My body locked up.
Then someone shoved my shoulder from behind, careless, laughing. I lost my balance and slammed into the low glass coffee table in the center of the suite.
Bang!
Glass shattered across the marble floor.
The tray slipped from my hands. Bottles crashed. Expensive wine bled into the carpet like something wasted on purpose. Pain shot through my palms as shards cut into my skin, and I hit the floor hard enough to knock the air out of me.
For a second, all I could hear was the ocean outside.
Then the room burst.
Laughter filled the suite instantly, sharp and loud, echoing against the glass walls overlooking the cliffs. Familiar in the worst way.
People stood up around me like I was part of the entertainment. Something unexpected that made their night better.
“Oh wow, it really is Dahlia! Trixie's older sister,” one of them said, dragging my name out like it tasted wrong. “You got out and your first job is here? At a resort like this?” He laughed. “Damn, life really humbles people, huh?”
I didn’t answer.
I pressed my hand harder against my bleeding palm and tried to breathe through the sting.
Another voice joined in, lighter but just as cruel. “Look at her. Still acting all quiet. You’d think ten years in prison would’ve fixed that attitude. Wait, how come this criminal even has a job here? She should just be sweeping the streets!”
They laughed again while I stayed on the floor.
Getting up felt pointless.
Then a colder voice cut through the noise. It's Arkin.
“What are you doing just lying there? You broke expensive liquor. Do you even know what those bottles cost?”
I swallowed, forcing my voice to work.
“I’m s-sorry,, Mr. Wattson,” I said quietly. “I didn’t mean to knock it over. I can’t afford it, but I’ll figure something out. Just… give me time.”
A scoff.
“Time?” Arkin's friend chime in, “You think this is a charity? Dahlia, you really haven’t changed. You still don’t understand your place.”
More laughter followed, louder now, feeding off each other.
“Alright,” he said slowly, a smile forming that didn’t reach his eyes. “Since you work here now, entertain us a little. Dance.”
The word hung in the air.
“Dance for us.”
“Yeah, come on.”
“You broke the drinks. Make up for it.”
“Don’t be shy, Dahlia. Show us what ten years taught you.”
My face burned.
Not just from humiliation. From something heavier. Deeper. Like my body was too tired to even hold onto anger anymore.
I could feel eyes on me from every direction. Weighing. Judging. Enjoying.
And then I felt it. A gaze that didn’t laugh.
Arkin.
I didn’t have money. Not even close. I could already see how this would end. The man in front of me wasn’t just angry about broken bottles. He was using me. Turning me into something small for everyone else to step on.
People like him never stopped. They just found new ways to make it worse.
Ten years in prison had already stripped away whatever dignity I once had. So when my vision blurred and I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood, I pushed myself up slowly. My knees shook. My hands were still bleeding.
The music shifted. Someone turned it up for fun.
And I moved.
Not gracefully. Not beautifully. Just enough to follow the command. My body stiff, hollow, like I wasn’t even inside it anymore.
Laughter rose again.
“Look at her! Fuck, she dance like a slugs.”
“This is just sad.”
“Guess prison didn’t fix anything. You know what Dahlia, ask your sister Trixie to teach you. She's a great danc—”
BANG!
The coffee table flipped violently.
Glass scraped across marble, sharp and sudden, and a voice cut through everything.
“ENOUGH.”
The room went silent.
Before I could react, a hand closed around my arm, strong and unyielding. I was dragged out of the suite, my feet barely keeping up as the noise behind me faded, replaced by the distant crash of waves.
The hallway was dim, quiet and colder.
Then I was shoved back against the marble wall.
The impact knocked the breath out of me again.
Arkin stood in front of me.
Close.
Too close.
Close enough that I could feel the weight of everything he never said.
“Dahlia,” he said, voice cold and controlled, “are you seriously degrading yourself like that in front of everyone?”
My back pressed into the wall. A shiver ran through me. Slowly, I turned my head to look at him.
“You shouldn’t have stepped in,” I said quietly. “How is your father supposed to rest after this?”
Something in his expression shifted.
He shoved me harder.
“You think I did that for you?” he snapped. “I pulled you out because I’m making a deal. Not because I care what happens to you.”
He stepped closer. His voice dropped, quieter but cutting deeper.
“You need money, right?”
The words hit exactly where they were meant to.
“Then listen carefully. You’ll stand outside my room tonight. You don’t leave. You don’t speak. I’ll pay you. More than whatever job you think you can survive on here.”
Before I could respond, he pulled out a stack of cash and threw it straight at my face, hard.
The bills hit my cheek and scattered to the floor.
My skin stung as I stood frozen, warmth rising where it struck.
Arkin didn’t wait. He turned away like I wasn’t worth another second.
....
That night, I stood outside his room without moving.
Inside, I heard them.
Trixie’s voice first, soft and amused. Then Arkin’s, lower, blending with hers until it filled the hallway like I didn’t exist at all.
I stayed there until morning.
When the door finally opened, Arkin stepped out, adjusting his sleeves like nothing had happened.
Trixie followed, smirking when she saw me still there.
“Clean the room,” Arkin said flatly.
I went in.
The place looked like a battlefield of luxury and carelessness. Sheets twisted. Glasses scattered. The air heavy with something I refused to name.
I knelt anyway. Hands shaking as I wiped the floor in silence.
Trixie leaned against the doorway, watching me.
“Wow, sister! You’re still alive,” she said lightly. “That’s kind of surprising.”
I didn’t answer.
She smiled faintly and glanced at Arkin.
“Are you really keeping her around?”
“She’s useful,” Arkin said without hesitation. “And she won’t be here long anyway.”
Trixie laughed softly. “Good. Before the wedding, make sure she disappears. I hate looking at her.”
…
For the next few days, wherever Arkin and Trixie went, I followed.
Dinner. Private gatherings. Cliffside parties filled with people who wouldn’t even look at someone like me twice. I was always there, standing behind them. Quiet. Invisible. Unless they needed something.
Or unless Arkin wanted something.
Every time someone raised a glass, he’d glance at me like it meant nothing.
“She’ll drink it.”
And I did.
Glass after glass. No pause. No refusal.
At first, people laughed it off.
Then it kept going.
“Arkin, that’s enough,” someone would say, “She’s already had a lot.”
He’d smile faintly, eyes cold. “What? You think she can’t handle it? Dahlia, tell them. You can, right?”
I’d nod. “Yeah. I can.”
Even when my stomach twisted. Even when my throat burned raw.
By the end of it, I’d be in the bathroom, gripping the sink, throwing up everything until there was nothing left. Just dry heaving. Shaking.
Then I’d go back out.
Because if I didn’t, it would only get worse.
At dinners, it wasn’t any better.
He’d sit beside Trixie, relaxed, untouchable, while I stood behind her chair like I belonged there.
“Dahlia,” he’d say casually, “peel the shrimp for her. She doesn’t like getting her hands dirty.”
I’d do it.
“And the fish,” Trixie would add, “take the bones out properly this time. Last time you missed one.”
“Okay,” I’d answer quietly.
Then Arkin again, almost bored, “Wipe her hands after. She’s not used to this kind of inconvenience.”
Trixie would laugh softly.
“Arkin baby, you’re spoiling me too much,” she’d say but she never stopped me.
Not once.
Sometimes she’d look at me, eyes sharp, satisfied.
“Careful, sister. Don’t mess up. You know how clumsy you can be.”
I didn’t respond. I just kept doing everything they asked.
Even following her to the restroom. Standing outside like something no one hired but everyone used. And in front of everyone, Arkin treated her like she was everything.
Holding her hand. Brushing her hair back. Leaning close when he spoke.
Things he used to do with me.
After every event, when it was all over, he’d walk to his car, pull out a thick stack of cash, and toss it at me without looking.
“Your pay for today,” he’d say flatly. “Count it if you want. I don’t short people.”
The money would hit the ground more often than not. Dirty. Wrinkled. Sometimes stepped on.
I’d still bend down and pick it up. One by one. Carefully. Like it mattered more than anything.
Because it did.
I needed it.
Just a little more.
Once I had enough, I could pay off the sea burial. Then I could disappear completely. No body. No trace. No Dahlia.
Isn’t that better for everyone?
