The Zillionaire's Obsession

Aria woke to the sound of glass shattering. Not from her room, no. From downstairs, from the kitchen, and from him.

It was the kind of sound that made her body react faster than her mind ever could a sharp, instinctive jolt beneath her ribs, a tightening in her lungs, and dread blooming like fresh bruises across her skin.

She shot upright, heart slamming into her throat. The thin blanket fell away instantly, pooling around her hips as the cold gnawed at her exposed arms. Winter hadn’t even reached its worst yet, but the heater had died three months ago, and Gregory Morgan never fixed anything unless it benefitted him.

Her cheek still hurt from last night.

A dull, pulsing ache. Pink and purple swelling beneath the skin. She touched it gently, winced, and looked away from her own reflection in the cracked mirror leaning against her dresser.

The floorboards creaked outside her door.

Aria held her breath.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Then his voice, a growl soaked in alcohol and exhaustion.

“Aria!”

She flinched like the word was a weapon.

“Get your useless ass out of bed. Now.”

Her heartbeat skittered. She forced her feet to the floor, the wood cold against her soles, and opened the door carefully and quietly, as if noise alone might trigger another blow.

Gregory Morgan stood at the end of the hallway, shoulders slumped, beer bottle dangling from two fingers. His shirt was stained, his breath thick with the sour stench of cigarettes and last night’s liquor. His hair stuck out at odd angles, and his eyes were two pits of resentment waiting for something to strike.

He turned toward her and sneered.

“Look at you,” he said, gesturing with the bottle like she was some pathetic joke. “Barely awake, barely alive. I swear, every day with you feels like a punishment from God.”

Her throat tightened.

“I'm awake, Father.”

“You call that awake?” He scoffed loudly. “You can't even keep the damn house clean. Or make breakfast on time. All you do is sleep like a damn princess waiting for some prince.”

His lip curled.

“No wonder your mother left.”

Aria lowered her eyes, fingers twisting the hem of her oversized shirt.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry?” He barked out a humorless laugh. “Sorry, it doesn't fix a goddamn thing. Sorry, doesn't pay rent. Sorry doesn’t get me my cigarettes. Sorry, doesn’t buy my beer when I ask you to.” His eyes narrowed. “Did you get paid?”

Her stomach clenched hard enough to hurt.

“Y-yes.”

“Then where is it?”

He shoved past her, stumbling slightly. “Give it here.”

She didn’t move.

Her money, the tiny envelope hidden under her mattress, wasn't just paper. It was dreams and secret hope.

A few dollars at a time saved from double shifts at the café and the dinner service at Maggie's.

It was the only thing she owned that belonged to her future, not his.

Gregory noticed her hesitation instantly.

His face darkened. “Don't you fucking play with me, girl.”

Her pulse raced.

“I—I have it,” she whispered. “I'll get it.”

“And don't lie,” he snapped. “You're shit at it. Just like your mother.”

Her hands were trembling as she returned to her room. She slid the envelope out slowly, staring at the worn corners. Eighty dollars. Three days of tips. Three days of aching feet, of swallowing insults from Monica Kane at the café, of late nights at Maggie’s scrubbing tables until her knuckles split.

Gone.

Just like that.

She walked back down the hallway.

Greg snatched the envelope before she could even offer it. His thumb flipped it open, counting the bills with a sneer.

“That's all?”

His voice was a blade dipped in contempt, slicing through the air toward her.

“You useless piece of shit.”

Aria's blood turned to ice.

“I—I gave you money two days ago for groceries, Father.”

He stepped toward her.

One step.

Two.

The smell hit her first—stale smoke embedded in his clothes, cheap whiskey on his breath, and sweat clinging to his skin.

“You questioning me?” His voice dropped low, dangerous. “You think I owe you something? You think you deserve food? A bed? This roof?” He tapped her forehead with two fingers hard.

“Everything you own is mine. Everything you make is mine. Everything you are—”

His fingers curled into her hair suddenly, yanking her head back.

Pain shot through her scalp. Her breath shattered in her chest.

“—is because I didn’t throw you out when your whore mother walked out on both of us.”

“Father, please.”

“Shut up.”

His hand slipped free from her hair, only to strike her.

The slap cracked through the hallway like lightning. Her cheek exploded with heat, and the metallic tang of blood filled her mouth. The world wavered, but she stayed on her feet.

Crying meant weakness.

Weakness meant more hits.

Gregory exhaled harshly, chest rising and falling like an animal trying to steady itself.

“That's your last warning,” he muttered, pocketing her money. “You don't get to hide shit from me. Understand?”

She nodded, blinking the burn from her eyes.

“Say it.”

“I understand.”

“Hm.”

He took a long swig from the bottle. “I'll be out tonight. Don’t wait up, and clean this house before I get back. It stinks of failure in here.”

He walked away, boots thudding down the stairs.

Only when the door slammed behind him did she allow her knees to buckle.

The quiet hit her first. A violent, heavy quiet that made her ears ring. Tears slid down her face silently, burning. She held her cheek, breathing in small, painful gasps.

She hated this house. Hated the walls soaked in his shouting.

Hated the carpet stained with beer and boot prints. Hated the life she had been born into, chained to. But most of all, Aria hated that she was beginning to believe the things he said.

She wiped her tears on her sleeve, inhaled shakily, and forced herself to stand.

She had to get ready; she had two jobs today.

The café first, the one where Monica Kane would circle her like a vulture, telling her she was late, too slow, and too stupid.

Then Maggie's restaurant, where her back would ache from lifting trays and wiping tables until her fingers went numb. She braided her hair to hide the discoloration on her cheek.

Applied a thin layer of foundation to mask the swelling.

Buttoned her worn-out uniform. And carried the quiet ache of her dreams in her chest like something fragile she wasn't allowed to show anyone. Stepping outside, the morning air bit at her skin.

She welcomed it. Cold didn't hurt the way his hands did; cold didn't scream, and cold didn't break her.

Aria squared her shoulders and walked toward the bus stop.

Every step forward was an act of defiance; every breath was survival, and though she didn't know it yet. Her life was about to collide with something larger than pain, larger than survival, larger than every bruise her father had carved into her existence. But that was later; for now this was her world.