My father sold me to the Mafia King novel Chapter 12

Chapter 12: 12/Bottom Formalities

Chapter Twelve:

Julie’s Point of View

The thing that haunted me most in this gilded prison, and what irritated my nerves the most, was that deadly temporal void; for there is nothing harder on a person than being ignorant of time.

I am that person who used to chase the hands of the clock with her eyes, and now I find myself lost in a time that has no features.

I rose from the bed restlessly and began to pace the room back and forth with agitated steps, as if I were trying to escape from its walls that were closing in on me.

I forced myself not to think about the bars of this prison, and more importantly, I was desperately trying to curb my mind so it wouldn’t drown in the well of cursed memories; for retrieving the past in a place like this is nothing but a slow suicide.

I began to rummage through the corners of the room, searching for a book or any piece of paper to rescue me from the claws of this lethal void, but it seems this room was carefully designed for girls who do not read; girls intended to be mere silent dolls without minds, occupied by nothing but the reflection of their images in the mirrors.

With anxious steps, I paced the room thinking about my life that had suddenly stopped.

I, the eighteen-year-old daughter who defeated time and skipped two academic grades to find myself in the third year of the College of Economics... I was only one year away from my dream; one year to graduate and prove my intelligence to the world, but now I am studying the laws of the prison instead of the laws of the market.

I sat on the edge of the bed and closed my eyes, trying to recall the "Strategic Management" lessons I used to devour at the university.

The professor always said: "If you want to defeat an opponent stronger than you, you must first understand his business model."

I opened my eyes and looked around the room coldly; Robert is not just a man, he runs a system that depends on "supply and demand.

" He sees me as (high-quality merchandise), and rebellion to him is a (product defect) that reduces its market value

.

Therefore, my weapon is not screaming, but "raising my cost." I will make obtaining my submission something so expensive and difficult that he will be forced to negotiate with me as a partner, not as a slave.

I skipped two grades because I understand how the game is played, and it’s time to prove to Robert that the intelligence of an eighteen-year-old girl might spoil his biggest deals.

I scoffed bitterly when I remembered my father, that man who never once bothered to know what educational stage I had reached.

He was so drowned in his debts and filth that he didn’t notice that his "burden" of a daughter had skipped two grades with her intelligence, and that she was on the verge of graduating from the College of Economics while he thought I was still a dull high school student.

To him, I was just an insurance bond, a piece of precious furniture he would sell at the right time.

He didn’t realize that he didn’t just sell Robert a beautiful body, but sold him a mind that was planning to manage major corporations, and now all that planning will be directed toward destroying this cage and the one who built it.

My father’s ignorance of my abilities is the first thread of my survival; for your enemy who underestimates you is the first to fall before you.

After hours of stagnation, the hateful screech of wheels was heard again; the "cook" had come dragging the food cart behind her.

I felt a lump in my throat as I watched her, as if I were just a captive animal being served its fodder at specific times.

I realized from her presence that it was dinner time, but my stomach wasn’t as hungry as my mind was thirsty for any information.

I approached her and tried to refine my tone of voice as much as possible, asking her with feigned kindness:

— "Ma’am... could you tell me what time it is now?"

She didn’t give me a single glance, as if I were a ghost with no existence. I didn’t give up; I moved closer until I almost touched the edge of her dress and repeated my question with quiet persistence:

— "Please... what time is it?"

She paused for a moment, then raised her fat, round face toward me, looked at me with eyes devoid of any sympathy, and said curtly:

— "Nine p.m."

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