I’m Yours [ Book 3- The Princess of Hilton’s family]

Nina pov

The apartment always smells like oil that’s been used too many times.

Not cooking oil. Something older. Sour. It clings to the walls, the curtains, the back of my throat. I’ve scrubbed it until my hands ached. It never leaves.

I move through the kitchen slowly. Carefully. Like the air itself might crack if I rush it.

Bare feet on cold linoleum. The overhead light hums, flickers when the fridge kicks on, and my chest tightens like even the bulb is warning me. Be careful. Be quiet.

The television is loud in the living room. A game show. People laughing too hard. Ricky likes it loud. He says silence makes him think.

I don’t want him thinking.

I hold the plate with both hands, fingers tight around the rim. It’s warm—too warm—and I shift my grip, heat seeping into my palms. My hands feel clumsy. Too big. Like everything about me takes up more space than it should.

I plate his food first. Always his first. The rice not too much, not too little. The chicken centered, sauce wiped clean from the edge. I’ve learned where the invisible lines are. I’ve learned how badly they hurt when I cross them.

My plate stays on the counter. Untouched.

I lift the tray and walk into the living room.

Ricky is stretched out on the couch, one hand down the front of his sweatpants, eyes half on the TV. He doesn’t look at me at first. He never does.

“About time,” he says.

My stomach tightens. I step closer.

The tray shifts when my elbow brushes the arm of the couch.

Just a fraction.

Enough.

The plate slides.

I feel it happens before I see it. That sick, slow loss of balance. My heart jumps into my throat. I lunge, fingers scraping ceramic—

It hits the floor.

The crack is sharp and loud, like something breaking inside my head. Sauce splatters across the tile. White shards scatter outward.

For a moment, there’s nothing.

No TV. No breathing. Just the sound ringing in my ears.

I freeze, crouched halfway down, hands hovering uselessly in the air.

Ricky turns his head.

He stares at the broken plate. Then at me.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asks quietly.

My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

“I—I didn’t—”

Ricky stands.

The room changes immediately. The air feels heavier. My body reacts before my brain does—muscles locking, breath going shallow.

“You didn’t mean to,” he repeats, mocking. “Funny. That’s what you always say.”

He steps closer. I can feel him before he reaches me, like pressure building.

“Do you have any idea how much food costs?” he says. “Or do you just not care because you’ve never had to control yourself?”

“I’ll clean it,” I say quickly. “I’ll make more.”

He laughs. Short. Ugly.

“Make more?” His eyes drag over me, slow and deliberate. “You’ve already had plenty, haven’t you?”

My face burns. I stare at the floor. At the sauce spreading between the cracks.

“You know what people see when they look at you?” he continues. “They see a fat girl who doesn’t know when to stop. Eating. Standing. Existing. Just too much.”

The words hit hard, settling deep.

“You’re fat,” he says flatly. “Not thick. Not curvy. Fat. And you should thank me every day that I’m the one here, because no one else would touch you. No one.”

I feel something tighten behind my ribs. I don’t cry. Crying only makes it worse.

Ricky steps closer, then crouches.

“Don’t look away,” he says.

I don’t have time to react before his hand grabs my hair and yanks. Pain flashes white behind my eyes.

“Nina,” he says, like I’ve disappointed him. “You don’t get tell me to stop. You don’t get to decide anything.”

My hand slips on the floor as I try to move. My palm comes down on a shard of ceramic.

Pain bites sharp and immediate.

I gasp despite myself.

Ricky’s gaze drops to my hand. His mouth curves into something like satisfaction.

“Careful,” he says. “Wouldn’t want you bleeding all over the place. That’d be disgusting.”

Blood wells up along my palm, warm and slick. I curl my fingers instinctively, trying to hide it.

He lets go of my hair and shoves me.

I hit the floor hard, my hip slamming into the tile. Pain blooms, dull and spreading. My head rings.

“Clean it up,” he snaps. “All of it.”

He grabs his jacket from the chair.

“I’m going out,” he says. “Try not to make a mess while I’m gone.”

He pauses at the door and looks back at me.

For a second, his expression softens. The look that always confuses people who don’t know him.

“I’ll be back,” he says gently. “Don’t make it weird.”

The door slams.

The TV keeps playing. People laugh. Someone wins something.

I stay on the floor, staring at the broken plate and the blood on my hand.

Then I start picking up the shards, one by one, careful not to bleed too loudly.

I don’t get up right away.

The floor is cold against my hip, and the cold makes sense. It feels earned. My hand throbs where the plate cut me, a deep, insistent pulse that matches the hum of the refrigerator. Blood has gathered in the crease of my palm, thick and dark.

I press my fingers together to slow it. Not stop it. Just make it quieter.

The TV is still on. Someone laughs too loud. I mute it without looking, and the sudden silence presses in on me, heavy and unfamiliar. For a moment, the apartment feels too big, like it’s waiting for something else to break.

I push myself up and go to the kitchen. Paper towels. Tape from the junk drawer. I rinse my hand under cold water, hissing when the cut opens again. I wrap it tight, secure it like it might run away if I don’t.

Then I kneel and start picking up the pieces.

One shard at a time. I don’t rush. I don’t breathe too deep. Ceramic clinks softly into the trash bag. Sauce has seeped into the cracks of the tile, staining them darker. I scrub until my shoulder aches, until the smell of garlic and oil makes my stomach twist.

I’m hungry.

I tell myself it’s just a habit. Just my body being greedy again.

My mother’s voice slips in without asking.

Don’t make him angry.

I’m small again. Sitting on the stairs. My father’s laughter is loud and sloppy from the kitchen. A bottle hits the wall. My mother flinches like the glass aimed itself.

Later, she kneels in front of me, smoothing my hair with trembling hands.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “He didn’t mean it. He just had too much.”

Too much of everything.

I scrub harder until the sponge squeaks.

When the floor looks passable, I stand and rinse my hands. The cut still burns. Good. Pain keeps me focused.

I catch my reflection in the dark window over the sink. My face looks tired. Puffy. There’s a faint yellowing bruise near my upper arm, just visible where my sleeve rides up — old enough to be healing, new enough to remember.

I pull the sleeve down.

Time stretches. The apartment settles into itself. I sit on the edge of the bed and wait, hands folded, posture careful. Waiting is something I’m good at.

The lock turns sometime later. Not morning. Not even close. Night still clings to him when the door opens.

Ricky comes in loud and loose, smelling like smoke and adrenaline. His mood swings before I can catch up — irritation, then something like excitement.

“There you are,” he says, like he wasn’t the one who left.

I step into the living room.

He notices the bandage. His eyes flick to it and away again, dismissive. “You always gotta make things dramatic.”

“I cut my hand,” I say. Neutral. Flat.

Then his expression shifts. The look. The one people mistake for guilt.

“Hey,” he says, softer. “I was thinking.”

My stomach tightens.

“I’m taking you out,” he says. “Tonight. Somewhere nice.”

I don’t answer.

“Get dressed,” he adds. “Put something nice on.”

I turn toward the bedroom. He follows, leaning against the doorframe while I open the closet. His eyes track every choice.

“Not that,” he says when I reach for a sweater. “You look bigger in that.”

I change.

“Too tight,” he says. “Makes you look desperate.”

Another shirt. Another look.

He steps closer and tugs my sleeve down, covering the edge of the old bruise.

“Better,” he says. “Can’t have people thinking I don’t take care of you.”

I swallow.

He grabs his jacket, already smiling again.

My stomach drops.

Dinner, I think.

I follow him out anyway.