Burning Rancor 18+

Two

When my eyes finally cracked open, the world was a blur of throbbing, agonizing pain. Every heartbeat felt like a hammer striking the inside of my skull. I was still lying on the cold hallway floor, the metallic taste of blood pooling in my cheek where it had pressed against the tile.

The house was deadly silent. My mother and father had evidently retired to their bedroom, completely indifferent to whether I lived or died on the entryway floor.

Slowly, using the edge of the shoe rack for leverage, I dragged myself upward. My vision swam dangerously, white spots dancing in the dark. I touched the side of my head; my fingers came away sticky and stained with dark, drying blood. A massive, tender lump had already formed where the heavy metal pan had struck me.

I didn't cry. The tears had completely dried out by now, leaving my face stiff and my soul completely hollowed out. With agonizing slowness, I limped toward the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and began washing away the physical evidence of my mother’s rage. I couldn’t call out of work. If I stayed home, she would look at me with resentment all day, furious that I wasn't at the office attempting to seduce my boss. And Mason- Mason would think he had successfully broken me with his cruel little restaurant setup. I couldn’t give either of them the satisfaction.

I applied a thick layer of concealer over the burgeoning bruise on my temple, letting my mid-length hair fall forward to hide the swelling. My back was a roadmap of deep, purple aches from the collision with the shoe rack, but I forced myself back into my outfit: the flowy skirt, the blouse, and the mandatory, agonizing four-inch heels. I pretended my head wasn't throbbing. I pretended I was fine.

When I walked into Mason’s cabin the next morning, I took my designated place in the corner, leaning slightly against the wall to catch my balance.

Mason walked in precisely at nine. He didn’t look at me. He never did in the mornings. He hung up his coat, sat at his desk, and immediately launched his regular mental assault.

"I see you finally made it back from your little excursion yesterday, Ava," he said, his voice a smooth, cutting blade. He didn't look up from his laptop. "I hope the walk did you some good. Though, given your complete lack of intellect, I doubt a simple change of scenery could fix what's broken in your head."

I kept my eyes fixed on the floor. "I apologize for the delay yesterday, Mr. Brooks."

He sneered, a look of pure, unadulterated disgust crossing his handsome features. "Don't apologize. It implies you possess a conscience. We both know you're only here because you're a parasitic home-wrecker who can't find a mark anywhere else. Stand straight. Your slouching is an eyesore."

I pulled my shoulders back, ignoring the sharp spike of pain that shot down my spine. For the next eight hours, the cycle continued. He systematically stripped away whatever dignity I had left, throwing petty insults at my work ethic, mocking my intelligence, and ensuring I didn't sit down for a single second. By the time five o'clock rolled around, the pressure in my skull was building into a suffocating heat.

When the clock finally ticked to the end of the workday, I left the building as quickly as my aching feet would allow. I couldn't go straight home. The thought of walking back into that house, facing my mother’s interrogation about Mason, made my stomach violently turn. I needed space. I needed to pretend, just for an hour, that I belonged to myself.

I found a quiet, dimly lit diner a few blocks away from the corporate district. I sat in a booth in the far corner, ordering a simple plate of food that I barely touched. The silence was a luxury.

After trying to eat, I decided to take a walk through a nearby park to clear the fog in my brain. The night air was cool against my face, momentarily soothing the hot throbbing in my temple. But my peace didn't last long.

As I turned down a quieter, shadowed walkway, a figure suddenly stepped out from behind the bushes.

"Give me your purse! Move!" a harsh voice barked.

I gasped, stumbling backward. Before I could even process what was happening, the man lunged at me, his eyes wild. He grabbed the strap of my bag, pulling me violently forward. Instinctively, I fought back- not out of bravery, but out of sheer panic. That purse held my identification, my meager savings, the only things that kept me tethered to a normal life.

"I said let go, you b***h!" the robber roared.

A flash of silver caught the moonlight. I felt a sharp, icy sting across the back of my left hand, followed immediately by a blooming, white-hot heat. I cried out, dropping the bag. The man snatched it off the ground and sprinted into the darkness.

Clutching my arm, I looked down in horror. A deep gash ran across the back of my hand, and bright crimson blood was pumping rapidly between my fingers, dripping onto the concrete.

The next few hours were a blur of adrenaline and exhaustion. I stumbled out of the park and managed to flag down a passing police cruiser. The officers were kind enough, but the bureaucratic process was agonizing. I had to sit in the back of the station, pressure firmly applied to my bleeding hand, as I gave a detailed report of the incident. My head was pounding in tandem with the throbbing in my hand.

By the time the police wrapped up their paperwork and escorted me to the nearest hospital ER, it was well past midnight.

The emergency room was packed. I sat in a hard plastic chair for hours, wrapped in a thin hospital blanket, shivering from blood loss and sheer fatigue. When a doctor finally saw me, it required a painful cleansing of the wound and seven deep stitches to close the laceration. The entire ordeal took almost the whole night.

When the taxi finally dropped me off at my parents' house, the sky was already turning a faint, bruising shade of purple. It was 5:30 AM. I sneaked into the house like a thief, terrified of waking my mother. I practically crashed onto my bed, fully dressed in my torn blouse, completely giving into the exhaustion. My brain shut down.

A sharp, panicked glance at my alarm clock jolted me awake.

9:15 AM.

"No, no, no..." I panicked, scrambling out of bed. I was already fifteen minutes late, and it took forty minutes just to get to the office.

My hand was wrapped in a thick white bandage, throbbing with a dull, heavy ache, and my head felt like it was splitting in two. I didn't even have time to properly redo my makeup or hide the swelling on my temple. I threw on a fresh blazer to cover my torn clothes, grabbed a pair of heels, and ran out the door, praying that Mason would be tied up in morning meetings.

My luck ran out the absolute second I stepped out of the elevator on the executive floor.

The glass-walled conference room was fully occupied. Mason was holding a meeting with the elite planning team- a group of top-tier executives that he personally handled and mentored. These were the most influential people in the company, and they were right in the middle of a major project presentation.

I tried to slip past the glass doors quietly to get to my desk, but Mason’s sharp eyes caught my movement instantly.

"Stop right there, Ava," his loud, commanding voice boomed through the open door of the conference room, cutting off the executive who was speaking.

The entire planning team turned their heads in unison, their eyes locking onto me.

"Come inside," Mason ordered, his tone dripping with a dangerous, icy rage.

I swallowed a lump of pure dread, pushing the glass door open and stepping into the room. I felt incredibly small under the intense glares of the executives. My hair was a bit disheveled, my face was pale, and I was visibly trembling.

"Care to explain to the entire room why you think your time is more valuable than anyone else's in this building?" Mason asked, leaning back in his leather chair, crossing his arms.

He looked at me with pure disgust. "We have been waiting on the revised marketing briefs since 9:00 AM. But I suppose a girl like you thinks she can just wander in whenever she feels like it."

"I am so sorry, Mr. Brooks," I whispered, keeping my eyes firmly on the table, trying to hide my bandaged hand behind my back. "There was an... an emergency last night. I lost track of time."

"An emergency?" Mason let out a harsh, mocking laugh that made the executives chuckle quietly around him. "Let me guess. Did you oversleep because you were out late looking for your next wealthy target? Or did your busy schedule of ruining people's lives finally catch up to your sleep cycle?"

The humiliation was suffocating. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, but I forced them back, biting the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper.

"Look at me when I'm speaking to you," Mason snapped, slamming his palm onto the table.

I forced myself to lift my head, meeting his furious gaze.

"You are a lazy, incompetent disgrace to this department," Mason said cuttingly, loud enough for the staff outside the glass walls to hear. "The only reason you even have a seat in this room is because of the mess you created two years ago. Do not mistake my tolerance for leniency. If you ever show up late again, showing this utter lack of respect for my planning team, I will make sure your reputation is so thoroughly destroyed that even the lowest establishments won't hire you to sweep their floors. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Mr. Brooks," I choked out, a single tear escaping and racing down my pale cheek.

"Get out of my sight. And go stand in your corner where you belong," he dismissed her coldly, turning back to his team as if I didn't even exist.

I turned around and stumbled out of the room, the burning stares of the executives burning into my back as I walked toward my chairless desk, cradling my injured hand against my chest.

~•~