Chapter 4: His Trophy

I slid off the bed, clutching the sheets around me like armor. Every step toward the bathroom hurt my private area.

Inside, I turned the lock.

Steam filled the small space as I turned on the shower. The first touch of water stung, slicing through bruises and scratches I hadn’t yet noticed. The ache spread, slow and deep. It was everywhere.

When the water finally ran clear, I stood there, staring at my reflection in the fogged mirror.

The girl who stared back wasn’t me. She had hollow eyes, pale lips, and a faint bruise darkening her collarbone. There was no trace of the girl who dreamed of Paris and the smell of bread baking.

Then a sharp, heavy bang sounded against the door.

“Elena!” Brad’s voice thundered through the wood. “Open the damn door!”

I froze, my heart jumping to my throat.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing locking me out?” he shouted, his voice laced with fury.

I pressed my back to the door, water still dripping from my hair. I clutched the sheet tight around me.

The pounding didn’t stop. Each slam against the door made me jump.

“Elena!” His voice was sharper now. “Open this door!”

I shut my eyes, pressing a trembling hand against the cool tile. My breath came out uneven. I wanted him to go away, to let me have just one minute of quiet but deep down, I knew better.

There was no escape. Not yet.

“I… I’m almost done,” I said, my voice breaking.

The silence that followed was tense and heavy. I could hear his breathing through the door.

“Five seconds,” he muttered, his tone low and dangerous.

I reached for the lock. Forcing myself to breathe, I counted: one, two, three…

I opened the door.

Brad stood there, hair damp, eyes moving over me like he was cataloging something before settling on my face.

“Next time,” he said softly, “you don’t lock that door.”

I swallowed hard and nodded.

He stepped closer, brushing a wet strand of hair from my cheek. “Good girl,” he said, and turned into the room.

I stood there trembling, but not from the cold. I had just learned the first rule of survival in Brad Hawkins’ house.

Obey.

Brad turned back toward me buttoning his shirt, his expression was calm again.

“Get dressed,” he said, already reaching for his watch on the nightstand.

My throat tightened. “I… I don’t have any clothes. They're in my dad’s truck,” I explained quietly. “I-” I swallowed. “I forgot to bring them.”

“Lucky for you,” he said, opening the wardrobe, “I plan ahead. Your dad’s broke, so I figured you’d come empty-handed.”

Dresses hung inside; silk and satin, most in colors I never liked.

“Try the blue one,” he said. “It’ll bring out your eyes.”

My stomach twisted. “Why?”

He smiled without warmth. “You’re meeting my friends

I blinked. “Friends?”

His smile widened. “Yes. The same ones I told you about.” He adjusted his cufflinks, watching my reaction. “Can't wait to see the look on their faces.”

The words hit like a slap.

My fingers tightened around the sheet. “The bet.”

He looked pleased I’d said it aloud. “Exactly.”

I shook my head, my voice trembling. “You can’t mean-”

“I can.” He leaned closer, cologne sharp in the air. “And I do. You’re my wife now, sweetheart. And they want to meet you.”

My breath caught.

He smiled again, satisfied. “So get dressed. And try to look… happy.”

Luckily for me, the dress was high-necked and long sleeved, covering my arms. It'd have added to the humiliation if my bruises showed.

Still, it clung to me in all the wrong places. The fabric traced my hips, my chest; every part of me I wished could disappear. My nipples pressed faintly through the thin material. I wasn’t naked, but it felt close enough.

I could feel his eyes on me.

“Brad- I need a bra, please,” I said without turning.

“Second drawer to your right. Find the one that fits.”

I wished someone would shoot me already.

The drawer was neatly arranged with matching lingerie sets, all in my size. My stomach turned. Every detail, was proof of how much he’d planned this.

How long had he studied me?

How much did he already know?

How could my father throw me away to this stranger and call it salvation?

The sound of male laughter drifted faintly up the stairs.

“They're here. Hurry and meet us downstairs,” Brad said and left the room.

My knees buckled. The sheet slipped from my hands as I sank to the floor.

The sobs came quietly at first. Then they tore through me, until I couldn’t breathe. I pressed my hand against my mouth to muffle the sound.

I curled into myself, the blue dress pooling around me, my tears soaking the fabric. Every bit of me ached; my body, my heart, my faith.

It wasn’t just the pain. It was the realization that I didn’t belong to myself anymore.

That I was a possession. A prize.

“Sweetheart, hurry!” Brad’s voice called from downstairs.

Of course, I wasn't even given time to cry.

I went to splash cold water on my face before returning to get dressed.

The Sunday morning sunlight filtered bright through the drapes, as I went down the stairs.

Brad stood at the foot of the stairs, his hand extending as I neared.

Three men sat in the living room. They looked up when they saw me.

“Gentlemen,” Brad announced with a smirk, his hand firm on my lower back. “Mrs. Hawkins.”

Silence followed.

No one spoke.

Their gazes swept over me like hands.

My stomach twisted, but I stood still, lowering my eyes.

Brad chuckled. “Don’t be shy, sweetheart.”

One of them whistled under his breath. Another muttered, “Damn, you weren’t exaggerating. She's beautiful.”

I felt like a mannequin dressed for display.

Brad’s chest swelled. “And all mine.”

Then, before I could move, he pulled me down to sit on his lap. His arm looped around my waist possessively, his fingers resting on my thighs.

“She doesn’t say much,” Brad said, stroking my arm like a pet.

The men laughed. They talked about me as though I were a trophy, as though my silence was proof of his victory.

After a while, Brad leaned closer, his voice low but loud enough for the others to hear. “Now, sweetheart, why don’t you thank them properly?”

I turned to him, confused.

“Each of them owes me five hundred,” he said. “Collect it.”

My eyes widened.

He smiled, all teeth and cruelty. “You heard me.”

They exchanged glances. I got up. One by one, they handed me the money.

Where their hands brushed mine, I flinched. The bills felt heavy and dirty. I took them in trembling hands, unable to meet their eyes.

When I returned to Brad’s side, he gathered the cash from my hands and tucked it into his pocket. “That’s my girl,” he said, patting my thigh. “Make us some coffee.”

I nodded, grateful to disappear even for a few minutes. I forced myself to move even though my knees felt like they might give out.

In the kitchen, my hands shook as I filled the kettle. The smell of ground coffee rose in the air. I clung to it, anything to stay anchored.

Minutes later, I returned with a tray of steaming mugs. The men laughed and cheered as I served each of them.

“To the man of the year,” one said, lifting his cup.

Brad grinned.

Their laughter filled the room again. I stood quietly aside, invisible, my face fixed, my fingers trembling now from the heat rising in my chest.

Escape was all I wanted yesterday.

Now I wanted revenge.

He made me his trophy.

I would become his downfall.