The Ruthless Heir

Erica’s [POV]

True to his word, Judge hasn’t touched me again. More weeks have passed. I don’t even know how long it’s been. How long ago was it that I even had a life of my own? In some ways, it feels like an eternity. In others, it feels like no time at all has passed.

As part of Judge’s program for keeping me at a distance, he seems to find ways to occupy my time. I still rise every morning to clean the stables, and he’s been letting me spend more time with the horses and dogs too. It seems as if slowly, he’s giving me more and more responsibility. Now, in addition to the stable duties, I’m also spending my days brushing the horses and helping with feedings, as well as walking the dogs.

I’ve been exploring the property, which is vast. Of course, one of the first things I did when I had the opportunity was to look for a way out, but it appears the entire grounds are gated. Not only that, but Judge has staff who lives on-site, and I’m fairly certain there’s a security system in place like there is for most Sovereign Sons. I would be a fool to believe otherwise.

In one of the old stone outbuildings, I found what appears to be a door at the back, and it caught my curiosity. I was tempted to go inside to see what was there, but I haven’t worked up the courage to do it yet. Every day, I keep telling myself that I will. But something has been holding me back, and I’m not entirely certain yet what it is.This content belongs to Nô/velDra/ma.Org .

My mood has improved since Judge has allowed me more freedom to roam, and I spend my days doing physical activity. I missed it. I miss my friends and my aerial classes, and I want to ask Judge when I can see them. But that would require him grunting more than one word to me. Or even really looking at me, for that matter.

When I’m not outside, I’ve taken to wandering the house. Miriam is still always lurking around what feels like every corner, but she’s not as involved in my day-to-day life anymore, and that’s one small thing I can be grateful for. I eat my meals with Lois and the hounds. And then, in the afternoons, I sit down at the piano and play.

When Judge first told me I was to resume my piano practice, I was ready to hurl the music sheets right at his head. I hadn’t played since my father and brother died in the explosion that rocked our family to its core. That event was the result of the Moreno family’s scheming, an event Santiago swore we would avenge when he married Ivy Moreno. But instead of the revenge I was promised, I was given a front-row seat to my brother’s infatuation with the woman he vowed he would destroy. He seems to have forgotten all about how our father and brother died, and the grief that stole our mother shortly after. Almost overnight, our lives changed drastically. For so long, I felt like I was drowning in that grief because it was the right thing to do. And for Leandro and my mother, that was true. But there was another part of me. The one that felt… slightly relieved when my father was gone.

It’s a messy type of love when you still care about the person who hurt you the most. Biologically, we’re programmed to love our parents. We depend on them to nurture us, but when that system fails, it doesn’t alter the needs you have as a child. You still crave their protection. Their love. Even when they are the ones to harm you.

My father was the one who insisted I play the piano every day. For hours upon hours, he was merciless in his directives that I perfect this skill. It was the one talent I seemed to possess naturally, and he homed in on it, deciding this would be the thing that made me stand out from all the other Society daughters. I was only a child when he treated it as if it were a full-time job. He would force me to play until my fingers blistered and bled. And if I ever dared to resist, I was whipped, paddled, or caned. Beatings weren’t uncommon in the De La Rosa manor, and sometimes, it felt as if there didn’t need to be a reason to justify them. It was simply that children needed to be put in their place.

Leandro and Santiago tried to protect me as often as they could. But, like me, their schedules were busy. Sometimes, they were away at school, and I was left alone to fend for myself. It was during one of these times that I worked up the courage to tell my father I no longer wished to play the piano at all. What a foolish notion that was. My ten-year-old brain was too immature to understand the consequences of such bravado. Yet I went to him, prepared to plead my case and stand my ground, the way I had seen my brothers often do.

I walked into his study when he was drunk one night. That was my first mistake. I thought perhaps it would work in my favor. He might agree to my request in his inebriated state, and then there could be no going back on it.

I sat down across from the man who was supposed to love and protect me, and I recited the speech I’d prepared, complete with an array of alternative skills I could spend my time perfecting. Dance was my favorite, I told him. He laughed as if it was ridiculous and told me to go away, but I didn’t. I went on to beg him the way I knew I shouldn’t. I told him piano wasn’t fun anymore. He had made it not fun anymore.

I’ll never forget the look in his eyes when he rose from his seat that night. Like a demon straight from the depths of hell. He asked me if I thought anything worth doing was fun. Of course, I didn’t know how to answer that. I told him about the other girls in my class who spent their time doing fun things. He snarled and said I wasn’t like the other girls. I was a De La Rosa, and I needed to live up to the name. Somehow, even then, I knew that I never would. Nothing I did could ever please my father. Nothing would ever be good enough.

My second mistake was trying to pursue my argument, determined to show him that I was a De La Rosa because I wouldn’t back down. I didn’t doubt I’d be punished for it. I was always punished for speaking my mind. For being too willful. For just existing. But that night, when my father dragged me to the chapel and took out his instruments of torture, something was different. He hit me harder than I expected with the belt right from the start, and I did the one thing I was never, ever supposed to do.

I cried. It only fueled his rage. He hit me again, harder yet, screaming at me not to be weak. But as much as I tried, I couldn’t hold back the tears that time. I couldn’t understand why it was okay for the boys to stand up for themselves but not the girls. I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t free to choose my path in life, and my only reason for existing was to be the talented doll of a wife to a Sovereign Son someday.

I had dreams, and at that moment, they all shattered because I knew they’d never come true. Whatever innocence may have existed in me died that night. Beneath the weight of my father’s wrath, I quickly came to understand my role in life. I came to understand that I was nothing more than a decorative chess piece for him to control. To move around the board as he pleased.

I mourned for the loss of the things I wanted, and he beat me savagely for it. For every tear I shed, he returned it with the crack of his belt so violently, it split my skin and flayed me wide open. But that didn’t stop him. It only seemed to make him angrier, as if I should show such a weakness. As if a De La Rosa could ever bleed.

By the time he finished, I couldn’t move. He left me sobbing on the floor of the chapel, too broken to ever be whole again. Antonia was the one who found me, and I was grateful for it. She cleaned my wounds, stitched me up, and tended to me for weeks while I recovered. During that time, my father took my mother to Barcelona so she wouldn’t see what he had done. My brothers were away at school, and when they returned, they’d be none the wiser. The implication was clear. My father never explicitly told me not to say anything, but then he didn’t have to. If I had, that would have proven how weak I was.