Daddy got sweets for us from the local tuck shop.
I was so happy because this was the second time this month he had done so. They must have paid him his monthly money. I licked my lollipop noisily as I stared out the window of the car ride.
We slowed to a halt. Daddy got out briefly to talk to a man in a long white dress. My English teacher gave it a name called “thawb” but it looked like a dress like the one I was wearing only that mine was a milky shade. Dad rushed to my side of the car, patted my head, and smiled, “Everything will be alright, dear one… just fine.” He smiled again. I would have smiled back in return, but Daddy never smiles.
My sweet was a small bulb left. I hated to see it go so I licked it ever so slowly and watched as two men approached the car.
“I have struggled to take care of you since your mother left us, little one…” I managed a whimper. It was all very confusing as I watched the two men grab my arms.
“Forgive me! Please.” I saw a teardrop.
I screamed as I realized I was being dragged away from the only familiar place I seemed to understand.
My lollipop fell and so did my innocence…
CHAPTER 1
—-15 years later—-
Now standing here, reminiscing, I couldn’t help but wonder if he made good use of the money he tried to sneak away when he thought I wasn’t watching.
I squatted and brushed off his tombstone. No flowers. Just dust and grime.
Befitting.
It was a struggle to find the same brand, but I was determined when I finally heard about his gravesite. I dropped the same lollipop he loved to buy. A bittersweet moment.
I looked up to see someone staring. I winked, leading him to scurry off. I smirked.
To be fair, I had been looking a menace since I heard he was buried here in Manhattan. Eyeing the tombstone one last time, I sighed and walked away briskly. He never
remarried after Maame’s death, not sure he recovered from his own betrayal.
I huddled into my thick leather coat as the wind started to pick up. My life
wasn’t entirely too bad. Got married off at a young age. Went abroad for schooling as ‘no wife of mine was going to be illiterate.’ He was an odd sort, my husband. Knew I was too young to be sent off like that but preferred that I remained his ‘possession.’ Never understood it, but I learned to deal with it.
We did hit it off, my husband and I. There was a strange camaraderie, more like a
father and a favorite daughter duo, much to the distaste of people especially his wives. We were five in total inclusive of me and would’ve probably hit a football team too, if he hadn’t kicked the bucket.
I learned about his death with one year left in college. Over the phone. Didn’t know how to feel about the news at first, a strange illness, they said. I was able to detach emotionally, maybe because I saw my father get ridiculed by this same man I had wedded, or maybe I just never got over the fact that I was sold
to be a trophy. Couldn’t decide.
His first wife reached out—not with disdain, but with a quiet sense of closure. She told me I was free, that I could take what was mine. And wired me my inheritance in monetary value, a way to ensure I never looked back.
Subconsciously, I think she saw in me the girl who once had to bear the weight of a life that she didn’t choose.
I walked up the stairs to the doctor’s office. A gentleman opened the door for me, then proceeded to let himself out after me. Hmm, there may still be hope yet…”
“Hey, Doc,” I greeted as I entered.
“Bella. Is it already time?” She didn’t even bother looking up.
I checked my watch. A quarter past three. Smart mouth.
“I know I’m late, okay? I’m sorry, I had to stop by somewhere.”
“Well, you’ve got only thirty minutes left. I’ve got another client coming in at…”
“Ouch!” I feigned hurt. She rolled her eyes at me.
“On a more serious note, Bella. This tardiness just won’t cut it.”
“I know, I know, JoJo.” I sprawled comfortably on the chaise lounge. She had the
dreamiest office, and I loved being here, even on days when I wasn’t scheduled.
It smelled like coffee and lavender—not the cheap stuff. I breathed in satisfactorily.
“So, shall we start?” She sat up, picked up her notes, and scribbled a few lines.
Silence.
“Bella?” She asked, looking up for the first time.
I flashed puppy-dog eyes at her. She knew every Friday, we’d have a let-out session. We’d pick a place of our choice and have therapy there. It was a great outlet for both of us, even though she’d never admit it.
“Fine. Let’s go get a scoop-whoop ice cream.” I squealed and jumped up, rushing to the door. I waited at the elevator for my therapist/best friend.
“I mustn’t be late for my next client’s appointment. Don’t expect me to indulge
you next time, young lady,” she teased, as we both shared a sheepish grin.
—–6:06 pm. Bella’s POV——
I unlocked the door to my apartment and collapsed on my cheap settee. I closed my eyes for a bit. I still felt hungry. JoJo said this would happen. I can just
hear her now, ‘Munching on a whole lot of nothing would make you eat a whole
lot of something’. Really the only trusted friend I knew since…
Better not to think of that now. Powered my laptop and plugged my phone to its battery
source. The room was quiet, the price I pay for a solid monochrome build like
this is so I could afford to think but this time around the silence was deafening. I turned on my speakers and picked a jazz playlist.
Sobs. I heard sobs. I closed my eyes painfully. The memories won’t stop harassing me. I saw that I had a few emails, ignored the junk, and replied to the urgent ones.
——
I worked for about forty-five minutes, saved the draft on my laptop then took a
coffee break. At least the anxiety had eased some.
I freelanced as a fiction writer and earned quite an impressive wad. I was able
to build my portfolio from reality and tweaked characters and instances so no
one traces it back to me. I grew quite a following online and decided only
recently to drop my alias and use my real name: Amelia Bella Reza. It worked
well for business and as my publicist would say “…gives your work a soul”.
Work had kept me relatively busy but these days it waned, now giving me more time on my hands. The only thing keeping me company was my thoughts.
“I will lift up my eyes to the hills from whence cometh my help.” Problem was that these thoughts won’t let up.
“Get yourself together ole gal, you’re a madness away from a mental institute…”
I stretched and walked to the window to see the sun setting. It was a lovely hue,
a deep orange and a tint of blue. I was so lucky to have gotten the studio apartment. It was a steal, smack dab in the middle of the busiest streets on this side of town but still serene enough to give you your required sanity.
“I will lift up my eyes to the hills from whence cometh my help.”
There it was again. I allowed myself to reflect.
——
D’Ali Reza was more than just a ruthless businessman. He was also a renowned philanthropist. His jolly good nature made him easily approachable, but if you wanted to get closer, it came with a risk.
One hand he extends in friendship, the other he captures.
That was my father’s fate. He had borrowed money from one of D’Ali’s ventures and couldn’t repay it—especially not while Maame was still alive and unwell. Although I was the oldest of three siblings, I was forced to stay home while the others went to school. Always inquisitive, I pored over their books while keeping an eye on Maame. She would cough until she could barely sit up, the instruction was to make her as comfortable as possible. I learned how to feed her intravenously at a young age.
One day, I searched desperately for her veins but couldn’t find one all the while wilting on the bed. I panicked and, in a haste, rushed through the busy streets to find my father. After much searching, I saw him in what looked like an abandoned factory, kneeling with tears rolling down his cheeks. He was surrounded by a lot of grim looking men but there was especially one distinguished looking man. He proceeded to shake hands with my father while pulling him up his feet.
It all happened so slowly. As they both saw me, the blood drained from my father’s face, the sick smile the man gave, and then the truth hitting all at once.
I realized that my father was selling his house—passed down through generations—just to repay D’Ali. Everything changed when I interrupted their meeting and was now the exchange.
I sighed and sipped my coffee. The sky changed to a pink shade as dusk approached. The clouds continued to change into different forms and shapes. I
reclined on my makeshift hammock and reminisced further.
Dialli, as I called him, treated me like royalty and this didn’t please his bitter wives. They made life unbearable and didn’t hide their disdain for me, his new possession. They made sure that their children taunted me, and they would instruct the kitchen to delay my food. All of that never mattered to me but my beloved books, priceless gifts that Dialli bought me. They would send their children to hide or tear the books which would make me cry for hours.
He saw this and gave me exclusive access to his personal library but that seemed to infuriate them a lot more. To placate them, He made sure to give them all their hearts wanted; foreign oils and spices, jewellery, and egregious artifacts, but they were never satisfied and seemed to think I was the reason for the mishap. He would sometimes travel with me on his trips to give me some respite, alongside my nanny who’d supervise and homeschool me.
She would have been a worthy companion but remained stoic and neutral for fear of the wives or him, I couldn’t tell.
The loneliness ate into my soul and when I got tired of being harangued, I spoke up and threw a fit asking to see my family, knowing fully well, it was futile, but the emotions had welled up so much that they needed a release. I had tipped over. I walked up to Dialli and his wives during dinner to say just as much and then ran back to my only solace, the library. I’d never felt so alone and that was the first time I had seen those words for the first time in a book called the Bible.
“I will lift up my eyes to the hills from whence cometh my help…”
Such simple words. So many tears. His first wife, who hated me the least and didn’t give as much grief as the others but practically did nothing to help me, saw me one humid afternoon in a corner, forlorn and spent from crying.
Dialli had embarked on one of his trips, this time without me and I suspected it was due to the tirade. I was open game to the wives and they each had their rounds share of taunting except the first wife.
“Come now, child…” She said ever so quietly and hugged me to herself. She smelled like Maame and a new wave of tears started. I wondered how my siblings were doing, how life was after Maame? I had so many questions and not one single answer. Life was so frustrating, and my cries held so many words unsaid as they came in torrents. I wept until I had no more strength in me. She gathered me up in her arms and laid me on a bed to rest, I didn’t care whose and I slept the most peaceful since coming into that home. I didn’t dream but heard voices that night.
“You promised me—you said you won’t take in someone this young,” she whispered, her voice trembling with anger.
“But I haven’t touched her, Habibi…” the other voice spoke resignedly.
“You didn’t have to… you injured her soul, and she cries like a wounded lion, every night.” It took me a minute to realize in my sleepy state that the voices belonged to Dialli and his wife, which was more surprising was the fact that she defended me. The feeling was inexplicable.
“Make things right!” I heard a small rustle and a quiet close of the door.
I didn’t see him for some time, that and surprisingly the other wives also didn’t bother me as much.
Weeks after, Dialli came back with gifts and there was such a hustle and bustle on his return. The wives readied for a night with him. It was only his first wife that had exclusive access to him and she would on this night call me from seclusion. “Amelia! D’Ali wants you…”
She enjoyed looking at the faces of the other wives when she said that. So did I.
“Serves them right…” she would say, followed by a string of expletives in her native dialect. I giggled. We were all Middle Eastern, Dialli had a taste for home and he prided himself in keeping a “clean lineage”, so we kept the official language of the home mostly, Aramaic.
Walking the long corridors to the west wing of the mansion felt like the longest walk of my life. I learned that “time out” was the price I had to pay to see D’Ali as a saviour from the harem.
The anklets and ornaments the first wife wore were loud enough to wake the dead. She too wanted to look exquisite for her husband’s return.
The gold ornate doors opened, and she stayed outside and motioned for me to be allowed through.
Inside, D’Ali was seated on an ornately carved chair, a mix of something unreadable etched across his face. His robes were pristine as ever, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something—guilt, maybe? I couldn’t tell, and I wasn’t in the mood to decipher it.
“Come closer,” he said, his voice low but commanding. I hesitated, my feet glued to the plush carpet beneath me. The first wife nudged me gently, her grip on my shoulder firm but reassuring. With measured steps, I walked toward him, unsure of what this encounter would bring.
He gestured to a small tray on the table next to him, filled with an assortment of delicate trinkets and baubles. “These are for you,” he said, his tone flat. My eyes flitted over the sparkling items, but I made no move to touch them. Gifts had lost their charm long ago.
“Amelia,” he said, softer this time, “I owe you an apology.”
The words caught me off guard. I stared at him, searching his face for sincerity. “I’ve wronged you in ways I cannot undo,” he continued, “and for that, I am deeply sorry.”
I crossed my arms, defiance bubbling up despite the strange relief his words brought. “Why now?” I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.
He didn’t answer immediately, drifting toward his wife. “Because I’ve realized the weight of what I’ve taken from you. Your childhood, your freedom… your family. And because I was made to see it,” he added, glancing briefly at the first wife.
It struck me then that perhaps her kindness, her quiet rebellion, had forced this moment into existence.
“What do you want from me?” I asked, my tone sharper than intended.
D’Ali looked at me, his expression closed. “Nothing,” he said simply. “I just want you to have a choice moving forward. To live as you wish.”
I didn’t trust him—not yet—but the seed of possibility he planted began to take root. Could there really be a way out?
Before I could respond, the first wife stepped forward, placing a hand on my shoulder.
I glanced between them, uncertainty swirling in my chest. The air in the room felt heavy, charged with something I couldn’t quite name.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I allowed myself to entertain the thought of freedom, of a life beyond this gilded cage.
“What’s the catch?”
D’Ali’s brow arched ever so slightly, his composure remaining steady despite the edge in my voice. “Catch?” he echoed, his tone neither surprised nor defensive. It was almost as if he’d expected it.
I stepped closer, the hem of my dress lightly grazing the intricate carpet beneath me. “Freedom isn’t freedom if it’s tied to your conditions,” I said, my voice steady. “Whatever you think you owe me, whatever guilt you’re trying to ease—this isn’t a transaction. If you truly mean it, that means no strings attached.”
A flicker of emotion passed over his face—perhaps surprise or something deeper—but it was gone as quickly as it had come. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he regarded me with what could only be described as reluctant admiration.
“You’ve always been sharp,” he said with a faint, almost bitter smile. “Too sharp. Very well, Amelia. No strings.”
D’Ali stood, his tall frame casting a shadow that seemed to stretch endlessly in the dimming light. “It’s yours, Amelia,” he said simply, his voice low but resolute. “Whatever that may look like, I’ll make it so.”
I held his gaze, searching for the trap I was sure lay hidden in his words. I saw nothing. Either he was good at hiding his emotions or he meant it. I decided to go with the latter.
The first wife gave my shoulder a final squeeze before stepping aside, her presence both a shield and a promise. As I turned to leave, I felt the weight of their eyes on my back—D’Ali’s, heavy with unspoken words, and hers, full of quiet resolve.
The gilded cage might still be intact, but for the first time, I felt the bars loosen. Freedom wasn’t here yet—but it was close, and I was ready to fight for it.