TW: Child Sexual Abuse, Sudden Death, Betrayal
The office smelled of polished oak and old men's cologne, the kind that clung like a promise of safety it never kept. Zena Curt, seven years old and already too tall for her starched pinafore, perched on the edge of a leather armchair in the antechamber.
Her small hands twisted the hem of her dress, fingers tracing the lace her mother had sewn, tiny stars, because Zena was supposed to be one. Dutiful. Perfect. The egg everyone cherished.
Inside the president's suite, voices rose like storm clouds. She heard her Mom's first, sharp as shattered glass: "You filth. She is seven! My daughter...our daughter...and you dare!" Zena's breath hitched.
She shouldn't listen. Good girls didn't eavesdrop. But the door was ajar, a sliver of light spilling accusation and fear.
Her dad's murmur slithered next, oily and pleading: "Darling, it's not... He was just playing. Rough, maybe, but powerful men play like that. For the family's sake..."Playing???" Her mom's voice cut him short, cracked, wet with tears, Zena could almost taste.....
"I saw the bruises, Richard. The way she flinches from your hugs now. And you knew!. You told her it was a joke. God... you sold her for a desk in this hellhole!"
The president's voice cut through, smooth as venom: "Hysteria doesn't suit you, Elena. You have always been the fragile one. Accidents happen to women who push too hard."
Then a shuffle ensued, then a gasp...then the thud. Wet, final, like a dropped melon splitting on tile.
Zena's world tilted. She pressed her eye to the crack and saw her mom, Elena, crumpled, blood blooming from her temple like a dark flower. Her dad was frozen with his hand half-outstretched.
The president straightened his tie, unhurried and said, "Call the medic. Tell the news, it's overwork stress, quite tragic, I may say, but these things pass."
Her dad, James, nodded like he was a puppet and went to make the call.
Zena slid to the floor, silent as a shadow. No scream. Screams were for girls who had not learned duty yet.
She was the only child...no, wait. Elena had just rushed there from the hospital, where she had given birth to a daughter, Summer Curt, who was still tucked safe in a hospital crib miles away.
Zena did not know how she left the President's office and got to the hospital. The funeral was a blur of black veils and murmured condolences.
James collected Summer from the hospital, a squirming bundle of pink cheeks and trusting gurgles, handed over like a consolation prize. "Mom would want you to watch over her", he whispered, eyes red but averted.
Zena nodded, cradling the baby against her chest, inhaling the milky scent that almost drowned out the phantom reek of the president's study.
James's promotion came the next week, sealed with a handshake from the man who had painted Elena's death in official ink: "Exhaustion from the pregnancy strain." He moved them to a bigger house, edges softened with new carpets and a nanny for Summer.
Two weeks later, James took Zena to the president's house. She went. Duty demanded it.
The first night, the lock clicked from outside. "My cherished one," he cooed, hands heavy on her shoulders, then lower, mapping the shell he had cracked. Pain bloomed fresh, but Zena bit her lip bloody, eyes on the ceiling's gold trim. Count the swirls: One, two, three... Silence was the only weapon a seven-year-old had against gods in suits...