The town was ordinary, nothing like the grand place her mother often romanticized.
Her mother's occupation wasn't something to boast about, nor was it a topic to bring up in polite conversation. Most of her time was spent in brothels or bars, managing her workers with a sharp tongue and an iron hand.
Abby, however, preferred to escape. She spent her days in the solitude of a barren field, dotted with grass and crowned by a single, towering tree wet with mountain dew. It was her sanctuary, a quiet place where she could play, catch crickets, and forget the vulgarity of her mother's world. She would only return home when it was time for lunch or dinner.
She was a lonely child, but she preferred her loneliness to the chaos of her home.
With a sigh, she tied together another bundle of sticks to form a doll. Each day she created a new one, and although most weren't sturdy enough to last, she cherished the few that endured. They were her only friends.
Years passed, and the tree became her haven. One crisp afternoon, when she was ten, she went to her usual spot beneath the tree and found someone already there.
It was a boy, about her age but dressed in fine clothes that spoke of wealth and status—far beyond anything Abby had ever known. His vest and trousers were of the highest quality, and his posture radiated arrogance.
He looked up at her, his eyes a piercing gold, expression colder than the ocean she'd only heard about. A wicked glint danced in his gaze.
"What are you?" he spat with disdain.
She frowned, taken aback. "You mean who?" she corrected.
"Peasants aren't who—they're what," he said with a sneer.
She shifted uncomfortably, feeling the sting of his words. "That's my tree you're sitting under. I'd like to be alone, please," she said, trying to remain polite.
He arched an amused brow. "Your tree? Do you even know who owns this land?"
Abby shook her head, her blonde curls bouncing. "No… but—"
"But nothing," he interrupted, his voice as sharp as his glare. "For a peasant to claim my land as theirs takes an impressive amount of gall."
His repeated use of the word "peasant" made Abby's stomach churn. "Could you not call me that? I don't like it. If this land is yours, I apologize. But may I still use the tree?" she asked, her tone as measured as she could manage.
"No," he said, his voice colder than before. "I despise people of low birth tainting my property."
Abby's breath caught as she noticed her stick dolls at his feet—shattered. He held her favorite in his hand, the one she had spent hours perfecting.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice trembling as tears welled in her eyes.
"I've done nothing to you. Why would you be so cruel?" she cried, her tears now streaming down her cheeks.
He sneered, his expression hard as stone. "You don't deserve kindness. You don't deserve sympathy. You don't deserve anything from me," he said, smashing the last stick doll against the tree trunk. "You are nothing."
Abby's heart clenched, the pain overwhelming. She turned and ran, the bitter wind cutting her cheeks, her sobs carried away with the morning dew. His cold, unyielding eyes burned into her back as she fled.
After that day, she began to time his visits. He came every Friday, like clockwork. So, she avoided the tree on Fridays, vowing to never cross his path again.
The afternoon sun bathed the town in a golden glow, its warmth contrasting with the chill that settled in Abby's heart. She never told her mother about the tree. It was her secret, her sanctuary, and her mother—a woman neither protective nor kind—would only tarnish it.
Abby was finishing her meal when the door slammed open. Her mother burst in, giggling and hanging onto a man's arm. His loud laughter echoed through the modest home, and Abby's stomach twisted in disgust.
"A pretty little lass," the man drawled, his eyes roaming over Abby. "Does she work here?"
Her mother's sharp gaze snapped toward her, a silent reprimand for daring to be seen. Abby knew the rules: never be around when her mother had company. But hunger had driven her to break them, thinking she had enough time before her mother returned.
She stood quickly, clutching her plate. "Excuse me," she murmured, trying to slip past them.
Before she could take another step, the man grabbed her wrist, his grin widening. His touch sent a shiver of revulsion through her.
"Tell me," he said, his voice oily and leering, "does she work here?"
Abby's mind blanked, fear and fury warring within her. Without thinking, she swung her fist, connecting with his nose in a satisfying crunch. The plates fell with a loud crash scattering to pieces.
He howled, releasing her, and she bolted from the house, her heart pounding as his curses followed her. Her mothers cursed along with him in anger.
The lively streets blurred around her as she ran, her chest heaving. Despite the fear, a smile crept across her face. She had done it—escaped. For now.
Thursday. The tree would be free. She thought excitedly.
The thought drove her feet faster, carrying her up the familiar hill. The barren land stretched before her, and the lone willow tree stood waiting, its branches swaying gently in the breeze.
Her sanctuary. Her safe place.
But as she neared, her breath caught in her throat.
He was there.
Leaning casually against the tree trunk, his golden eyes pierced her like daggers, filled with cold hatred. His smirk was a cruel twist of his lips, an expression that chilled her more than the man's touch earlier.
"So," he drawled, his voice dripping with venom, "you're avoiding me?"
Abby froze, the wind whipping around her as his words hung in the air. Her escape had led her straight into the lion's den.