Novels by R.I.Z.A

The rain had long since stopped falling, but the air still felt heavy, charged with everything we had said and everything we hadn't. The kiss Dark had placed on my forehead still burned — gentle, reverent, a promise I wasn't sure I deserved. I had barely stepped into the hallway when the heavy oak doors of the entrance swung open. And the world tilted on its axis. She stood there like a storm made flesh — perfectly tailored suit in the deepest shade of midnight blue, pearls the size of river stones around her neck, and eyes so cold they could have frozen the sun. Doña Elvira Zapanta. Dark’s mother. She swept into the house, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor like a judgment. Her gaze swept past me — barely a flicker — before landing on Dark, who had stepped out of the kitchen behind me. "You're home," Dark said, his voice steady, but I heard the slight change. The way his shoulders straightened. The way he stepped forward, placing himself between me and her. "I wa

The first light of dawn hadn't even touched the sky when my eyes snapped open.Five forty-five. That was the time. Sharp. Mrs. Hernandez’s voice rang in my ears like a warning bell — Mr. Zapanta does not tolerate tardiness. I swung my legs over the edge of the narrow bed, my bare feet meeting the cold wooden floor, and for a disorienting moment, I forgot where I was. The small room. The plain white walls. The silence that felt too heavy, too perfect.Then I remembered. The paper. The signature. The check my father had walked away with.I was here. Bought.I splashed cold water on my face, scrubbing away the remnants of sleep, and pulled on the uniform — black dress, white apron, stiff fabric that felt like a second skin. I stared at my reflection in the small, smudged mirror above the dresser. The girl looking back at me was pale, her eyes too big, too wary. She didn't look like Miranda Regalado anymore. She looked like… property.I slipped out of the room and into the hallway. The ho

The pen trembled in my hand, the metal cold and slippery against my damp fingers. I stared at the line waiting for my signature, the black ink glistening under the harsh light of the chandelier above, mocking me. Every word written on that paper felt like a heavy stone settling into the pit of my stomach.Two hundred thousand pesos.That was it. That was the sum total of my life. Twenty years of existence, of breathing, of growing up — all reduced to a number scribbled on a check. Sold to settle the gambling debts of the man who was supposed to protect me. My own father. "Sign it," my father said, his voice rough and impatient, avoiding my eyes as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "It's done already. Don't make this harder than it has to be. It's just three years, Miranda. Three years and you're free."Just three years. As if three years of my life were nothing. As if handing me over to a stranger was as simple as borrowing a cup of sugar.I lifted my gaze from the paper, my hea