CHAPTER 05

𝐏𝐎𝐕 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐀

I woke up with my body heavy, as if I hadn’t slept at all the night before. The side of my face where my father had struck me still burned faintly—a persistent reminder of what had happened.

I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling for a few seconds. I took a deep breath, trying to pinpoint the exact moment my life had stopped being mine for good.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Miss Helena,” the housekeeper’s voice came low and restrained. “Breakfast is served.”

I sighed.

“I’ll be there.”

She didn’t come in, and I silently thanked her for that. I needed a few more seconds alone, in the silence of my room.

I got up slowly and went to the bathroom for my morning routine. When I looked at myself in the mirror, my eyes stung. There was a faint mark on my face—nothing obvious. My father had always known how to hit where it wouldn’t leave evidence.

I ran my fingers over the reddish spot, remembering exactly why it was there.

When I felt tears threatening, I shook my head and splashed water on my face. I wasn’t going to cry.

I moved quickly. No makeup. No effort beyond what was necessary. There was no reason to care. No reason for anything.

I chose a simple gray dress and flat sandals. I tied my hair back without care. This wasn’t a normal day—it was just another day of surviving.

I left my room, mentally preparing myself to face my father.

Our relationship had never been good. It was merely functional. Meals required everyone’s presence, and that was the extent of our coexistence. There had never been dialogue, affection, or even an attempt to resemble a normal family. But after I turned eighteen and learned I had been traded, I didn’t want to see him. I didn’t want to hear him. I didn’t want to breathe the same air.

Likewise, I went down the stairs expecting to find him.

But he wasn’t there.

The table was set, impeccable as always. Silent. Only my mother sat in her usual place—back straight, hands folded in her lap, eyes lowered. A cup of coffee cooled in front of her.

I immediately found it strange.

My father never missed breakfast.

I breathed a little easier. I was exhausted from trying to convince him that I was his daughter, not an object.

Not only that, but I sat across from my mother.

“Good morning,” I said out of politeness, not expecting an answer.

“Good morning, Helena.”

I froze.

She never replied when he was present.

I poured myself some coffee, and we sat in silence for a few minutes. The only sound was the soft clinking of cutlery. The house felt bigger without him. Emptier. More suffocating.

I couldn’t take it.

“Mom.”

She lifted her eyes for a brief moment. Just one, as if looking too long was dangerous.

“Yes?”

“Why didn’t you say anything last night?”

The question came out firmer than I expected.

She lowered her gaze back to her plate.

“It wasn’t the moment.”

“When is it?” I shot back. “When he hits me? When he hands me over? When do I disappear?”

She took a deep breath.

“Helena…”

“No,” I interrupted. “Don’t say my name like that, as if there’s affection in it. Answer me.”

The silence stretched. She took a small sip of coffee and set the cup down with excessive care.

“You need to understand how things work,” she said. “Resisting only makes it worse.”

“For whom?” I asked. “For him—or for us?”

She closed her eyes for a second. Too long.

“You think I didn’t try?” she murmured.

That caught me off guard.

“Try what?”

“To be heard.”

My chest tightened.

“Then why do you accept everything?” I pressed. “Why do you bow your head? Why do you pretend nothing is happening?”

She looked at me properly for the first time that morning. Her eyes were tired. Dull.

“Because I know the price of not accepting.”

I swallowed hard.

“You knew?” I asked. “You knew he would do this to me?”

She looked away.

“I always knew this day would come.”

“And you still let it happen?”

“I had no choice.”

“There’s always a choice!” I snapped. “You could have left. You could have taken me with you.”

She let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Go where, Helena?” she asked. “With what? With whom?”

“With me,” I said. “I would have gone with you.”

She shook her head slowly.

“You speak like someone who has never gone hungry,” she said. “Like someone who has never been hunted.”

My stomach went cold.

“What are you saying?”

She took a deep breath, as if opening a door that had been locked for years.

“I was sold too.”

The words fell heavily between us.

“What?”

“I was nineteen,” she went on. “An agreement. An alliance. A man I didn’t choose.”

My heart raced.

“Then you know exactly how I feel—”

“I do,” she replied. “And that’s why I’m telling you to obey.”

Anger rose, hot and sharp.

“No,” I said. “I won’t accept this as something normal.”

“Accepting isn’t agreeing,” she said. “It’s surviving.”

“This isn’t surviving,” I shot back. “It’s dying slowly.”

She watched me for a few seconds.

“You think I didn’t die?”

That broke me.

“Look at me, Helena,” she continued. “Look at what I became. I survived. But I lost everything that was mine along the way.”

“Then why do you want this for me?” I asked, my eyes burning.

“Because the world out there is worse,” she replied. “Because inside this hell, at least I know how the flames work.”

I stood up abruptly.

“I don’t want to learn how to burn,” I said. “I want to get out of the fire.”

She stood as well, far too quickly for someone so restrained.

“Don’t talk like that,” she pleaded. “He might hear.”

“Let him,” I snapped. “He’s already sold me anyway.”

Her face went pale.

“Never say that out loud,” she said. “Never.”

“Why? Because the truth is uncomfortable?”

She grabbed my arm tightly.

“Because truths are far too expensive in this house.”

I pulled free.

“You didn’t save me,” I said, my voice shaking. “And now you want me to be grateful for that.”

She stared at me, her eyes glassy but dry.

“I’m not a heroine,” she said. “I’m a woman who learned how to survive.”

“I don’t want to be like you,” I replied without thinking.

The silence was heavy.

She nodded slowly.

“I know.”

I stepped away from the table, my chest tight, my head spinning.

Before leaving the room, I heard her voice behind me:

“If you try to fight…” she said. “Fight with intelligence. Not pride.”

I didn’t answer.

I climbed the stairs with a bitter certainty forming inside me.

In that house, women were not saved.

And those who refused to accept their fate

paid an even higher price.

But I wasn’t ready

to pay in silence.