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—𝟎𝟎𝟑.- ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴏᴏ ʙᴀᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ꜱᴘʏ—

̶S̶e̶r̶a̶p̶h̶i̶n̶a̶

𝑺𝒐𝒇𝒊𝒂 ☄

𝟏𝟐 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒈𝒐

        I'm sitting on the floor, my legs crossed and my arms hugging my knees, staring at the cracks in the wall. It's the kind of crack that looks like a little mouth, always open, ready to say something but never does. I wonder what a wall would say if it could talk.

I don't really feel like playing today.

I stare at the door, the wooden door that's always shut, but I can still hear the noises from the other side. Mama's voice, soft but sharp, calling out in that way when she's too tired to be happy. I peek over at her, standing at the sink. She's washing dishes, but her hands are moving slowly, like they're too tired to do anything fast. Her sleeves are rolled up, but her arms look thin. When I look at her, I wonder how her hands can be so small, yet they carry so many things. "C'est bon, ma petite, regarde bien ton frère," (It's okay, my little one, look after your brother).

The sounds of the clink of the dishes mix with the noises from the other room, where the angry man is talking. The man with the money.

I don't like him. He comes to the house a lot. Well, it's his house, but still, I don't like him at all. He's big and loud and smells like cigarettes. He always screams at me when he's drunk. He looks at Mama funny, like when he talks to her, she's not really a person, just something to get things for him. And I don't like it. Not one bit.

I look at my little brother, Nico. He's on the rug, all chubby and small, playing with the toy Mama bought for him. He giggles when it makes noise, and I smile at him because he doesn't know what's going on. He's still just a baby, so he doesn't understand how everything feels different when there's someone with money around.

I wish the bad people hadn't taken dad with them. Maybe now we could still have a house. Maybe, mom wouldn't have to work as a maid for people with money.

Maybe we would still need money, but we would be together, again.

My birthday is next week and I'm so excited to ask for my wish: for us to have money.

A lot.

I don't care how much.

Like 100.

Maybe then we could be important too.

I don't understand it either, but I can feel it. The way people look at Mama, the way they make her do things for them because they have money. She has to smile at them, even when she doesn't want to. She has to act like she's happy to clean their floors, wash their clothes, and pick up their dirty dishes. And I watch her, standing in the kitchen with the sink full of dirty dishes, and I can tell she's tired. Her shoulders are slumped, and her hands move like they've done this a thousand times before.

"Viens ici, Sofia," (Come here, Sofia) Mama calls. I don't want to go, but I do because she needs me. She always needs me. She's always busy with Nico or the house, but I don't mind helping her. I'm the big girl now. I have to be strong, just like Mama.

I shuffle over to the kitchen, my bare feet cold on the floor. "Oui, Mama?" (Yes, Mama?) I ask quietly, looking up at her. She's holding a cloth, wiping the counter again, even though it looks like she's already done it ten times.

She doesn't look at me, not really. She just says, "Tiens ça pour moi, s'il te plaît." (Hold this for me, please.) And I do, even though I don't want to. I don't want to be the one who always has to do everything for everyone. I'm only six, but I feel like I'm already a grown-up, cleaning and helping and trying to make things right, even when everything feels wrong.

Then, the angry man calls from the other room. "Hé, elle est prête, ta fille ?" (Hey, is your daughter ready?) His voice is loud and rough. I don't like the way it makes my stomach feel funny. Mama doesn't answer right away, but I know she's thinking about it. I see her shoulders tense up, like she knows what's coming.

I want to hide, but I don't. I stay close to Mama, watching her face. I don't want her to leave, but I know she will. She always does. She'll go into the other room, and the man will talk to her. He'll tell her she has to do something for him, and she'll have to do it because "that's why he hired her", he always says.

She looks at me then, her face soft, but her eyes are sad. She doesn't smile, but she pats my head. "Va jouer avec Nicolás, chérie," (Go play with Nicolás, darling) she says. And I know that means she has to go. She has to do whatever he says.

I don't like it. I don't like how she has to go into that room and talk to him. I don't like how she doesn't have a choice. I don't like how he looks at her like she's just something to give him things, something to clean up after him.

My Mama is very smart and very strong, she can do anything she wants.

I grab Nico's toy and try to play with him, but I can't. I'm not really playing. I'm just pretending. I watch Mama walk out of the kitchen, her back straight, but I can see it. I can see how she's trying to act like everything's fine, like she's not tired, like she's not mad. But I know better. I know it's not fine.

I hate it. I hate how she always has to say yes, even when she doesn't want to. I hate how she has to smile when she's asked to do things she doesn't like. I hate how people think they can make her do whatever they want just because they have money.

And then it happens. I see it. Mama comes back, her face pale. She's holding a piece of paper, the one he gave her. She tries to act like it's not a big deal, but I know it is. I can see it in the way her hands shake as she folds it. I can see it in the way she avoids my eyes.

I want to ask her what it is. I want to ask her why she's sad, but I don't. I can't. I don't want to know. I don't want to know that she has to do something for him again, something she doesn't want to do.

But I can feel it. I can feel how the world is too big, too heavy, and I don't want to carry it. I don't want to be the one who has to do everything. I don't want to be like Mama.

I hate this house. I hate that people treat her like this. I hate that she has to serve and serve, always giving, always cleaning, always making things right for everyone else. But no one ever does it for her.

I hate it. I hate it so much.

ೃ⁀➷

     "𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐃𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍 𝐁𝐘 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐓?" I shout, my voice echoing through the service room. The words hang in the air like a bad taste in my mouth, but I can't stop myself. This is too much.

Aya is frantically trying to shush me, waving her hands in panic. "Keep it down! Are you trying to get us all in trouble?", she hisses. 

Trouble? I'm already in trouble. This is beyond trouble. This is humiliation served on a silver platter. 

Meanwhile, Zahara is staring daggers at me, her arms crossed so tightly it looks like she's restraining herself from lunging at me. I swear I can almost see the mental PowerPoint presentation she's prepared titled: 101 Ways to Kill Seraphina and Get Away With It.

"Wallah inti ghabiya!" Zahara spits, her tone venomous, her glare even sharper. (I swear, you're stupid!) "Inti majnuna? Tareen yqatluna kiliyatna bsbbik?!" Zahara growls, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. (Are you insane? You want them to kill all of us because of you?!)

Aya winces, her face pale as she translates. "Zahara says...um...you're going to get us all killed."

"I'm not going to get anyone killed!" I snap, but the words feel hollow, even to me. 

"Shakli ma mistaqilat shinu sawwayti, inti!?" Zahara spits out, her tone loaded with venom. (It's like you don't even realize what you've done, do you!? )

Aya winces and shoots me a nervous glance before reluctantly translating. "Zahara says you... don't realize what you've done."

"I know exactly what I've done!" I snap, pacing in a tight circle. "I accidentally walked into his room, thought he was an intruder, and—oh, I don't know—told him to get lost! I did what she told us to do! Like any normal person would do when they find a stranger lounging around like he owns the place!" I pause, narrowing my eyes. I really should calm down, it's not that serious. "Except, of course, he does own the place, and now he's decided to demote me to personal servant instead of firing slash killing me. Isn't that just wonderful?"

Zahara's glare could cut glass. "Halwa? Inti tisawi halwa? Mu halwa lama kanat b'kullina halha ba3ad!" (Funny? You think this is funny? It wasn't funny when you almost ruined everything for all of us!)

Aya takes a deep breath before translating. "She says it wasn't funny when you almost got us all fired. And, uh... you're making it worse by yelling. She didn't say that last part, but I do."

"I'm not yelling," I snap, then immediately realize I am, in fact, yelling. Lowering my voice—barely—I mutter, "It's not like I did this on purpose."

Zahara raises her eyebrows, her expression dripping with disbelief. "La, bas inti lazem tfakkireen shwaya qabl ma tsaween ay shay thanya!" (No, but maybe you should think a little before you act next time!)

Aya bites her lip. "She's saying...um...maybe you should think before you do things."

I am quite tired of all of this, so I sit down and face the wall. This is unbelievable. And I was thinking that it couldn't get any worse. Zahara is mumbling something that Aya decides it's best not to translate. 

Aya is looking at me, her brow creasing in confusion. "Seraphina, why are you so upset? I mean...you'll have to do the same job that you do now, with the only difference that you'll work only for him. What's the big deal about it?"

The question catches me off guard, and for a moment, I don't know what to say. Aya's expression is earnest, and she's genuinely trying to understand. Because to her, this isn't the worst thing in the world. It's just a job. 

I stare at her, words catching in my throat. How do I explain it? How do I make her understand without giving myself away? I press my palms into my thighs, trying to ground myself, trying to stay calm. But the truth is, I can't find the words that don't make me sound ungrateful or suspicious.

Aya tilts her head, her confusion deepening. "I mean, Zahara's right. It's not like you're being sent away or...you know, worse." Her voice drops to a whisper, and she glances around, as if the walls might hear her. "This could have been much worse, Seraphina. You should feel lucky."

Lucky. The word makes my jaw tighten. I'm lucky to be treated like dirt in a house full of people who think we're less than human. Lucky to be thrown into the personal service of a man who holds so much power that my life is literally a plaything in his hands.

I want to scream. Instead, I take a deep breath and force my voice to stay calm. "It's not about the work itself," I say, carefully.

Aya's brow furrows, and she exchanges a glance with Zahara, who, predictably, rolls her eyes and mutters something in Arabic. "Shnu dhal maskhara? Mitwahma nitkhayil haalha ahsan min aghlana." (What nonsense is this? She thinks she's better than the rest of us.)

Aya hesitates, her lips pressing into a thin line, before she decides not to translate that part. Probably for the best.

For a moment, I imagine myself back in his room, the way his eyes scanned me, not with anger—no, anger would've been easier to deal with—but with something...I don't know, calculating.

Why keep me closer? Why, after what I did—after bursting into his room, yelling at him, and demanding he leave—did he not just fire me on the spot? Or worse, have me dragged out and dealt with the way people in this house know how to deal with problems? It doesn't make sense.

Unless...

Unless this is the punishment.

My chest tightens at the thought. He could make my life hell without ever raising his voice. A man like him doesn't need to yell or threaten. He just needs to watch, to wait, to set the trap and let me walk right into it.

Aya is still waiting for an answer, but what am I supposed to say? That I think this is his twisted way of punishing me? That every single nerve in my body is screaming at me to run?

I can't say any of that. Not to Aya, who's just trying to keep the peace. And certainly not in front of Zahara, who already hates my guts and would love nothing more than to report me for "acting suspicious."

"I'm upset because it doesn't make sense," I say finally, my voice quieter now but still tinged with frustration. "After what I did, why would he want to keep me closer? Why not fire me? Or...or I don't know, worse?"

Aya's eyes widen slightly, and she glances nervously at the door, as if afraid someone might overhear. "Maybe he's... being merciful?" she offers weakly, but even she doesn't sound convinced.

Zahara, however, doesn't hold back. "Hadha aghba shay sma'athu. Hatha rajul yatarahham ala ahad?" (Merciful? That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. That man doesn't show mercy to anyone.)

Aya sighs and translates reluctantly. "She says...mercy isn't exactly his style."

"No kidding," I mutter, running a hand through my hair.

Zahara steps forward, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "Tughlaqi famik wah tusma'i jadma t'quli lahu. La taja'li hadha aswa' lil jami'." (Keep your mouth shut and do exactly what he says. Don't make this worse for all of us.)

"She's saying you should just... keep your head down and do what he asks," Aya explains softly. "For everyone's sake."

I glance at Zahara, whose glare could cut glass, and I know she means every word. She's not just angry—she's terrified. Because if I mess up again, it's not just my neck on the line. It's hers. It's Aya's. It's everyone's.

"I get it," I say, my voice clipped. "I won't mess this up."

Zahara narrows her eyes at me, clearly unconvinced. "Nshuf. " (We'll see.)

"She...wishes you ehm, luck."

Right.

The room falls silent again, and I try to steady my breathing. I can't afford to panic. I can't afford to let them see how scared I really am. But inside, my thoughts are spiraling.

I think about the way he looked at me. The way he didn't fire me, didn't yell, didn't do anything I expected him to do. Instead, he just smiled—a slow, deliberate smile that sent chills down my spine—and I then left, leaving my destiny in his hands.

This isn't mercy. It's something else entirely.

And the worst part? I have no idea what his endgame is.

Aya reaches out and touches my arm gently, pulling me out of my thoughts. "You'll be okay," she says quietly. "Just...stay calm. Don't overthink it."

I nod, forcing a weak smile. "Thanks, Aya."

She smiles back, but her eyes are still worried.

Zahara mutters something else under her breath before stalking out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Aya sighs and stands, brushing off her apron. "Come on," she says. "We should get back to work. You've got... well, you've got him to deal with now."

My stomach churns at the thought, but I force myself to stand. Because at the end of the day, it doesn't matter how scared I am or how much I hate this. I have a mission to complete.

There are punishments that are painful. Punishments that are humiliating. And then there's this. Being his personal servant? I'd take a thousand lashes, a week without food, even scrubbing Zahara's floors with a toothbrush over this. At least those punishments are straightforward. Clear. They're designed to hurt, and then it's over.

But this? This is something else entirely.

I'm still thinking about the absurdity of it all as I stand in front of his office door, my fists clenched at my sides. The polished wood gleams under the light, and my reflection stares back at me—jaw tight, lips pressed into a thin line, and eyes that would rather burn the whole place down than walk through this door.

But I have no choice.

The door swings open before I can knock, and there he is. Haider Ibrahim, leaning casually against the frame, a slow, amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth like he's been waiting for this moment his whole life. I want to punch him in his perfect face. 

"Ah, here you are, Seraphina," he says, dragging out the name like it's some kind of private joke. "Come in. I've been waiting for you."

I swallow hard, forcing my feet to move as he steps aside to let me in.

The room is as pristine and intimidating as the man himself. A massive desk dominates the space, flanked by bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes that I doubt he's ever read. Karim is already seated at the desk, flipping through a thick stack of papers. He spares me a brief glance before returning to his work, but his tight expression tells me enough: he's not thrilled about my presence here either.

Haider closes the door behind me with a soft click, and I suddenly feel like a mouse trapped in a cage.

"Sit," he says, gesturing to the chair across from Karim. 

For a moment, he just looks at me, his smile widening. I sit down, forcing myself to keep my back straight and my hands folded neatly in my lap. Haider doesn't sit immediately. Instead, he picks up a sheet of paper from the desk and hands it to me with a smirk.

"This is your new schedule," he says, his tone infuriatingly casual.

I glance down at the paper, and my stomach drops. It's a list. A very, very long list.

Daily Responsibilities:

-Wake at 5:30 AM to prepare tea to exact specifications (strong, no sugar, served at precisely 85°C). Tea must be ready and delivered by 6:00 AM without delay.

-Ensure formal and casual clothing are pressed, folded, and arranged in the wardrobe in order of color and occasion. Missing any detail is unacceptable.

-Prepare daily schedule, accounting for meetings, appearances, and unscheduled interruptions. Provide updates every hour.

-Keep office spotless at all times. Dust must not collect on any surface. Books and files must