Page 2 of Sinful Pleasure

The room fell silent.

We stared at each other, mother and daughter, yet it felt like I was looking at a stranger. Someone I didn’t recognize.

“Please, stop this marriage,” I cried, my voice breaking under the weight of desperation.

That’s what a mother is supposed to do, right?

But she only shook her head, her indifference tearing through me like glass.

“I fear I cannot,” she replied, her voice devoid of any warmth.

Her cold hand reached out, brushing against the same cheek she had just slapped. The caress was empty as if she thought it could erase the mark she had left. She pulled away, her hand falling to her side like the conversation was already over.

With the same unshakable grace, she returned to her seat. Settling back into her chair, she looked at me and smiled as though nothing had happened.

“Now, let’s finish our dinner in peace, yeah?”

It wasn’t a question. It was an order.

I stayed silent for the rest of the dinner, absently pushing my food around my plate. I wasn’t hungry.

Starving seemed preferable. My life already felt like Hell—what difference would it make?

Everything fell apart the day my father died.

It happened three years ago, but I still remember the moment I got the news like it was yesterday. The world shattered beneath me when they told me he was gone. God had taken away the one person I loved most, the one person who had always stood by me.

My father had raised me. My mother was rarely home when I was growing up, and honestly, I never missed her absence.

Dad was all I needed.

I remember how he used to play with me, braid my hair, sing to me until I fell asleep, and sit through hours of my clumsy dancing without complaint.

He cared for me when I was sick, cheered me on through every little accomplishment, and held me close when the world seemed too big.

I’ll never forget the day I heard about his death.

It was late October, and rain pounded against the windows like the sky was mourning with me.

They said he died in his sleep. Even now, three years later, we still don’t know what caused it.

The doctors had no answers—only apologies.

I cried endlessly that day.

And then I cried every day after that, standing by his grave.

I still do.

After he was gone, it was just me and my mother. Alone in this vast, empty house.But she wasn’t the same woman she had been before. His death changed her.I rarely see her smile anymore. And when she does, it feels hollow, like it doesn’t belong to her. Like she’s wearing it for someone else’s benefit.

She became colder. Harder. Callous.

As if to end me completely, on my eighteenth birthday, she handed me a white folder.

Inside was a contract.

A cold, sterile piece of paper bearing my father’s signature at the bottom— a signature that sealed my fate.

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