Amira felt arousal flood through her when he pulled her hair to the side and took her from behind, slowly while kissing her neck, in the hotel room they'd occupied for three days straight. He'd left the lights on deliberately and positioned her against the floor-to-ceiling hotel window overlooking Fifth Avenue.
Anyone in the building across who looked closely enough would see her, breasts pressed against the glass, her face a mask of pleasure. The taboo of it, the exposure, the recklessness, and the way he owned her in that moment made her explode. Afterward, he wrapped her in the hotel robe and ordered champagne and strawberries, feeding them to her while they watched the sunrise.
He compensated her with gifts and money, jewelry from Cartier, and vacations to Santorini, where they stayed in villas with infinity pools. He took her to all those exclusive parties that she could never dream of getting into, charity galas where she rubbed elbows with celebrities, and opening nights where photographers snapped her picture.
He left little notes in her purse: "Wear those diamonds and the red heels I got you and nothing else." Lovemaking with him was spontaneous once in his car in the parking garage of his office building and once in the private room of a Michelin-starred restaurant. She drove in luxury cars and wore dresses that cost more than her mother's monthly salary, and she was happy. Contented, even.
Until she wasn't. The first time she caught him with another woman, a brunette in the bathroom at a fundraiser, his hand up her skirt, he'd smiled at Amira like it was a joke they were both in on. She'd turned and walked away, her heels clicking on marble, and pretended she hadn't seen.
When he came to bed that night smelling of unfamiliar perfume, she pretended not to notice, she expected his apology anything but he only turned around and went to bed, she began doubting her own sanity wondering maybe she hallucinated the whole thing or maybe he had a look alike but he she did not confront him about it afraid she would only annoy him least she pushed him further away.
when he degraded her, calling her his "beautiful whore" in front of his friends and introducing her as "the entertainment," she convinced herself she'd misheard, that it was her fault for being too sensitive, anything not to mess up her relationship.
Six months into the relationship, her mother invited her to dinner. Amira almost said no; she'd been avoiding the house, making excuses, but something in her mother's voice made her agree.
The table was set with her mother's good china, the kind they only used for holidays. Roast chicken, garlic potatoes, and green beans. Her mother had cooked her favorites. Amira felt a twinge of something she refused to name.
Halfway through the meal, her mother set down her fork. "Amira, I don't like this boy you're seeing."
Amira's hand froze on her wine glass.
"Yes, he's from a very rich and powerful family. You may have tried to keep your relationship with him secret but people talk. I may be old, but I'm not stupid; I've heard rumors. He would only hurt you, baby. Men like him are way above our class. I don't want to see you hurt or heartbroken."
Her mother's voice cracked on the last word. There were tears in her eyes.
Something hot and poisonous rose in Amira's throat. How dare she. How dare her mother, who'd never had anything, who'd worked herself nearly into an early grave at that factory and then farm, who'd never understood ambition, how dare she try to sabotage this?
She had no idea how much she had plotted , the sacrifices she had made to get to where she was and the price she was still paying to hang on to her man.
"Mother," Amira's began her tone ice , her hands gripped the spoon until her knuckles whitened, "this is why I never let you know anything about me. Because you are a bitter, sick person."
Her mother flinched as if slapped.
"You are horrible and would do anything to destroy my happiness.
I love Daniel Pearson, and he loves me too."
Did he? She pushed the thought away.
"I don't know why you cannot be happy for me. Do you know what I hear about you? That you're a witch who destroys everything. Do I confront you about it?
No."
"Amira—"
"Any mother would be proud that her daughter was able to secure such a catch without money, but you, you only criticize and hold onto your silly morals that have taken you nowhere."
She stood, the chair scraping against the floor. "You know what? I'm moving out. I cannot stand you."
She stormed to her room, the same room where she'd slept since childhood, the walls still bearing the Blu-Tack marks from posters of boy bands she'd once loved. She grabbed things blindly: clothes, makeup, and her laptop. After eighteen years in this house, she could fit her life into two suitcases.
Sarah stood at the table, one hand pressed to her mouth, the other gripping the chair for support. Tears rolled down her face, cutting through the makeup she'd carefully applied for this dinner. She'd practiced what she would say and how she would say it. She'd known it would go badly, but she'd had to try. She couldn't just watch her daughter destroy herself.
"That's not true," she whispered. "None of that is true. I love you."
But Amira was already dragging her suitcases down the hall.
Her mother begged, ran after her to the front door, and grabbed her arm. "Amira, please. I'm sorry if I said it wrong. I just—I can't lose you. You're all I have."
Amira shook her off, violently enough that her mother stumbled against the doorframe.
"Mother, I am eighteen now, and I don't have to listen or put up with you, you lost me the moment you asked me to give up my relationship, if you cared enough to notice you would have realized how much Daniel means to me. Don't ever talk to me again."
"The words came out cold and practiced, like dialogue from a script".
Sarah's face crumpled. She looked suddenly old, frail, and breakable. Amira looked away.
She jumped into the waiting car Daniel had provided a black Mercedes with leather seats and a driver named Thomas who never made eye contact. Daniel had always hated her home, refused to visit it, and felt it was too "tacky" for him. His nose wrinkled in disgust each time she mentioned him coming to see her, like she'd suggested dinner at a gas station.
Thomas pulled away from the curb. In the side mirror, Amira could see her mother standing on the porch in her apron, one hand raised as if waving goodbye. Or trying to stop her. Amira looked away and checked her phone.
Fifteen texts from Daniel: "Where are you?" "You better be on your way." "I'm waiting."
Her mother disappeared from the mirror.
Her thought drifted to her relationship with Daniel, They'd been dating for six months. She'd wanted them to meet each other's parents and had imagined dinners where his father would be charmed by her and where his mother would see her as the perfect match for her son. But Daniel always came up with excuses.
"Father's traveling."
"Mother has a migraine."
"It's not the right time."
When she threw tantrums about him making things official with her appearing together at his family's events, meeting his parents, and changing her relationship status, he told her to calm down and stroked her hair like she was a child.
"There's enough time for all that, baby. Why rush perfection?"
And she'd relented because she had no choice. Because she'd burned her only bridge, home. Because the alternative was admitting her mother had been right.
The car pulled up to Daniel's penthouse. She looked at her reflection in the darkened window: designer dress, perfect hair, empty eyes. She looked like everything she'd ever wanted to be.
She looked like a stranger, frozen and numb and she was unhappy but satisfied.
Thomas opened her door. She stepped out into her new life.