Leashed

Chapter 1

I have failed, albeit in my earnest, to relate this narrative to be less obscene than it has to be, for I am going to lessen the credibility of the story that lies before you if I’d do. I will not promise—for I am not a person of my word, at most times—that this will comply with how you wish this would flow. All that I can guarantee is that I am a witness who has stepped upon the realm of the three main contradicting identities who filled in the blanks of their rationalities. In addition, as the one who knows the aggregate of what you’re about to read, I want to remind you to be cautious because your predetermined impression of this as a pure romance novel holds no ground. That, at the very least, is not a secure conclusion nonetheless.

If you claim that you’ve already seen the most prepossessing of humans, I’d like you to think again. Never would you find her distinct comeliness elsewhere but in the majestically designed but intermittently dour Belmonte Mansion.

Neoma Belmonte, in her twenty-fourth year of existence, has gone beyond mocking the definition of what being beautiful is. She has the most seductive hooded eyes adorned with green orbs which enthral any vulnerable soul who’ll gaze upon them. Her nose speaks of dominance and has been the vestige of how she’s really like. She has long and naturally wavy, rose blonde hair enamoured to be one of the silkiest; the softness which begets to be touched conveys that, in spite of her domineering nature, she’s still a woman whom, even on the edges, is purely velvety.

She stared back at the reflection of her virtually perfect nudity in the full-length mirror. She is a nymph. She is the exact personification of a deceitful lure. Her figure reeks of sensuality from her beautifully shaped breasts, lusciously slim waist down to her acceptably fetching hips, all veiled in a smooth and porcelain white complexion.

Although she is, in her being, both alluring and brilliant, her countenance usually appears void of emotion. She rarely smiles and if she does, there’s naturally something atrocious behind it.

She may already have everything, from her angelic looks to the abundance of wealth, yet there is still something that she feels she lacks: satisfaction. The thought of being haplessly satisfied even by having two partners who swap in alternate times to gratify her by all means doesn’t seem to content her.

Joule Gozon, whose telegenic appeal has garnered a prodigious fandom consisting majorly of the female populace, superficially loses his celebrity status, and his personal magnetism appears null every time he goes to entice the seductive but elusive Neoma. He always intended to take the lead, yet would find himself always succumbing to her dominion. His captivating, deep-set eyes, which typically pull any woman to his enchantment, fall no less than another victim to her mysterious and sadistic bearing. Surprising to him though, was that he liked the way he was being roughly treated in bed by the woman who looks like a goddess yet behaves like an insatiable monster.

Ohm Consunji, on the other hand, is the clear-cut opposite of Neoma’s aforementioned other partner. His perception of her personality is not as broad as his shoulders, nor is his patience as long as his arms. He is over the top commanding and the more extreme he gets, the more possessive he becomes. His obsession with her had prompted her, even after several nerve-wracking moments with him, to sever any connection with him.

While it is a fact that both of her “pleasure partners” are equally handsome and tempting in their own ways, she is still looking for something else. Both of these have asked her what she precisely yearns for, but even she herself can not coin what it is. There is that hole in her totality that she badly needs to patch. There is that longing that she can not apprehend. What is it that she wants? Even I who bear witness to this story lie in the corner of complete incognizance.

The knock on the door to her bedroom pulled Neoma from her trance.

“Miss Neoma,” her maid called, her voice muffled by the solid blockage. “Your breakfast is ready.”

“I’ll be downstairs,” she complied.

Minutes later, Neoma dressed herself in a white semi-sheer long sleeve top tucked in a crispy white skirt and matched this with a pair of silver heels. She propped her hair in a ponytail, and she put on some light makeup, for as you already know, she doesn’t need to do much to accentuate her beauty. With this, she gives off an image which seems untainted with depravity, in contrast with her actual totality.

She joined her father, who was in a black business suit for breakfast, and they found themselves seated in chairs upholstered in beige fabric, before an array of food that could supposedly feed several hungry mouths. What was laid on the long country French dining table consists of fruit salad, muesli, kippers and the usual bacon strips, fried eggs, hotdogs, bread, coffee and the Filipinos’ staple food, which is rice. As requested by the master of the house, during the most important meal of the day, it was mandatory for her to join him in the colossal dining room ornamented with three custom hand-carved Italian chandeliers.

Accustomed to the western way of having breakfast, she only indulges in muesli and fruit salad. I, personally, can not endure not being able to eat rice for any meal of the day. Nonetheless, as someone who takes care of her body, much restraint is on the potential of overindulgence.

The three maids, in their glacier blue premier uniforms, who served their father and daughter employers, retreated to a considerable distance for further orders and felt (it has already been a morning routine) that even with the presentation of an exquisite breakfast, they still caught themselves observing a cold interaction from both of them.

“Neoma, I heard you already dismissed my compadre’s son, Ohm. What happened, hija?” Her father abruptly disturbed the silence that lingered between them.

She gave her father a feigned sad expression which he had unraveled that instant before she answered, “He is too much for me to handle, Papa. I don’t deserve him. He’s more suitable to someone far more refined and shrewder than me.”

Her father saw through her facade. He knows what she really thinks. He doesn’t even need to be endowed with telepathy to be able to do so. Her defenses are infirm against him, and he peeled her mask in all their meetings.

Wile Belmonte looked no further at the pretenses of his daughter. He is just too cunning, and how he trained his daughter throughout the years made him less of a father but more of a manipulator. She grew up to be the apathetic woman that he had always wanted her to be. He needed her to emulate his persona that he’d rather have her forsake her own identity. The once caring and tenuous girl has already grown into a person who’s capable of wrapping the business world along with its men in her candle-like fingers.

Neoma had, in the past, looked up to her father. He became, for her, the epitome of power and success. Though he strives hard to be her father, she knows that behind that guise is an overtly ambitious crook whose title as one of the wealthiest tycoons in the Philippines is nothing near enough.

He is already at the prime of his age; it’s apparent with his graying hair swept back neatly in place with wax, and with the wrinkles of his diamond-shaped face. Even in this regard, he is still looking for more.

She has indeed inherited most of his inner qualities, but her physical attributes account from her mother except that she has his eyes. Perhaps she could even mirror herself in him. They both yearn for satisfaction—he, in wealth, while she, in something she has yet to extricate.

“I have arranged a dinner for you with Ohm in the evening. I have already made a reservation for both of you at Brasserie. You better prepare for that, or rather, you have to,” her father mandated; his mild tone had switched to an authoritarian one.

She had long discerned that her father is plagued by his manipulative disposition, and that he had been taking control of her life. This is the inimical fact that she despises the most about him. Since she turned sixteen, he has bombarded her about the potentialities that her name and her socioeconomic standing will bring. He never once thought of her interests nor her happiness. Who is she kidding anyway? She should never forget that she assumed her sadism from this very man. He’d most likely prefer her miserable for the rest of her life.

“What if I don’t want to?” She retorted with defiance in her voice.

“Oh, you don’t have a choice about that, hija. You are to meet with Ohm this evening, whether you like it or not.”

“And why is that?”

“Simply because I am considering the marriage proposal raised by his family. Just imagine how much we will benefit from their banking and airline industries, Neoma. We’d be even more powerful.”

Wile Belmonte’s eyes almost sparkled from having said his last statement. Although his net worth already spanned 31.2 billion dollars, which is 20% higher than his previous, he couldn’t afford to settle with this. Even with his resolute success in the industries of real estate, food, beverage and petrochemicals and holdings in telecommunications, he still feels that a merge with the Consunji business empire would bring him more fortune and prominence. The only way to make that happen is for him to lay his most optimal trump card: his only child.

“And why do you think I’d agree to that?” She shot him with an obstinate accent.

“Because you are my daughter, and as an invaluable asset, you also deserve an invaluable match,” her father answered, not minding her visible contrast.

Neoma is suddenly overwhelmed by inward rage to the point that she failed to recognize the motion of a familiar presence behind her back. She knew it would be futile to resort to resistance and that her life could be ruined the moment she'd announce her wedding vows with a man she never loved and she would not ever. She watched her father eat heartily while he was occupied by the thought of a probable prosperous business expansion.

It could have been brought about by genuine rage or by her own sadistic impulse, as she produced a fraudulent smile when her right hand found itself grabbing the bread knife nearby and made haste to sink into her father’s unengaged left hand. However, before a pool of blood could stain on the linen mat, a brisk hand caught her by her wrist and prevented her from doing something she'd regret later.

The maids gasped in alarm, but they then felt relieved at the abrupt intervention.

“That was close,” a deep voice said from behind.

Wile Belmonte’s face registered a disoriented expression not for long, for he knew the limit of his daughter’s temperament. After all, she carries his genes; besides, this is not the first time something like this happened. She may not be vulgar in her assaults, but she’s the kind who can carry out danger while in a cloak of stealth.

There were circumstances before where, in her outbursts, she would manage to come up with ways to injure him, but most would result in vain. He recalled how he almost got his face burnt when she chose to throw boiling water at him while she kept a deadpan look, because he wouldn’t allow her to bathe in the rain.

He looked at the person who succeeded in stopping his daughter’s supposed petty assault.

“Just in time, Sol. You really saved me.”

He wanted to sound so relieved, yet it only turned out as an exaggeration.

The twenty-seven year-old guy gave his boss a lopsided smile and felt a wriggling force in his hand. He heard Neoma hiss under her breath.

“Do you want this knife to slip from my fingers and stab you instead?” She faked a smirk at him, not definitely concealing her threat which had no effect on him whatsoever.

She expected him to let go of her hand; on the contrary, he bent towards her and whispered something in her ear that only made her more inwardly enraged.

“You know that I’d like it very much if you hurt me,” he sexily said, diverting her attention to his provocation while she did not notice how he carefully stole the knife away from her delicate hand.

Neoma’s realization of her impotence became eventual. She is not aware of her strength anymore, nor was she ever. Her life has been, from the start, a blueprint designed by her detestable father.

“Alright,” she said in monotone defeat and then stood, “I will show up to this damnable dinner, but I will not marry the damned Ohm Consunji. I’d rather kill myself than marry someone like him.”

After her undaunted statement, she left her breakfast with her father, rudely pushing Sol out of her way.

After her exit from the dining room, the older venerated Belmonte directed his attention to the 5’9 man wearing a navy blue Calvin Klein suit at his side.

“What do you know? She’s still as stubborn as ever.”

“Indeed, boss, she hasn’t really changed a bit.”

Unknown to him for a very long time now, that for his boss, he is both admirable and intimidating. He is impressed by his aptitude for business management, despite negating the offer to have a good position in the conglomerate. He has been reformed since he acquired formal education and even graduated from a renowned university in the country.

Even so, Sol has been constantly repaying his boss’ generosity by being one of their most reliable bodyguards. In fact, he had saved his boss from attempted assassinations thrice and had killed perpetrators in the past that even the right-hand man, Gello, gaped in awe at his kinesthetic capacity.

Wile Belmonte could never be more dazed at both the ingenuity and kinesthetic intelligence of the young man. This is more than a splendid combination to be possessed by an individual who is also exceptional in appearance.

Sol still has small eyes with light brown irises. These seem too transparent, which could trick anyone into believing that he’s as unpolluted as the brightness of his sight. That and the inherent curl of his long eyelashes make up a veneer, encompassing his propensity for sordid fantasies involving the mistress of the Belmonte household.

His well-defined muscles and athletic build complete the package of an irresistible male specimen who—unknown to females who salivate at his image—does not give any woman rumination unless it’s Neoma.

However, these aren’t the attributes which pose an underlying intimidation within his boss, for he, in his youth—even now—had unyielding charisma which left women willing to be enslaved by him. Sol, for him, has that inscrutable aura which has caused him to doubt his evaluative faculty. He thought, the first time he saw him, that he couldn’t be capable of refining himself, for he seemed sullied only by the concept of masochism. It wasn’t new to him that the once frail boy rejoiced at being abused by his daughter then. At present, he even perceives that he still has them in his thoughts. That was the reason why he became suitable for Neoma.

The young man, furthermore, proved himself not only reliable but also fatal when he countered the hitmen who tried to shoot Wile Belmonte dead. He gained his boss’ trust, but he had instilled in him the kind of fear he had never felt before. This has already been in his system as he takes himself back to that one night when the seemingly harmless and feeble boy tried to stab him to death after he slapped Neoma for slandering her mother’s name. The then thirteen-year-old boy armed himself with a kitchen knife and attacked him, resulting in a wound in his right arm before his henchmen came to restrain the juvenile attacker. He then had the boy repetitively tortured for an entire week. This almost resulted in his early death.

It became clear to him after that Sol was willing to do anything just to have Neoma within his grasp. His obsession towards her is conspicuous, but in the course of various years, he has somehow managed to confine this feeling. He became educated, yet he still shows signs of fixation towards her, in spite of the presence of her several lovers and the fact that she has grown to be at her worst level of indifference, particularly towards him.

Sol is also different from his other men. He never demanded money from him nor has he coveted the idea of having a reputable name in the business world which any opportunist would bite. He only wished one thing, and that is to stay at his daughter’s side.

“Sol, do you think it would be best for my daughter to marry Ohm Consunji?” With a straight face, he asked Sol out of the blue. This served more as a clickbait than a probing inquiry. He wants to test his patience as well as see the sadness that will linger thereafter in his expression.

The young man, nevertheless, produced an ingenuous smile before he simply said, “I’m afraid you already know my answer to that question, boss.”

Wile Belmonte is left hanging at his reply. He is aware of Sol’s apparent contradiction even without being vocal about it, but what would he do if that is going to actually happen? Would he let it be, or would he defy him?

Before he could ask him for clarification to the point of intimidation, Sol had asked to be dismissed.

“Excuse me, boss. I have to follow Neoma. I still have to drive her to the office.”

The fifty-four year-old business tycoon watched him walk away from him as he came to realize that he could never fully understand him. He appears content to be a driver-bodyguard to Neoma, but he knows that he is like him. He is also greedy. He’d never settle for anything dissatisfying.

He smirked at the thought of anticipating the masochist’s initiative, now that he had other plans for his daughter.