Breaking The Fate

Chapter two

The next day rolls around, and I drag myself out of my room again. It's the same thing every day—a mindless routine that feels like I'm walking in circles, and I'm so tired of it.

When I open the door, Mateo is standing there, and for some reason, it irritates me more than usual. It's not his fault, but I'm done—done with August's constant accusations, done with the suffocating rules, done with everything.

"Mateo," I say, my tone sharp enough to warn him.

He looks at me with pleading eyes. "I'm sorry, your majesty, but it's been three months. Three months. I need to speak to my family. We all do."

His words hit me like a weight I've been trying to ignore. Three months. It's been that long since any of us have spoken to our families. And the truth is, I understand him. I feel his frustration. But I can't let that show.

"I understand how difficult this is," I say carefully, trying to keep my voice steady. "I promise I'll speak to August again, but Mateo, you can't leave the floor below without permission. You know how he feels about this."

I don't say it to be cruel. I say it because I know how August works. He's like a storm—you don't provoke it unless you're ready for the fallout.

But as the words leave my mouth, a pang of guilt rises in my chest. I haven't spoken to my family in three months either. They live in the States, and they visit when they can, but only with August's approval. Everything has to be approved by him. Every step, every breath.

It's not fair. None of this is fair. We're living like prisoners in this place—prisoners who've done absolutely nothing wrong.

I glance past Mateo, and that's when I see him. August. Standing a few feet behind, his eyes sharp and cold, watching us like a predator. My stomach twists, but I try not to let it show.

Mateo turns around, and the moment he spots August, his entire demeanor changes. His shoulders tense, and his face goes pale.

"Your majesty," Mateo says nervously, bowing his head slightly.

I sigh, the exhaustion from this endless game of control and submission weighing heavier on me than ever. I want to scream. I want to run. But instead, I just stand there, caught between two worlds—between what I want to do and what I have to do.

"Come to my office at four," August tells Mateo curtly, his voice sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air. Then, turning to me, he adds, "Leah, follow me to the office now."

Mateo glances at me, his eyes filled with apology, before I quietly trail behind August. The heavy door shuts behind us, and I can feel the weight of what's coming even before he turns to face me.

"This is the second time I've caught him with you, Leah," August says, his tone cold and accusatory.

"And for the same reason, too," I shoot back without hesitation, my frustration boiling over. "August, they all want to contact their families! The guards, the cooks, the helpers, the drivers—and me! We all want to talk to our families. It's been three months."

He shrugs, completely unfazed. "As per the contract, I gave them extra money, and they agreed to only call their families once every six months. Terms and conditions were clear."

"That's not fair, August!" My voice rises, the anger spilling out. "Six months is too much! People have lives, families they miss, loved ones who wonder if they're okay. And me? There's not even internet for me to talk to my family. I feel like a prisoner here."

His eyes narrow, and a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. "You're defending Mateo a little too much, Leah," he says, his voice dangerously low. "Should I fire him? Or would that affect you too much?"

My breath catches in my throat, and I feel the sting of his words like a slap. He's not just punishing Mateo—he's testing me, pushing me, trying to see how far he can go.

This isn't just about a phone call. It's about control, power, and the lengths he'll go to remind us all who's in charge. But I won't back down—not this time.

I don't answer immediately. I take a deep breath, steadying myself as I look him dead in the eyes. Slowly, I plant my hands firmly on the table, leaning closer. "If you fire him, August, I swear I'll leave with him."

His face contorts with anger as he slams his hands down on the table, the sound echoing through the room. "This just proves I'm right, Leah!" he shouts, his voice thunderous. "You're cheating on me with Mateo!"

I bark out a laugh—sharp, bitter, and full of disbelief. "That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard, and trust me, I've heard plenty of stupid things!" My voice rises, matching his intensity. "Mateo is my best friend's brother. Do you hear me? Brother! And I'm not going to let you ruin his life because of some baseless, jealous accusation."

He shrugs nonchalantly, like my words mean nothing. "Why does it matter if I fire him then? He can go back to the States, find another job, and your friend will get over it. And you, my so-called cheating wife, will just have to stay quiet about it. We'll discuss your punishment later."

I gasp, feeling the venom in his words hit me square in the chest. Without thinking, I close the gap between us and slap him hard across the face. The sound of it cuts through the tension, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.

"My parents raised me better than this!" I shout, trembling with rage. "They taught me loyalty, respect, and integrity. So to have you—a man who claims to be my husband—call me a cheater? That's low, even for you, August! And I won't stand here and let you spew this garbage like it's the truth. I may hate you, but I have never betrayed you."

His expression twists into something darker, more dangerous. He stands abruptly, towering over me, and grabs my wrist with such force that pain shoots through my arm. I can already feel the bruise forming.

"What the hell do you think you are?!" he growls, his grip tightening as his face inches closer to mine. His fury radiates off him, but I refuse to flinch. I refuse to give him that satisfaction.

I stare back, defiance burning in my eyes, my heart pounding like a drum. "I'm someone who's done taking your crap, August," I spit out. "Let go of me. Now."

"Who do you think you are, talking to me like this?" he spits, his voice venomous. "I am your king, Leah. I demand respect."

I glare at him, fire burning in my eyes. "My parents raised me better than to let a lowlife like you call me a cheater," I snap, each word dripping with defiance. "I am not a toy for you to play with, August. Fire Mateo, deport him back to the States, do whatever you want—but I promise you, the world will know what kind of 'king' you really are."

He shrugs casually, his expression devoid of humanity. "I'll kill him," he says as if it's the simplest solution in the world. "It's that easy."

My blood runs cold, but I stand firm, refusing to back down. "If you think I'll stay silent, you're dead wrong," I say through gritted teeth, trying to pull my wrist free from his crushing grip.

His lips curl into a chilling smile. "I'll kill you too, Leah," he says softly, almost mockingly. "And I'll tell the world you were sick. No one will question it."

"Because I am sick," I spit back, my voice trembling with emotion. "I'm sick of you, August. Sick of what you've turned my life into. And yes, I will die because of you."

"Stop your drama," he snaps, shoving me away with such force that I stumble. "Go back to your room and stay there. Do not let me see your face again."

I fall to the ground, the back of my head hitting the hard floor with a dull thud. Pain radiates through my skull, but I bite down the gasp threatening to escape. I lie there for a moment, disoriented, watching him return to his desk without a second glance.

He doesn't care. He doesn't even look back to see if I'm okay. His focus is already back on his computer, as if I'm nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

I can't help but wonder: is this how his father treated his mother? Did August grow up witnessing this same kind of cruelty, this same disregard for humanity? Is this why he's become the man standing before me now—a man who feels nothing, who thinks power is the same as respect?

Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Not here. Not now. I drag myself to my feet, the pain in my head a dull reminder of what I've endured, and of the fights that lies ahead.

I walk slowly out of the office, my steps heavy, my chest tight with a mix of anger and despair. The guards watch me, their eyes filled with concern, but I ignore them. Some of them even offer to escort me back to my room, but I shake my head, refusing their help. I don't want their pity. I don't want anyone to see me like this.

When I reach my room, I slip inside quietly and lock the door behind me. The moment the latch clicks, the tears come, unstoppable and raw. I lean against the door, sliding down until I'm sitting on the floor, my knees pulled to my chest.

August and I were never a match—not before this nightmare of a marriage, and certainly not now. We were forced into this, and any chance of finding a connection was buried under his controlling, suffocating ways. I know I'll survive this, but at what cost? I'm so tired. Tired of the fights, tired of the accusations, tired of the weight of it all.

Eventually, I pull myself up and shuffle into the bathroom. My reflection in the mirror looks as broken as I feel. I touch the back of my head gingerly, wincing as pain shoots through my skull. When I pull my hand back, my breath catches—there's blood.

This is new. August has hurt me before, but never like this. It's always been bruises on my wrists, his grip too tight in his moments of anger, but never blood. This feels like a line he's crossed, one that can't be undone.

The sight of it breaks something inside me, and I start crying harder, my shoulders shaking as I clutch the counter for support. I don't know what to do. I feel so helpless, so trapped.

I grab a towel and press it against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. My hands are trembling, but I manage to hold the towel in place until the blood slows.

When I finally gather the courage, I pick up my phone and text my doctor. I keep the message short and vague, asking them to come by and "take a look at something." I don't want to explain. I don't even know how to explain.

As I set my phone down, a heavy silence fills the room. I look around, at the walls that feel more like a cage than a home, and a thought settles deep in my chest: I can't do this anymore.

I don't want to be here. Not in this room. Not in this house. Not with August. I'm done pretending I can endure this. Something has to change—because if it doesn't, I don't think I'll survive much longer.