ILLICIT DESIRES | 18 +

Chapter 5

RITA

I Feel Like A Product. On Display. For Sale.

Being open-minded, I wanted to understand my father's mindset better. My father, dedicating his life to business, had me decide to study economics instead of ecology — my passion.

And it really helped me decipher his tactical mindset of growth: He sees me as a product. He invested in me. Now, he wants to amortize his investment in me with Nicolai.

In the words of Mother Nature: He only harvested me as a Plan B, in case my brother decayed, which he did.

Subsequently, he decided to exert my beauty to draw the strongest hand to pluck me from home, instead of using the knowledge I acquired about business.

"I just wanted to know what she looks like," he murmurs, his voice low and almost casual, as if he views me like a product — making me wonder if he wants to put me on trial as well.

"I already sent you a picture, didn't I?" My father snaps, annoyance thick in his tone, not liking that Nicolai is judging his offer consisting of me — his daughter.

"You did," Nicolai hums, nodding slowly, his fingers tapping on the headrest of my seat. "But technology is advanced, you know? She could be photogenic, and I don't want to marry a tramp."

"And?" My father's voice cuts through the air, thickening the tension with his frustration, his temper poised to dash out. "Are you satisfied with what you see?"

"I am. She's beautiful. Flawless to the eye. But I need to know if she's rotten on the inside," he replies, elucidating his doubts with his head tilted to the side.

His hand moves to his jacket, and my heart skips a beat as he draws a small metallic object from his coat — a needle. He wants to needle me to see if I am still pure? I gulp. My mind drifts back in time. Can a kiss of gratitude rot me?

"I want a blood sample," he brusquely states his intentions, his words slicing through the air with cold precision. "To have her checked... to make sure she doesn't have any diseases."

I freeze. My blood runs cold. Not only because I am scared the kiss of gratitude was rotten, but also because needles are my foe — I have a phobia.

"And you couldn't ask me about it first?" My father asks, maddened, his hands on his hips like he's trying to hold himself together.

Yet, Nicolai disregards my father's thinning patience and steps toward me, the syringe in his hand ominously scary.

"No," he says, his jaw clenched, his main focus on me, as he shakes his head. "I don't trust anyone. And I don't want your contagious daughter — just in case she didn't manage to keep her legs closed."

His fingers curl around my arm, firm and rigid. I want to scream. I want to tear myself from his grip. But I can't. I submit to his peremptory ways of humiliation.

Besides, my father's admonition is still vivid in my mind. He warned me to behave. And so, without question, I yield. My arm trembles, as every second I feel more mortified by the ongoing indignity.

I squeeze my eyes shut, instinctively turning my head away, as though I cannot escape the sharp sting of the needle that will follow soon. I despise it—the cold, intrusive feeling of the metallic peak pricking my skin.

Suddenly, my arm jerks, pulling away. It isn't me. It's as though my mind has betrayed my body, deciding for me. But then, my arm is moved against my will once more. And I don't feel the sting of the needle.

So, I open my eyes, and I see my father — his grip firm as he pulls my arm away from Nicolai who had just called me a hussy. Then, my father stands before me, shielding me.