The room is larger than I initially thought. It’s a guest suite designed for long-term stays. Mahogany furniture, silk curtains, a marble bathroom. Even the carpet feels expensive beneath my bare feet.
But it’s still a prison.
I search methodically, the way my father taught me when I was twelve and he was convinced his enemies might raid our house. “Always know your exits, Kasi,” he said, showing me how to check window locks, how to identify structural weak points. “And always have a plan.”
Back then, I thought he was being paranoid. Now I’m grateful for every survival lesson he drilled into my head, even though he’s the reason I’m in a situation where I have to use it.
The closet yields exactly what I expected. There are shoes and clothes in my size, from jeans to dresses to workout gear. All with tags still attached, like they’ve been waiting for me.
The thought makes my skin crawl. They planned to keep me here long enough to need a wardrobe.
I grab the darkest outfit I can find—black jeans, black hoodie, black sneakers, and a pretty sundress just because.
Everything fits perfectly, which somehow makes this whole situation more terrifying. At the bottom of the closet, I find a small black backpack that’s exactly the right size for essentials.
The mini-fridge in the corner is stocked like they’re preparing for a siege—water bottles, protein bars, fresh fruit, energy drinks. I take five bottles of water and as many snacks as I can fit, leaving room for the few clothes I’m packing.
My fingers find the chain around my neck, and relief floods through me. They didn’t take my mother’s necklace.
The delicate silver chain features a small diamond pendant, one of the few things I have left of her. It’s worth enough to keep me fed for weeks if I can find someone to buy it.
The window is my biggest challenge.
I’m on the second floor, overlooking the estate grounds that stretch for what looks like miles. But there’s an old oak tree about six feet from the window, its branches thick enough to support my weight.
I’ve climbed bigger trees.
I change quickly, stuffing my pajamas into the backpack along with underwear and socks that still have tags on them. The window slides open silently—either they’re confident in their security, or they want to give prisoners the illusion that escape is possible.
I prefer to think it’s arrogance.
The night air hits my face as I climb onto the windowsill, and I freeze for a moment. It’s a long way down. But then I hear voices in the hallway outside my room, and fear overrides everything else.
“I’m invincible,” I whisper to myself, the way I used to when my father made me practice these drills. “I’m invincible.”
I leap.
My hands catch the nearest branch, bark scraping against my palms as I swing myself toward the trunk. The tree holds, and I scramble down as quietly as possible, trying not to think about what happens if someone looks out a window right now.
“I’m invincible, I’m invincible.”
My feet hit the ground, and pain spikes up under my feet, despite the shoes I’m wearing. I swallow the ache and crouch behind the massive trunk, listening.
No shouts, no alarms, no sounds of pursuit. Just the distant hum of highway traffic and the soft rustle of leaves overhead.
I’m about to make a run for the perimeter when I hear footsteps on gravel. I press myself flat against the tree and hold my breath.
The footsteps pass within feet of where I’m hiding.
When they fade, I count to thirty, then look at the sleek silver watch I found in the nightstand drawer—11:47 PM. Perfect. Late enough that most of the household staff will be asleep, but not so late that security will be on high alert.
I sprint toward the service road that leads to the main gate, keeping low as I pass the illuminated fountain in the center of the circular drive. The estate is massive—I can see at least three separate wings of the main house, all connected by covered walkways. Security lights dot the perfectly manicured grounds every fifty feet, creating pools of brightness I have to avoid.
To my left, I can make out what looks like a guest house. To my right, a garage that could easily hold twenty cars. Everything is pristine, expensive, designed to impress and intimidate in equal measure.
A delivery truck is pulling out of the service entrance, moving slowly enough that I can catch up. Without thinking, I dive into the back, landing hard among empty crates and the smell of cleaning supplies.
The truck picks up speed, and I allow myself one second of triumph.
