From A Harlot To A Princess

by Cage Thompson

  Rochelle clenched her teeth, and the rookie coughed. Glancing briefly at her platinum watch, she began to speak. “Officer Robinson—”

  “Omar,” he interrupted, causing her to sigh, irritated.

  “I have to go; Father has requested me to meet with him at the house, and I’m running a tad late. Come for dinner later,” she muttered, walking towards the vehicle as she said the latter. “You know where,” she said, and placed her hand on the car door after sliding gracefully into the seat, her miniskirt pulling higher on her thighs. She paused to look at the rookie. “Bring him too; someone to keep you grounded and behaved.”

  Slamming the door closed, she started the Land Cruiser and pulled onto Constant Spring Road, before turning onto Dunrobin Avenue. She only had a few minutes left to reach Red Hills before her father.

  Ten minutes out, she mentally calculated.

  Flooring the pedal, she maneuvered between cars and buses before the traffic began thinning out and she turned the vehicle towards his gate.

  Quickly, the security guard opened the gates, and she slid through with a small sigh of relief on her lips, thanking Stacey for distracting her father long enough with trivial matters.

  Locking up the car, she swiftly headed into the three-story building, letting herself in with her set of keys.

  “Percy, dear, is that you?” Her mother called down the stairs. Rochelle rolled her eyes in annoyance.

  “No, Mother; it’s just me,” she said loud enough, and heard her mother’s feet begin pounding against the stairs.

  Rochelle took in her mother’s beauty as she descended the long staircase hurriedly. She had no doubt gotten almost all of her assets from her mother; she, and the almost forty year-old woman, could pass for sisters if they ever went clubbing together.

  Thick, chestnut colored hair, lifted in the slight breeze caused by her movements as she rushed to her daughter. The only stark difference between the two women was that Monica’s makeup wasn’t used to enhance her features, but to play down the bruises littered across her face.

  With a sigh, she allowed her mother to embrace her tightly, understanding her fear, and knowing that if she could’ve, she would have contacted her long before she had left the United States. Percival had banned her a long time ago from using the house phone unless he was present, and he had ensured to destroy her cell.

  Rochelle flinched as she remembered what she had walked in on that day. Her mother’s socialite friend, and neighbor, had given the gardener Monica’s number when he had asked if she could refer anyone to his company. Monica had forgotten to warn her friend about letting the person contact her husband first. The very male, young, and handsome gardener, had decided to come up to the house, instead of calling first, after finishing the Essue’s backyard. Sweat had been glistening over his thick muscles, down to his glove-covered hands which had been caked in mud. Small beads of perspiration had raced down his shirtless back and his black, washboard stomach. Percival had just happened to drive through the gates when his wife had smiled at the young man, before stretching her fingers out in a friendly handshake; Monica had been on two weeks bedrest after that.

  Rochelle unconsciously tightened her hands around her mother and felt her wince. Easing back, she realized that her mother was favoring her left leg.

  “What did the son of a bitch do to you now?” She demanded harshly, and her mother gripped her biceps.

  They were far beyond the point of her mother defending her father. The first time, as a teenager, when she had spoken badly of her father, her mother had slapped her without apology and chastised her, reminding her that he was still her father; like she could forget. A few years after that, it had been her mother asking her the very same questions Rochelle had asked, and by then, it was Rochelle that had been too ashamed to answer.

  Rochelle closed her eyes, remembering the first day she had been ‘initiated’ into HC, four years ago. It had been that day when she’d asked her the one question that she hadn’t been able to answer. Her father, a well-known politician, had brought her there for her sixteenth birthday. She had thought that he had finally wanted to make amends for what he had done when she had been younger, and finally catch on as a father after ten years of ignoring her, and five years of total silence.

  If only she’d known better, then. But what little girl didn’t crave her father’s attention?

  Out of nowhere, after years of radioed silence, he had appeared at her room door, dazzling her with his alluring smile and flowers, wheeling shiny car keys around his index finger. Little did she know, that sliding behind the wheels of the Audi TT that he had peacefully presented as a gift would’ve meant opening herself up to years of pain.

  But curiosity had gotten the best of her then, and she had turned to him at a stoplight.

  “Weh wi going?” She questioned, using the words she’d heard other students on her home-schooled students’ field trips use.

  She froze when she heard him clear his throat and the muscle in his jaw jumped. She hadn’t been used to him then, and had feared that she had somehow offended the man whom she had so desperately wanted to acknowledge and approve of her.

  “Rochelle, just because your cousins are from Trench Town, does not mean you should speak as if you have no class. This is the very reason why I moved your mother to Red Hills!” He snapped, and she cringed.

  Muttering “sorry,” under her breath, she’d turned into the Hilton Hotel and allowed him to escort her to their private dining room.

  She had not understood why her father had needed to call someone and tell them of their arrival, why they had entered a suite instead of a dining room, why needles had dug into her skin when he had placed a bracelet on her wrist, nor why he had whispered that it was only to relax her when her knees had buckled. Oh, she had not, not until she had seen the men.

  Rochelle cringed, as she remembered how she had tried to move, to scream, but her body just had not complied, all she wished she could have done was close her eyes and count sheep. Her eyes had been watering too much from near suffocation, as he’d allowed the men to use her mouth for their pleasure. He hadn’t allowed them to enter her anywhere else; it hadn’t been until later that she’d truly understood why he hadn’t allowed them to, and how cruel her father really could be.

  She had always known that she had been a liability to her father, the bane of his existence, but she hadn’t wanted to believe it. Even then, for a while, after that day, she had thought that if this was the only way to gain his love, then she would do it. Trading her body for her father’s attention only cost if anyone else knew. But that was until he had almost killed her when she had refused anal sex with one of his biggest clients.

  She drew a breath to push away the horrid memories that seeing her mother always brought. Her heart squeezed at the thought of Carter ever finding out if she ever saw him again. She swallowed shakily, and focused on her mother; for now, it was her parent’s turn again to look away and shake her head in shame and fear.

  “I’m fine,” her mother muttered, but her brow pleated slightly before she reached out to hold onto her daughter’s waist.

  Rochelle swallowed again, as she took in her mother’s wobbly stance and the paleness beneath the flawless makeup. Anger boiled up in her and crawled up her throat; she’d thought that she and Percival had come up with a deal not too long ago: if he left her mother alone, she would do as he asked.

  Her hands fisted involuntarily, and she took an unsteady breath. “You are not fine, Mother; come and have a seat, before you fall,” she murmured, leading her mother to the kitchen. There was no clutter around the counters, though she could still smell the sweet aroma of just cooked food. “Where’s Maud?” She questioned, as she ushered her mother into a seat around the island.

  “He sent her home. She had finished dinner though,” the older woman replied, as if having a hot meal would make everything else better.

  Rochelle turned to the fridge to pour two glasses of wine, p
lacing one before her mother and taking the seat to her left. She frowned when her mother declined the glass, and instead, placed it in the center of the large island.

  “What did he do?” She questioned again, tucking the other woman’s hair behind her ear.

  “I’m fine,” Monica muttered once more, flinching, when she attempted to shift on the stuffed suede of the chair’s seat.

  Rochelle clenched her teeth, and noted that her mother’s bruises looked fresh. “I didn’t ask you whether or not you think that you are okay, your bruises speak for themselves, and every time you move, I feel the pain radiating from you!” She snapped. Rubbing her temple, she drew a breath before looking at her mother. “Was it yesterday?” She questioned.

  Her mother audibly sighed. “Four hours ago,” she whispered, and the younger woman froze. She hadn’t made it home before him at all. So he had already been home when Stacey had called him for travel matters concerning HC; no doubt, he will know that it was a strategy on her part. It was her turn to flinch; the older man was not going to take that lightly.

  Both women jumped as the front door crashed against the wall. As if he had a tracking device on her, he stormed into the kitchen with fire on his tongue.

  “Where the fuck were you?” He demanded, and Rochelle reached out to steady her uncertain mother. Her mother opened her mouth to speak the same time Rochelle began to answer- one not about to deny the charge, and the other about to defend her child.

  Taking her own time, she forced her frail mother to retake her seat, before stepping away from the table. “Patrick gave me the opportunity to speak with some of my friends,” she stated flatly, stiffening her shoulders when his eyes darkened in anger.

  “Are you forgetting that you went to Nevada on a business trip, and not to frolic with friends?”

  Rochelle’s gaze flickered to her mother, who had no idea that this was not a legal business trip, before looking back at her father. “The business transaction had already taken place before I had left the venue,” she stated factually, and saw his shoulders stiffen.

  “Your business transactions never end until I tell you that they’re finished!” He shouted, and she saw her mother jump in her seat out of the corner of her eye. “Monica, leave; you’re irritating me with your damn twitching!” He snapped, and her mother quickly scurried to her feet to leave the room.

  Rochelle’s eyes flashed molten gold when she saw the belt marks on her mother’s arm when the floating material of her silk blouse fell to her elbow when she raised her hand to push open the door. “You hit her,” she bit out angrily, as he brought his eyes from the closing door and to his daughter.

  “She deserved that,” he spat, the muscles working in his jaw as he ground his teeth together.

  “I told you once before, Percival, that if you ever laid hands on her again, I was walking away from the club,” she stated bitterly, through her teeth, holding her ground when he took a threatening step towards her. Eyes so like hers, darkened as he placed a hand on her shoulder, albeit gently.

  She swallowed, pushing down the ball of nervousness as his fingers caressed her throat. Her breath was cut off as his long, powerful fingers latched onto her neck in an easy death grip. “You’ll only walk away from the Hummingbird Club when I fucking tell you to!” He spat, the nearness of his mouth to her rapidly reddening face, caused saliva to spray into her eyes.

  Reaching up, she dug her nails into his lightly tanned, white skin. He needed her too much to snap the small bones that lay beneath his thumbs, and she was going to milk that weakness for all its worth. “I’ll leave whenever I want to, Percival; it is my body, not yours!” She hissed, as she struggled for breath. “I have enough information to rip apart your well-kept little secret, Father, and you have no way to stop me,” she stated; her voice was raspy, as she struggled to breathe after each word.

  Percival’s fingers flexed against her throat, as if he was contemplating whether or not it was worthwhile to crush the fragile bones beneath his fingers. His fingers tightened slightly, and his hazel eyes turned to an almost mossy green.

  “I am your father, and if I go down, I will take you with me!” He gritted out, the red beneath his tan darkening, as his anger increased.

  “Seventy-five percent of HC’s shares, Percival, and it’s up to you whether or not you want to pull me down with you; I will just look like the child who’s had the worst hypocrite for a father,” she gasped, absorbing the fear behind the coldness of his darkened eyes, and she knew then that she had the upper hand. “The Minister of Justice, who preaches of scraping out criminals from every nook and cranny, is the biggest criminal of all,” she mocked, causing his fingers to flex once more, but this time they loosened slightly. “An abuser, a trafficker of both humans and drugs, and no doubt a murderer.”

  His eyes flashed, and she smiled boldly, taunting him, it was the only way she could get what she needed from him. The only way she and her mother could escape this hellhole. “Why HC?” He demanded coldly.

  “That label was mine; a business passed down from mother to daughter, for generations in the Whyte family, Percival, and you sullied my clothesline with a prostitution ring!”

  She flinched when his hands tightened once more. “Your mother signed over her shares to me,” he stated coldly.

  “No doubt you had beaten her into submission on that one,” she muttered under her breath. “And I am demanding seventy-five percent of her original eighty, for now,” she stated calmly, realizing that she no longer had to struggle to breathe.

  “That would give you the leading role in the business,” he stated stonily.

  “And that’s exactly what I want. Seventy-five, or I expose you!” She ground out. “And I want that in writing, by tomorrow.”

  Her father’s eyes went to the door as it creaked open, and she heard her mother’s gasp. “Percival, let her go!” At her mother’s shocked words, he pushed her from him by slamming one of his palms against her throat, knocking the air from her, and causing her to trip over the heels of her stilettos.

  A cry sounded from her mother’s throat, when her head slammed against the withdrawn chair before she crashed to the ground, stunned. With ringing in her ear, she watched her father pause briefly before her, before striding out the kitchen, the garage door sounding a few seconds after.

  A cruel thought passed through her mind, as her mother’s worried face swam into focus as she knelt, pressing a cool palm to her head. Monica pulled away her hand, and the younger woman’s eyes widened at the sight of blood.

  “Head injuries always bleed more than the severity of the injuries that cause them,” her mother muttered, pushing to her feet to gather some paper towel.

  And you of all people would know, she thought bitterly.

  Easing onto her elbows, Rochelle swore when the doorbell peeled. Her mother looked at her with a frown. “Who’s that?” She questioned.

  “Officer Robinson invited himself to dinner,” she murmured, looking at the glass clock above the doors- seven p.m. - where had time gone?

  “Use the first aid kit in your bathroom, and comb your hair down, I’ll go distract him,” her mother murmured, as she helped her to her feet, and Rochelle noticed her flinch once more. Rochelle grasped her elbow when she faltered slightly, kneading her waist.

  “Are you sure that you will be okay?” Rochelle asked, flinching, as warm blood slid through her fingers.

  “I’ll be fine, just get that cleaned up before you spoil your blouse.”

  Nodding, the younger woman headed towards the stairs, whilst Monica tended to the door and their guests.

  ✽✽✽

  Just under two thousand, six hundred and fifty miles away, Carter flicked his wrist once more to check his watch as he boarded the plane with his former college mates and now business partners, Morris and Martin Thorpe. He had just collected them from their Miami based skyscraper of Thorpe Inc. while the private jet had been refueling.

  Morris’- the eldest of th
e twin- sharp, blue eyes, bore into him, as the plane leveled out in the atmosphere. He looked down at the papers in his tanned hand. “Carter, are you sure about this?” He questioned. “We don’t normally invest in an already booming business.” He paused, a frown creasing his cream forehead as he looked through the file. “I don’t even know how you managed to buy out fifteen percent of the twenty percent public shares within two days,” he muttered.

  Carter closed his eyes briefly, before flipping the lid of the laptop. He had been able to easily buy the shares from the shareholders while Rochelle had been keeping his bed warm. The instant that he had seen the faded bruises, he had known that his original mission was squashed. He didn’t want her to just have his child; he wanted her at his side. The only way to do that was to get her out of her father’s tight fist. Hopefully, Percival would willingly sell him enough shares so that he could do a clean, but hostile, takeover.

  “The Hummingbird Club label is only a cover for what’s really happening.” He turned the computer screen to his best friend and saw him stiffen.

  Indeed, the tattoo looked familiar, only last month, he had escorted a young woman to the right apartment block when she had accidentally knocked the door of his Palm Beach retreat. Morris hadn’t been able to forget her, but she had been adamant about not giving him her name.

  “The label is the cover of a very expensive escort business. This tattoo…” He motioned to the almost paper-thin screen of the silver Dell as he spoke. “…Is worn by all the escorts, and she is the face of the label,” he stated, as the picture changed to Rochelle.

  Carter frowned slightly when Morris didn’t even blink, an indication that he was already in deep thought, but Martin was in his corner, fighting to keep down his stirred member. The other man’s eyes looked troubled, almost, shattered. “Morris?” He murmured sympathetically, his voice coaxing his friend to meet his green eyes. “Who is she?” He questioned. He knew him too well to miss how his demeanor had changed since he saw the tattoo.