Ch 8.1 - Chloe's Determination

Chloe stood in the kitchen, shoulders straight, hands steady.

Stone grated against stone as she ground spices beneath the heavy mortar—chilli pods, dried roots, aromatic seeds. She added each ingredient with care, then churned the mixture into a fine powder. The sharp scent burned her nose and clung to her fingers.

Tonight’s dish was meant to be stimulating.
Spicy food for eager customers.

Her hands worked on instinct alone. Her thoughts were nowhere near the kitchen.

Tonight, she would no longer be a servant. Tonight, she would be presented as a courtesan. The words alone twisted her stomach.

Aisha’s voice echoed in her mind—calm, practised, cruelly reassuring. He’s gentle. A kind man. He paid a great deal. You should be grateful. Many girls don’t get such a first customer.

Chloe’s grip tightened on the grinder.

She had refused. Over and over. Begged. Pleaded. Tried to reason. It hadn’t mattered.

For five nights straight, she had failed to endure Aisha’s “lessons.” Five nights of being forced to watch. Five nights of nausea, dizziness, of darkness closing in as her body betrayed her. Each time, she had collapsed before the lesson even ended.

Aisha’s patience had run out.

So she had accelerated the process.

If you can’t learn by watching, Aisha had said coolly, then you’ll learn by doing.

The grinder scraped louder as Chloe pressed down harder than necessary.

Aisha had leaned close then, her voice low enough to feel intimate. Benjamin is being kept alive, you know. Barely fed. Worms. Offal. Nothing fit for a human stomach.

Chloe swallowed.

Do well tonight, Aisha had continued, and I’ll see that his meals improve. Do very well, and I might even reduce your debt.

The spice powder was finished.

With trembling fingers, Chloe brushed it into a small bowl.

Chloe stood in the kitchen, shoulders squared, working the stone grinder in steady circles as dried roots and seeds were reduced into fine powder. The rhythmic scrape should have been calming, but her thoughts refused to settle. Tonight, they had decided, she would stop being a servant and become something else entirely.

A courtesan.

The word alone made her stomach twist.

She had already crossed a line simply by wearing these clothes—no veil, no habit, no symbol of her faith. Even that small concession felt like a stain she couldn’t scrub away. Now they demanded more. Not just obedience, but surrender. Her body. Her vows. Everything she had sworn to protect.

I am a nun, she reminded herself, jaw tightening as the pestle ground harder. My body is not mine to give.

The stone slipped slightly beneath her grip, and the sensation pulled a memory free—sunlight over white stone, the scent of incense, the quiet order of the church courtyard where girls once sat in neat rows, habits too large for their narrow shoulders.

That’s when an old repressed memory flooded in, back to her time in the church when she was young.

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Sister nuns assembled a diverse group of young girls in the old church's courtyard. Most of the girls were between eight and twelve years old, but the ages spanned from the youngest at five to the oldest around seventeen.

Despite the presence of the full-fledged nuns, the young girls who had gathered in the yard were preoccupied with typical youthful behavior—gossiping and playing—completely ignoring their elders.

“Women are frail and weak creatures.”

The elder sister’s voice had been calm, matter-of-fact, echoing across the courtyard. Murmurs rippled through the gathered girls—some indignant, some confused. Chloe had simply listened, unsure why her chest felt tight.

The sister raised a hand, silencing them.

“Frailty does not mean helplessness. Men will often have the advantage in strength. That is the truth. But strength is not the only weapon the Lord grants.”

Another sister stepped forward then, pacing slowly before them, eyes sharp and knowing.

“When power fails you, use your mind. Men assume women are easy prey. That arrogance is their weakness. If you prepare yourself—if you think ahead—you can survive even those stronger than you.”

Most of it had gone over Chloe’s head at the time. She was young, more concerned with the heat of the sun and the itch of her sleeves than the weight of the lesson.

Only one line had stayed with her, spoken quietly at the end, almost like a warning.

“Sometimes the Lord tests us. Not to break us, but to see whether we will protect our dignity when no one else will,”

Her voice was resolute as she spoke, “The Lord helps those who help themselves.”

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The memory dissolved, leaving Chloe staring down at the crushed spices beneath her hands.

Her heart still pounded, but the fear had changed shape. It was no longer paralysing. It had sharpened, focused, turned into something steadier.

She glanced around the kitchen.

Empty.

As always, they had left her alone.

Her hands moved with purpose now. From the shelves, she gathered dried peppers, bitter seeds, and a root known to inflame the blood when mishandled. Spices meant to excite, to heighten sensation—dangerous in excess, especially when combined. Her fingers trembled, but the work itself was precise, deliberate.

Not poison.

Not enough to kill.

Enough to burn the throat, cloud the senses, weaken the body.

She poured the mixture into a small bottle and sealed it, her breath shallow as Ben’s face rose unbidden in her thoughts—his anger, his helplessness, the way he had looked at her as if she were something worth saving.

Be the saviour you wish others to be.

Chloe closed her eyes for a moment, then straightened, the bottle hidden in her palm.

“I won’t surrender,” she whispered—not to the room, but to herself. Not her body. Not her faith.

If this night was meant to be a trial, then she would face it prepared. Quietly. Intelligently. On her own terms.