Obese Daughter Was Given to a Slave as Punishment by Her Father, But He Loved Her Like no One Ever

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The Wagered Daughter

Livia’s world ended with a slam. The heavy oak doors of her father’s hall crashed shut, echoing like thunder in her chest. She scrambled upright on the cold stone floor, her elbows scraped raw, her fine gown wrinkled and dusty. The guards outside didn’t spare her a glance. The punishment was delivered; their part was done.

Inside, Lord Cashion’s words still rang in her ears: “You shame this family. Let him have you. Perhaps a few weeks of humiliation will teach you to eat and behave like a lady.” No pleading softened his heart, no tears changed his mind. Livia, once the noble daughter of Veilmont’s most powerful merchant, was now property—given away like something broken.

Across the servant’s quarters, a man stood barefoot, dirt clinging to his hands, his shirt tattered. A scar ran down his forearm. But his eyes weren’t cruel. They were stunned, uncertain. His name, she recalled, was Celas—a stable hand turned slave, bought from the mountains after famine forced families to trade sons for bread.

“I don’t want a gift,” Celas said quietly. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“Neither did I,” Livia replied, voice trembling. They stood in silence, watching each other warily. Then Livia’s stomach growled, mortifying her. But Celas only turned to the hearth, filling a tin pot with water. “I’ll make broth,” he said.

She stared, confused. “You’re not going to hurt me?”

He paused. “Do you think I’m like your father?”

That silenced her. She lowered her gaze, ashamed. When the broth was ready, he handed her a cup. She drank silently, afraid she’d cry if she spoke. He didn’t ask questions, just cleaned tools by firelight, humming a tune she didn’t know. That night, he gave her the cot and slept by the fire.

It was the first kindness she’d known in months.

The next morning, Livia awoke to birdsong and a cramp in her neck. Celas wasn’t there. Panic flared—had he told someone? Would guards take her back? But soon the door creaked open and Celas entered, arms full of firewood.

“You’re awake,” he said simply.

“I didn’t thank you for last night.”

“You don’t have to.” He laid out bread and salted plums, then sat across from her as an equal.

“You’re not afraid I’ll report you for sitting?”

He smirked. “You’re not noble anymore.”

That should have hurt, but it didn’t—not when he said it like that. Later, Livia offered to help sweep the barn. She was clumsy, tripping over hay bales and shrieking at mice. Celas tried to hold in his laughter, but failed, and the sound was warm, like sunlight after rain.

That evening, Livia asked, “Why haven’t you asked me anything?”

“Like what?”

“Why I was given away. Why I look the way I do.”

He leaned back. “I don’t care what he told me. I’ve seen you. There’s nothing wrong.”

She laughed bitterly. “You’re the only one who thinks so.”

“I’m not interested in everyone else.”

“You’re kind,” she whispered. “It’s dangerous being kind.”

“Not as dangerous as being cruel.”

Four days passed. Rumors swirled—her father was hosting a banquet, marrying off his youngest daughter, disposing of Livia to make space for the new match. Livia didn’t care. She helped muck stalls, carried water, learned to knead bread. Celas never treated her like she didn’t belong.

One afternoon, servant boys jeered, calling her “pig-ass” and laughing at her walk. Before she could react, Celas was there. He didn’t shout or strike them, just stared. “Say it again,” he said. The boys scattered. He turned to her. “Don’t listen to them.”

But her hands trembled. The bucket slipped, splashing water everywhere. She ran to the barn, hiding behind bales, crying silently. Celas found her and simply sat beside her. When her tears slowed, she whispered, “You can’t protect me from all of them.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I can protect you from believing them.”

That night, he hummed again, and she hummed along.

By the end of the week, she noticed how he watched her when she laughed, how he walked on the outside of the path, how he remembered her favorite bread and tea. Her heart fluttered. She had been given to him as punishment, but it no longer felt like punishment. It felt safe, whole.

Then, at dawn, a letter arrived—a wax-sealed envelope, blood-red. A rider came, asking for Celas by name. The letter was from Ezra, his uncle: “Your mother lies dying. If you wish to see her again, come quickly.” Celas explained he hadn’t spoken to his family in seven years, since the day he was sold.

“You’re coming back, right?” Livia asked.

He nodded, though his eyes were uncertain.

She helped pack his things—a book, boots, knife, comb. She tucked a jar of honey into his bag. “I don’t know if they have this where you’re going.”

He smiled. “Thank you.”

At the estate’s edge, she pressed a button from her old gown into his palm. “I’ll sew it back on when you return.”

He kissed her forehead. “I will come back, no matter what I find there.”

Three weeks passed. No letters, no word. Livia kept busy, but every night her hand wandered to the empty space on her sleeve. During the fourth week, two men arrived on horseback, bearing her father’s sigil.

“Lady Livia, Lord Cashion requests your presence. He’s dying.”

She blinked. Internal bleeding, thrown from his horse. Healers said he wouldn’t live another day. He’d asked for her.

The estate was as she remembered—cold, enormous, empty of warmth. Servants stared as she passed, some with pity. She found her father pale, propped up by silk pillows.

“Livia,” he rasped. “You came.”

“You summoned me.”

He winced. “I was wrong about everything. I thought if I punished you, I could fix you. But there was never anything broken, was there?”

Her hands trembled. “No, there wasn’t.”

“I sent you to that boy as a lesson. But I see now, he was the only one who ever deserved you.”

She sat beside him. “I forgive you. Not for your sake, for mine.”

His breathing slowed. “Tell him thank you. Celas…”

With a final breath, Lord Cashion closed his eyes.

The funeral was grand. Livia didn’t cry. She returned to the barn, alone. When she opened the door, her breath caught—Celas stood by the fire, cloaked in snow. She ran, throwing herself into his arms.

“I thought you weren’t coming back.”

“I said I would. I keep my promises.”

“My mother passed before I arrived, but I buried her by the old pine. Ezra gave me her journal. She wrote about you. She dreamed of the girl I’d love someday—brave, kind, strong.”

“I missed you,” she whispered.

“I missed you more.” He pulled out the button. “Time to sew it back on.”

But the world had one more twist. That night, a letter arrived from a noble house: her father owed a debt. As his sole heir, she was responsible—2,000 in gold, or “other ways” would be collected.

Livia’s hands shook. “That’s impossible.”

Celas’s jaw clenched. “Then we run.”

“No. Running makes us prey. They’ll find us eventually.”

“Then what do we do?”

“We buy time.”

Three days later, collectors arrived—a woman in red, Lady Kalia Thorne. “Your father gave us collateral. Property, titles. But his final promise was sealed with something more valuable.”

“What do you mean?”

“Legally, you are the last surviving heir. The debt is yours. Pay, serve, or surrender.”

“Serve?”

“You’ll live in our estate, attend to duties, cook, clean, for a term of ten years.”

Celas barked a laugh. “How many survive those ten years?”

They were given two days to decide.

That night, Livia wrote to her aunt, Lady Rosamund of Hillville, pleading for help. Celas delivered the letter. When he returned, Livia was gone—taken by Lady Kalia and her men.

Celas tracked them, found them by a stream. Livia sat bound in the carriage. He fought the guards, freed her.

“I thought if I gave myself up, you’d be safe.”

“You’re not mine to give away, but I’ll die before I let them take you.”

Two days passed. Then a letter arrived from Lady Rosamund: “My carriage will arrive within the fortnight. You are not alone anymore.”

But in the hills, a man in white watched them, smiling. He was too clean, too untouched. He dropped a card at Livia’s feet: two ravens circling an iron gate.

“You were never the debt, Lady Livia. You were the wager.”

Livia’s knees trembled. “What?”

“Your father lost much. But even in his fall, he placed one last bet. You.”

Celas stepped forward. “Tell your master he can come for her himself.”

“He will.”

That night, Livia couldn’t sleep. “Do you think he’ll really come?”

“He’s already here somewhere. Men like that send others to announce the storm. Then they wait for lightning.”

“I’m not worth it.”

“Don’t say that. What they discarded, that’s where God begins his work.”

“Then why does it still hurt?”

“Because love costs, even when it’s real.”

Three days later, Lady Rosamund arrived. She hugged Livia fiercely. That night, as they dined under the stars, Celas watched the woods.

Something was wrong. The horses screamed. The carriage burned. Rosamund’s guard lay dead.

“It’s House Holland,” Rosamund said. “Your father’s greatest rival. They ruined them at court. Now they’ll do it through you.”

“Then we kill them first,” Celas growled.

“They don’t play fair. We make you disappear.”

Rosamund left as a decoy. Livia and Celas escaped through old river tunnels. But the ground gave way—they fell into a ravine. The man in white appeared above.

“You were wagered in a game. Now you’re the prize.”

Below, women emerged from the shadows—former slaves, sold instead of Livia. They led her through ancient tunnels. Livia swore, “I’ll never let them take another one of us again.”

At the tunnel’s fork, the man in white waited, unarmed, smiling. Behind him, men appeared—guards, soldiers. Celas charged, fighting like a storm. The women surged, fighting with iron bars, rocks, memory.

But more soldiers came—House Holland’s private army. Then, from the mines, former slaves erupted, breaking the lines. Celas grabbed Livia’s hand. “Run.”

They escaped into dawn, survivors collapsing in the brush. Livia tended wounds, built fires. Two days later, riders came—House Holland, the man in white at their head.

“You have something that belongs to us.”

“I belong to no one,” Livia answered.

He raised his hand. Riders drew pistols.

She tore her shawl, revealing scars. “You made this. So come finish it.”

But behind her, farmers, ranchers, freed men appeared—an old man with a Bible and rifle at their center. “She is not alone.”

The Holland riders fled.

Livia collapsed into Celas’s arms. “It’s done.”

“No,” he said. “We haven’t danced yet.” She kissed him, slow and safe.

They built a camp by the river, then a school. More girls came, learning to read, to ride, to speak without fear. Celas gave Livia a ring—leather wound tight around a stone.

They married before the children they saved, not before nobles.

One evening, Livia stood in the chapel’s doorway, hands on her full belly.

“She kicked again,” she smiled.

“She’s strong like her father.”

“No, like her mother.”

In the fields, girls chased fireflies. All of it born from broken beginnings.

“I used to think no one would ever see me,” Livia whispered. “That I was too big, too strange, too much.”

“You were never too much,” Celas said. “The world was too small.”

She leaned into him. “Thank you for choosing me.”

He held her tighter. “Thank you for saving me.”

Together, hand in hand, they stepped into the home they’d built—not from stone or status, but from something far stronger.

Love.

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