her nose on its soft fur.
Peach responded with an enthusiastic lick on her chin.
She found her outside the gate about a year ago, her trembling Pomeranian self curled up, alone and whimpering.
No one came for her despite Anastasia's efforts, and now she was hers, her only friend aside from Lori, who she met in her second year in college after Lori transferred.
Their first encounter was a serendipity. They both wore matching tops that day. She had walked up to Anastasia with effortless confidence and whispered, "It's fake, but yours is definitely original."
Anastasia had burst out a laugh, instantly drawn to her daring personality.
She wore an air of confidence around her that matched with hers.
They became friends after that, their bond sealed by a combined love for modeling, fashion and makeup.
She dropped Peach onto her mat and went into the bathroom for a shower to wash out the day's exhaustion.
The sound of the familiar footsteps cut through the quiet, growing louder as it got closer. A gentle knock followed on the door with a familiar rhythm.
He didn't wait for a response before walking into the room.
He never did. Why was he here? He was barely home.
His sharp face, slightly wrinkled with age, dragged into a smile as his gaze met her reflection in the mirror. Walking over, he stopped behind her, where she sat before the vanity mirror.
His hands rested on her shoulders, his touch deceptively gentle.
He placed a kiss on the crown of her head.
"Esmeralda," he called, squeezing her shoulders softly.
Her shoulders tensed, the name clawed at her chest.
She nudged his hands off her, dropping the powder brush as she stood up from the chair.
"Dad, please," she pleaded, moving away from him to the bed.
He watched her for a moment, unfazed.
"Esmeralda," he repeated, savoring the effect it had on her.
He loved it as much as she hated being called her by her mother's name. Like he was torturing her with his love for her mother, she was always all that mattered. Though she had died many years ago because of his recklessness, she remained the bane of his existence, the only wound he ever felt guilty of.
Her fist clenched. "Anastasia Dad."
"Anastasia!" She snapped.
He tucked his hands into the pockets of his gray trousers, dwelling in the long silence that stretched between them.
"You're getting married," he suddenly said. His tone held no emotions.
The air thickened, suffocating with an invisible grip. She stood up, the walls coming together against her. She blinked, certain she had misheard him.
"Sorry?" She moved closer to him.
"He's a good man."
His eyes were not convincing. They held no truth, only the usual cold calculated callousness of a man making another business deal.
Her gaze couldn't leave him, wondering what further hell this man that claims to be her father will put her through.
What is this new game with her? The next experiment.
"I am not getting married."
She knew her defense was pointless, a drop of water in the ocean.
He smiled, raising a hand to cup her cheeks, his touch cutting her like a knife.
"Don't be stubborn Esmeralda"
A lump rose in her throat.
Maybe if she fell on her knees, pleaded with him, cried, threw herself at his feet he would listen. Maybe, just once, she'd be more than a pawn in his game.
He wasn't moved, he pulled her away from his legs and walked out, stopping to address the bodyguard stationed outside.
"Make sure she doesn't leave this room without my permission."
The door banged shut, the lock clicked. He didn't care.
She sank onto the cold floor, wrapping her arms around herself, quiet sobs trembling her body. Peach curled up at her feet, whimpering softly, as if sensing the shift in their world.
Minutes dragged by, maybe hours, yet she remained still.
The door creaked open again and the bodyguard's measured, heavy footsteps followed. She didn't flinch, her head remained buried in between her knees.
"From your fiancé."
The word sank into her chest. Fiancé. So her father wasn't playing around.
The door groaned close again. Only then did she lift her gaze. Her eyes fell on the massive bouquet of red roses sitting on the table, dark and velvet in the shadows.
She stood up slowly, her legs unsteady and wobbly as she walked closer. A gleaming oval diamond-coated engagement ring stared back at her, nestled in the deep crimson petals. Elegant.
Along with the ring, a small black card tucked beneath. With trembling hands, she pulled out the card and flipped it open.
MAYBE IN ANOTHER LIFE I'D HAVE ASKED. IN THIS ONE, I TAKE. PUT THE RING ON. — M.R