Three

Lauresse

I tried to get out of the old man's hands, the stout man's hand gripping my neck as his hand caressed me everywhere he liked. Tears stream in my eyes as I gasp with air and scream for help, but no voice comes out of my mouth. I was in the old cell that they locked me in. I don't know why I went back there. I could see the broad grin on his face like a demon, and I could feel his hand going up between my thighs.

"No!" I shouted as I opened my eyes. My breath was ragged, as if I was drowning, and cold sweat hit my forehead and neck.

I was stunned for a few minutes, staring at the white ceiling, and I touched my cheek. The hot liquid coming from my eyes not ceasing. And caught the scent of lavender fragrance around me. And the air condition was at a suitable temperature, not too frigid.

The same nightmare coming in my dreams that even though a month has passed, it seems like it was just yesterday. My body shivers from the disgust of those memories.

My mouth was dry, and still, my breathing was fast. I got up from lying down and looked at the half-opened window. Sunlight coming into it. I wiped the cold sweat from my forehead with my cold hand.

"Breakfast ready," the deep rich tone came from the bathroom. "Are you alright?"

I looked up at his behavior. His hair was wet, and he had a towel around his strong, broad shoulder, wearing a fresh white shirt that showed his body's curves and the faded black jeans he loves to wear.

Swallowing, I nodded. "Why are you here?" I didn't notice him entering the room. Unless... I opened my mouth and left the bed, facing him. I don't care what I look like. I need to be sure.

"Your parents here..." My shaky intone. When he was at home, his parents were here.

"Yes," he answered and dabbed the towel in his hair, staring at me with his usual inexpressive face. "My mother cooked the breakfast and was expecting you in the diner room."

I didn't see him for a week except today, and I noticed the bruise on his right arm. Also, on his right jaw with scars. Did someone punch him? He didn't lose his good looks even though the eye bags in his eyes were screaming for a rest. Where has he been for a week?

Even if I ask him, he won't answer me, or he will say, 'You are a woman, and that thing is not for you.'

"It's surprising. They wouldn't come here without reason," I said and headed to the walk-in closet. I need nice clothes to wear. And the copper blonde hair wig that I always use. It was a short one, and I always put a fake tattoo set with the black raven design near my chest. The heavy neckline can see the fake tattoo, but no one would notice it is fake.

There were a lot of different outfits with different designs and in various colors in the closet room.

"You will know later. Just hurry up and get dressed," he shouted so I could hear him. Next, I heard heavy footsteps going away and the closing of the door. Did he enter the room when I was sleeping and use the bathroom? What time did he return home? If only he would notify me that he was coming home and his parents were coming. I won't always be had surprises. Such a jerk!

But I owe him a price I couldn't pay. I took a deep breath and took the dress I was holding. The light reflected the diamond engagement ring in my hand. I forgot that I was his fiancée—a fake one. I inquired him why he was there that day. And what does he have to do with that old man and the one named Alexandro? No explanation, and he gave me a silent stare.

It's been the questions bothering me for a month. But I know he saved me because we knew each other, and he didn't want to feel guilty about what happened to me. At least he was not a monster, we thought.

Well, I am grateful for that. Even if I can't get back what I used to live in, I am safe.

My eyes dimmed, and I stared at my reflection in the body-size mirror at the end of the closet. The brown square flared dress to fit into me, curving my waistline. I put the wig on my hair. The fake tattoo of the head and half of the raven can be seen on my left chest. Tracing it with my fingernail, it was dried.

I saw Ashton's parents sitting down when I got to the dining area. They gave me a smile, and I came over to give them a brief embrace and a kiss on the cheek.

"How's your sleep, Ihja?" asked Cathlyn, the mother of Ashton. His son inherited the hair color and his white complexion. Even though she was fifty-two, she always looked gracefully, and her beauty never waned.

Back in high school, she was the one who came to every PTA meeting, and I remember her bright smile and friendly. I sat in the other seat facing them. "It's good, Auntie," I answered politely, even though that part was a lie.

I have trouble sleeping and always dream of that place, remembering the pleading voices of the women, the fear, the crying, and the shouting. Never did I tell Ashton about it, and what will he do? Offer a psychiatrist on my behalf. Indeed, he had every solution to his problem.

I forced a smile in front of Ashton's parents. Then I realized that he was not in the dining area. Uncle was on his phone, a relentless on his face while reading. In the reflection of his eyes, I saw that it was a message.

Auntie glanced at her husband and took the phone from his hold, which made her husband roar in disapproval.

"Wifey, why did you take it?" There was a hint of annoyance in the tone of Ashton's father, Henry's voice. Ashton got his beautiful face shape, a chiseled jawline, an aristocratic nose, and his muscular body from his father. Although Uncle Henry had brown skin and anyone would notice that he was not purely Filipino. Through the color of his eyes, forest green eyes that Ashton did not inherit, and the light caramel wavy hair.

Ashton got the height, but Uncle Henry was not a quiet and severe person, unlike him. Meanwhile, his mother likes to joke and talk. That's me wondering, where did Ashton get his attitude. Two weeks ago, Tito Henrey celebrated his 58th birthday, which was not grand. Most attendees were family relatives, and some friends were present.

But Ashton could not attend. I asked why, but he didn't give an excuse. I saw the disappointment in his parents' countenance that day.

"It's not time for work, Husband," Aunt Cathlyn emphasized, and she narrowed her eyes at her husband.

Tito's mouth opened as I thought he was about to speak. He just straightened his back and smiled at me. I somehow understood Ashton's parents in the ten times I met them. They were not like my parents, who gave silent treatment when there was a misunderstanding. My parents always had deafening silence and were not showing affection in private, unlike his parents.