"He's Velvet Ruin"

I was only fifteen when my innocence was stolen, leaving me to face life's cruel truths far too soon. My father had left when I was just seven, and after that, my mother sought stability and security through a new marriage. But her attention was consumed by caring for my step-siblings, leaving me feeling invisible and neglected.

My stepfather's cruelty traumatized me so deeply that I developed a burning hatred for men-resenting even the fact that they breathed. By the time I was seventeen, I couldn't take it anymore. I ran away from home and was forced into a wayward lifestyle. My beauty and kindness sometimes opened doors for me, but most nights I went to bed hungry, crying myself to sleep.

"If only my dad hadn't left," I whispered into the darkness of the damp little room I called home, my voice trembling. My fingers toyed with the frayed edge of a thin blanket as I stared at the cracked ceiling. That thought haunted me from childhood: the dream of a different version of myself-a girl with a father who protected her, a family who cared, and a life that wasn't an endless storm. But reality had never been kind.

When my father walked out, everything changed. My mother's love drifted toward my step-siblings, leaving me to fend for myself. My stepfather's cruelty cemented my mistrust of men, and the streets only deepened it. Survival had pushed me into choices I hated, ones I would never have made if I'd had another way.

By the time I turned nineteen, I was desperate to escape the streets and find something more respectable. I no longer wanted to sell pieces of my soul just to survive. After weeks of searching, I heard through a neighbor about a cleaning job in a wealthy man's mansion. The pay was modest compared to the grandeur of the house, but it was more than I'd ever earned-and it felt like a chance to start over.

The mansion was breathtaking. Marble floors gleamed under the chandeliers, and the air smelled of expensive cologne and polished wood. I felt so small standing in the massive foyer, clutching my bag to my chest. My employer, Mr. Davenport, was a man in his late fifties, always dressed in tailored suits, a gold watch flashing at his wrist. He smiled kindly-or so it seemed-but something in his eyes made me wary.

For weeks, I scrubbed floors, polished silver, and dusted paintings worth more than everything I had ever owned. The work was exhausting, but I didn't complain. The quiet was better than the chaos I was used to, and for a while, I believed things might finally be shifting.

But the calm didn't last.

One evening, when most of the staff had gone home, Mr. Davenport called me into his study. The room smelled faintly of whiskey, shadows curling in the dim light.

"You've been doing good work," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I notice these things."

I