Page 55 of Daddy's Dirty Little Secret

28

AMELIA

Iwas back in the same room, and everything about it felt worse this time. The walls looked cleaner, the sheets were fresh, and someone had laid out a folded towel on the bench like I was staying at some mid-tier resort—but none of that changed the fact that I couldn’t leave. The windows were still locked. The lock still clicked every time someone left, and now I was too sick to pretend I had control over any of it.

I’d thrown up twice already. First in the bathroom, then in the corner wastebasket when I couldn’t get there in time. The food on the tray sat untouched, same as yesterday. Just the smell of it made my stomach curl up. I knew they noticed. I didn’t care.

The maid came in again just after noon. Older woman, mid-fifties maybe, with calm eyes and soft hands. She didn’t speak much, not unless I asked something directly. Today, she carried a tray with a bowl of broth, two slices of bread, and a sealed bottle of water. She set it down on the small table like it was routine and glanced at the untouched plate from the day before.

“You need to eat something,” she said gently.

“I don’t want it.” My voice came out rough, dry at the edges.

“Broth is light,” she added. “Won’t upset your stomach.”

“I already threw up twice. I’m not risking a third.”

She didn’t argue, just picked up the old tray and carried it to the corner. I watched her the way I’d been watching everything lately—careful, waiting for some sign of help that hadn’t come.

“Why are you here?” I asked suddenly. “Why do you stay?”

She hesitated, then straightened the towel on the bench like it mattered. “I clean. I cook. I don’t ask questions.”

“But you know what he’s doing.” I wasn’t shouting, but my voice tightened in my throat. “You see people like me—locked in here, crying, scared out of their minds—and you just walk out like it’s a job.”

She didn’t meet my eyes. She touched the edge of the tray and adjusted the spoon. “Mr. Hayes pays me well. I mind my business. That’s how people stay safe around here.”

I sat up straighter, nausea still turning in my gut. “Is that what this is to you? A paycheck?”

Her gaze flicked to mine for just a second. There was something there—regret, maybe. Or pity. “If your father does what he’s supposed to, you’ll be fine.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

She didn’t answer. Just turned toward the door and opened it without rushing. “Drink the water,” she said, and then she left.

The lock slid into place again, sharp and final. I sat still for a long time after she was gone, breathing slowly, trying not to let the fear crawl too far up my spine. I didn’t know how many more days I could survive like this, but I knew one thing for sure, if no one came, I wasn’t getting out.

The third time I threw up, it left my throat raw and my skin clammy. I leaned over the wastebasket, gripping the edge like it could steady me. Nothing came after the first heave, but my body kept trying anyway. I stayed on my knees for a while before I forced myself up and rinsed my mouth out with water. The taste lingered.

The tray of food sat untouched on the table. I didn’t look at it for long. Even the thought of broth or bread made my stomach churn. The only thing I could get down was water, and even that only stayed down through sheer will.

My hands trembled as I sat on the edge of the bed. I had stopped crying hours ago, not because the panic had gone away, but because there were no tears left in my body, no moisture. I waited. I counted every second by the ticking of the clock across the room. At some point, I stopped believing someone would come for me.

Then the door opened.

Two of Hayes’s men stood in the hallway. They didn’t speak, but one of them motioned for me to follow. I stood slowly, taking a breath to keep myself from swaying.

They led me down a different hallway than before. The temperature was colder here, and the ceilings felt lower. Every surface was spotless. At the end of the corridor, they opened a door into a room that looked like it belonged in a magazine. Dark wood floors, leather seating, a table set in the center with a silver case on top.

My father was already there. He stood when he saw me, and I could tell he’d been crying. He crossed the room in three strides and pulled me into his arms. I didn’t hesitate. I leaned into him, pressing my face into his jacket. He held me tighter than I expected.

“You’re safe now,” he said. “It’s over.”

I didn’t know if I believed him, but I didn’t let go.

Victor Hayes poured himself a drink behind the bar. He glanced at the suitcase but didn’t touch it. One of his men stepped forward and flipped it open. Inside were clean stacks of cash. Each bundle was neatly wrapped in bank sleeves, indicating the value of each stack.

“This is the full amount?” Hayes asked without turning around. For a man so hell bent on getting what was owed him, he seemed uninterested in this part.

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