Bow Down: The CEO and Her Hound

In my past life, I dropped dead from working overtime in a cramped cubicle. I begged the Grim Reaper to never let me be exploited as cheap labor again.

So, when I heard my dad Russell's booming laughter for the first time, I kicked my mom's belly twice in pure excitement.

Oh, the baby just kicked me! my mother gasped, her voice soft and thrilled.

"Little troublemaker, it seems you really like the skyscraper we just bought for you." His laughter mingled with the crisp clinking of her diamond tennis bracelets. It sounded exactly like pure wealth whispering in my ear.

Perfect. I was set for life. I drifted off to sleep, lulled by the rhythmic clicking of the sprinklers watering our private golf course.

Hovering on the edge of sleep, I caught snippets of the adults talking. They mentioned that Martha, our maid, was pregnant. Her due date was the exact same day as my mom's.

Wait.

My eyes snapped open in the dark of the womb.

Oh, hell no.

Chapter 1

"Fire her! Fire her right now!" I screamed internally, my fetal heart rate probably spiking to dangerous levels. As a former overworked grunt and a fanatic of trashy soap operas, I knew this hospital baby-swap trope inside out. The filthy rich family, the heiress, the maid, the exact same due dateevery single red flag was waving frantically in my face.

Oh, sweet baby Jesus. If you guys don't fire her, I'm getting swapped the second I hit the delivery room!

No one answered. I was, after all, just an embryo. Helpless, I rolled around in the amniotic fluid to register my fury.

"Oh! The baby kicked again!" my mom cooed.

My dad let out that signature old-money chuckle. Every time he laughed, I swore I could hear gold coins clinking onto a marble floor. Cha-ching, cha-ching

"Such a strong little thing. Daddy's getting you a red chestnut foal, sweetheart. You'll love it."

I tumbled twice in the fluid.

Then he added, "When you're old enough, you can ride at the equestrian center with Brooks."

"Oh, right. We own the equestrian center, too."

We own the equestrian center. We own it. Oh, my beautiful, glorious capitalist father! I kicked joyfully.

I was totally stressing over nothing. As if a billionaire's wife would ever give birth in the same hospital wing as her maid.

The minute I'm out, I'm deleting every single trashy romance reading app off my phone. I flipped over, lulled into a deep sleep.

Then came the due date. The umbilical cord wrapped tightly around my neck. Complications. A sudden shortage of private hospital suites.

A massive thunderstorm gridlocked all the traffic in the city. The top-tier specialist booked for the C-section somehow impaled his right hand on a rusty nail. My mom was forced to transfer hospitals.

And somehow, she ended up in the exact same maternity ward as Martha.

Son of a bitch.

I should have just stayed quiet in the womb.

The second I was out, a nurse whisked me away. I was covered in sticky fluid, my eyelids glued shut. But my senses were dialed up to eleven. I could feel someone shadowing the nurse.

A relentless, creeping presence right on her heels. Martha. It had to be her. She was making her move.

Think. What can I do? I thrashed my tiny legs, but my muscles were useless. I was the size of a rat.

Anyone could just snap my neck. If she swapped her kid for me right now, it would be a clean execution. I hadn't even opened my eyes to see my parents yet.

Was I already locked into the tragic displaced-heiress storyline?! No. Do not steal my trust fund life!

A heavy block of ice dropped into my microscopic stomach.

The nurse lowered me gently into an incubator. The plastic walls sealed me in. I blindly swiped my fingers, desperately trying to snag the fabric of her scrubs. Don't leave me.

Her rubber soles squeaked against the linoleum. Fading. Gone. Total isolation.

The suffocating stench of clinical bleach and rubbing alcohol burned my nostrils.

Then, I heard it.

Heavy, ragged breathing. She was inching closer. Pure survival instinct kicked in. I opened my toothless mouth and wailed.

Click. The incubator door swung open.

Chapter 2

I didn't dare stop screaming. I cranked the volume, wailing at the top of my microscopic lungs to grab anyone's attention. The rough, calloused pads of Martha's fingers grazed my bare skin. She was about to scoop me up.

"Martha? What the hell are you doing in here?" The voice belonged to a man I didn't recognize.

"Mr. Vincent?" Martha jerked back, clearly spooked. "W-what are you doing here?"

"Excuse me? I should be asking you that. My family owns this private hospital, so why do you think I'm here?" Irritation dripped from his words.

"Besides, I'm checking on my best friend's newborn. That is none of your business."

The crushing weight in my chest instantly evaporated. So this was my dad's doctor buddy. I was untouchable.

Getting a top-tier partner to show up at a private hospital we just transferred to at the last minute? Thats my boss of a capitalist father for you!

"The neonatal unit is restricted access. Why are you in here?" Vincent pressed, not letting it go.

Martha's voice shrank into a pathetic whimper. "I I just wanted to see the little miss. I"

"You aren't even checking on your own newborn, yet you're hovering over my niece?" Vincent's tone sharpened into a warning. "Get out."

Martha forced a tight, embarrassed smile. "Right away, sir" Knowing she was backed into a corner, she swallowed her excuses and slipped out the door.

Crisis averted. The ultimate baby-swap scheme was officially dead in the water. Still, I wasn't taking any chances with bribed nurses. The second any stranger stepped within a three-foot radius of my incubator, I unleashed holy hell.

Russell couldn't handle the constant alarms, so he pulled strings to have Vincent personally monitor me 24/7. If his eyes darted away from my plastic box for even a second, I screamed. By the time we were discharged, both he and Vincent were sporting deep, bruised-looking bags under their eyes.

"This little tyrant hasn't let me sleep for three days straight."

I was finally swaddled in my mother's arms, her rhythmic pats lulling me into a milk-drunk daze.

"She's just a daddy's girl already, aren't you?" Mom giggled, tapping my nose. "Our little Sloane loves her daddy."

Russell tilted his chin up, puffing out his chest like a peacock. "With a set of lungs like that, she's destined to be an opera singer." His massive hand cupped the top of my tiny head, his face softening into a ridiculously dopey grin. "So, baby Sloane, which Ivy League do you want Daddy to buy a library for?"

Mom rolled her eyes, playfully swatting his arm. "She's literally a week old. Dial it back."

Right on cue, Martha shuffled into the nursery, her hands wringing nervously in front of her apron.

"Ma'am, Sir congratulations on your beautiful baby girl." Martha plastered on a meek, subservient smile. Then, she dragged a massive woven tote bag across the plush carpet.

"My husband just brought these up from our farm in Texas. Everything is organic, zero additives. I thought it would be perfect for Madam's postpartum recovery."

Mom offered a polite smile. "I heard you had a little girl as well. Why didn't you bring her up to the main house?"

Martha waved her hands frantically, stepping back. "Oh, no, no. Little Sienna was born with a weak constitution. I wouldn't dare risk passing any germs to the young miss."

Yeah, right. I mentally scoffed. She was playing the humble servant card, but I knew the truth. She was terrified of bringing her kid around because if my parents memorized Sienna's face, her grand baby-swap scheme would be ruined forever.

After all, she had already blown her golden window of opportunity at the hospital. But the old witch clearly hadn't given up.

"Sloane The young miss's name is so elegant. Does it hold a special meaning?" she asked, desperate to fill the silence.

Mom gently traced the nape of my neck. "She has a tiny birthmark right here shaped exactly like a butterfly. We chose Sloane because we want her to be a free spirit, unbothered by the rules of society."

Chapter 3

I clamped my tiny fists onto the collar of my onesie, desperately trying to shield the back of my neck, but my infant muscles were useless. My birthmark was exposed right in front of Martha.

In my peripheral vision, I watched her pupils dilate.

"Leave it to you educated folks to come up with something so poetic. If my kid had a mark like that, I probably would've just named her Sienna Butterfly." Martha's self-deprecating joke drew a light, amused laugh from Mom. The air in the room remained relaxed, masking the venom dripping from her words.

That night, I was sleeping in my bassinet. A shadow crept through the pitch-black nursery. It was Martha.

The dull metallic glint of heavy shears hung from her grip as she moved toward me.

I struggled to roll over and scan the room. Vincent was dozing in the armchair next to me, his chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm. Thanks to my rigorous "sleep deprivation boot camp," I knew one shriek from me would snap him awake instantly.

But I didn't make a sound. Martha didn't reach for me. She reached into the other bassinet and pulled out her own daughter.

A few minutes later, she returned. She dumped her baby back into the crib. The faint, unmistakable metallic tang of blood drifted into the nursery air.

Sienna wailed through the entire night.

From that day on, Sienna also had a butterfly on the nape of her neck. A grotesque, mangled scar raised against her skin, twisted and ugly. Martha started bringing Sienna to the main house whenever she worked. She weaponized that artificial scar, using it as a desperate bridge to force a connection between me and her kid, all to score brownie points with my parents.

"My Sienna has the exact same mark as the young miss. What are the odds?"

"Maybe they were sisters in a past life."

Martha's relentless pushing backfired. It only thickened the tension in the room. Especially with my older brother, Brooks.

"She's the help, yet she's constantly trying to put her kid on the same pedestal as my sister. The social climbing is exhausting."

I dangled my legs from Brooks's lap, kicking my tiny feet.

My parents were irritated, but factoring in Martha's years of labor on the estate, they didn't fire her. They just tolerated Sienna crawling around the playroom, brushing it off as a built-in playdate for me. Sienna was too young to grasp any of it.

She just crawled blindly across the imported Persian rugs in my room. Sometimes she snatched my gummy bears; other times she just drooled and flashed me a mindless, toothy grin. I stared at her, observing the toddler with cold detachment.

Sienna had a low, heavy hairline, a carbon copy of Martha. Her hair practically merged with her eyebrows. Meanwhile, my forehead was round and prominent.

Then, one afternoon, I noticed Sienna's hairline had receded. Her soft, wispy baby hairs had been brutally plucked out by the roots to fake a higher forehead. And then there were her eyes.

They were constantly swollen, puffed up like bruised plums. I originally assumed Martha's negligence had caused some sort of bacterial infection.

Until the day I caught Martha dragging her daughter into the corner of the pantry.

She gripped the sharp metal edge of a bobby pin and dragged it across the toddler's eyelids.

She hissed under her breath. "Useless trash! Who told you to be born with monolids? Stop crying!

I'm carving these creases into you, and you're going to live like a billionaire heiress!"

The delicate infant skin was sliced open repeatedly until it was raw, infected, and weeping with pus. Sienna was being forced into a grotesque mold. Just like that butchered butterfly scar, she was slowly being mutilated into a cheap imitation. A cold knot of nausea twisted in my gut.

Chapter 4

What kind of mother could mutilate her own flesh and blood like that?

The ambient temperature in the room plummeted. A jagged shard of ice drove itself straight into my spine as Martha muttered her next words.

"Sienna, don't blame Mommy for being harsh. Every inch you look like Sloane is another inch of guaranteed future. That little bastard won't live past three.

Once she's dead, the Master and Madam will look at you, see their dead daughter's face, and treat you exactly like their own flesh and blood! Mommy was useless.

I couldn't swap you into luxury the day you were born. But don't worry, Mommy is going to carve out a top-tier future for you!"

Clammy sweat glued my onesie to my back. Won't live past three The words burned like a branding iron against my ribs, a vicious prophecy.

I stared at the ceiling. The docile, hardworking Martha was plotting an assassination. And I was trapped in an infant's body, forced to watch her orchestrate my doom.

I couldn't speak. I couldn't run. I couldn't even control my own bladder. Even if I mapped out her entire murder plot, my limbs were useless jelly.

Who do I scream to? Who would decode baby babble?

The walls of the nursery felt like they were shrinking, closing in on my crib.

Just as the oxygen felt sucked from the room, the estate received an international call. My grandmother, living out her retirement in Europe, had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. Mom was physically wrecked by the news. When she found out the old matriarch wanted nothing more than to be surrounded by her grandchildren in her final days, she made the agonizing decision to grant her wish, despite her own deep attachment to us.

But who to send? Me or Brooks? This was literally a lifeline handed to me on a silver platter.

I watched my normally composed mother wipe a tear from her cheek. I forced my jaw open and pushed out two broken, strained syllables.

"Gramma"

The air in the room stood still. Every pair of eyes snapped to my high chair.

Mom gasped, her hands trembling. "Sloane, what did you just say?"

Russell immediately seized the moment. "Looks like our Sloane has a special connection with her grandmother."

Mom's smile faded, her shoulders dropping in a heavy silence. After a long pause, she nodded heavily.

"Alright. We'll send Sloane abroad. My poor baby"

"When shall we make the arrangements, Madam?" the head butler asked.

Russell pulled Mom into his chest, rubbing her shoulder. "At least let Sloane stay for her first birthday party."

My first birthday party, which doubled as my trust fund initiation ceremony. The estate was crawling with the city's elite. I was placed in the dead center of the grand hall. From my vantage point on the floor, the razor-sharp creases of tailored tuxedo pants looked like a suffocating, dense forest of black wool.

Russell led in a thoroughbred chestnut foal. Its coat gleamed under the chandeliers, its manicured hooves pawing arrogantly at the imported carpets.

Mom slipped a vintage Cartier emerald bracelet over my tiny wrist. She offered a subtle wave. A wall of suited bodyguards stepped forward, snapping open velvet cases.

The blinding fire of flawless, top-tier diamonds assaulted my vision. A pristine Arctic fox fur hat from my grandfather was plopped onto my heada trophy from his private hunting expeditions in the remote Alaskan wilderness during his youth.

My great-uncle limped in late, leaning heavily on a solid silver cane. He casually announced he had just purchased a private island in the Caribbean as my birthday gift.

Money doesn't talk. It whispers. Truly, the ultimate lottery ticket in life is just being born to the right zip code.

I was swarmed by high-society parasites as I sat on the display table. Scattered all around me were solid gold miniature yacht models, diamond-encrusted sports car keys, and framed, fully-vested stock option agreements for the family empire. The heavy hitters of the corporate world fell dead silent. They watched with bated breath to see what the one-year-old heir would grab first