Page 1 of Let it Sizzle
Prologue
Serena
15 years old
There’s a moment right before it starts. The moment where time holds its breath.
Where I know I’ve made a mistake—but I don’t know which one yet.
Maybe the food’s too hot. Or too cold. Maybe the sound of the spoon tapping the plate irritates him. Maybe I existed too loudly today. There’s no warning, no logic. Just that heavy silence that wraps around my throat like a noose.
Then the moment ends.
My father's eyes narrow as he stares down at the meal in front of him, then back up at me. The way he sets his glass down is too careful, too slow. It’s not about the food. It never is. But that won’t stop him from finding something to blame.
His voice is low at first—controlled and cold. “You think this is hot enough? You serve me half-cooked trash and expect a thank you?”
I try to step back, keep my head down, stay quiet the way my brother told me to when he left me in charge. But the distance doesn’t help, and neither does silence. His chair scrapes against the floor with a sound I’ve come to fear more than yelling. He’s up before I can move, and his hand is flying before I can turn.
The slap is loud and humiliating. My cheek stings immediately, but I stay upright. The plate crashes to the ground, and the food I spent the last hour preparing is now a mess of shards and sauce across the tile. I don’t look at it. I don’t look at him. I look toward the hallway and force my legs to move.
Samira is already there, hovering just outside the bedroom door, her fingers clutching the edge of her dress. I grab her arm and yank her into the room with me, bolting the door behind us before he makes it out of the kitchen. I know the steps. I know the time I have. I drag the dresser in front of the door, heart racing, muscles aching. Then we dive under the bed, the dust thick and choking.
The footsteps come quickly. Too quickly.
My father’s voice is no longer slurred. It’s sharp now, full of venom. He slams into the bedroom door with his fist. The wall shakes.
“Open this damn door, Serena!”
Samira lets out a soft sob, her small hands pressing against her ears. I hold her tighter, trying to shield her with my body even though I’m shaking just as hard.
“I told you I was gonna teach you respect!” he bellows. The handle rattles violently. “You and that little brat—you think you can lock me out in my own house?”
“Please stop,” Samira whimpers. “Make him stop.”
“I will, I promise,” I whisper, kissing the top of her head, my words barely audible over the sound of his boot hitting the door. “Just keep your eyes closed, okay? Don’t let go of me.”
The dresser scrapes. He’s almost through.
“I swear to God,” he roars, “if I have to come in there—”
Samira’s voice is tiny, barely there. “What are we going to do? Byron’s not here…”
My throat tightens. My stomach twists. I don’t know. I’m fifteen. I don’t have a plan. But I can’t let her see that.
“We stay quiet,” I tell her, forcing my voice to sound steady. “We stay small. And we don’t let the fear get bigger than us.”
I don’t know where the words come from. I don’t even know if I believe them. But she nods against me and stops trembling.
And still, in my chest, my heart thuds so loud I’m sure he’ll hear it. Because I am scared. I am so, so scared.
But she’s looking at me like I’m her whole world, and right now, I have to be.
The door rattles harder. Louder.
The pounding is relentless now—fists, boots, fury. The sound fills the room like thunder in a glass jar, echoing inside my head, making it impossible to think straight.
“Open this damn door!” he screams again, and this time I can hear something unhinged in his voice. Something worse than rage. A promise.
