I've done this before. Spent three years sneaking out of Todd's mansion before his security caught me and he made it clear what would happen if I tried again.
But this isn't Todd's house. These aren't Todd's rules.
These are four boys who used to climb through my window at 2 AM to bring me stolen snacks and horror movies I wasn't allowed to watch. They taught me how to break in and out of places. Showed me every trick they knew.
The irony of using their lessons to escape them isn't lost on me.
I swing my leg over the windowsill, testing my weight on the porch roof. It holds. I shimmy down the column with ease, dropping the last few feet to the grass with barely a sound.
No alarms. No shouting. No immediate consequences.
My heart goes haywire as I straighten, brushing grass off my sweatpants. I'm outside. Technically breaking the rules already, and Kade's not storming out here to drag me back inside.
Either the cameras don't exist, or he's letting me think I've won. Giving me just enough rope to hang myself before he yanks it tight.
I walk toward the front of the house, trying to look casual instead of like I'm fleeing a crime scene. The street's quiet, lined with those perfect trees that probably get maintained by some neighborhood association that fines you if your lawn's an inch too long. A couple jogs past in matching athleisure, barely sparing me a glance.
Normal. I look normal. Just another college girl out for a walk, not a captive testing her boundaries.
My phone stays silent in my pocket. No texts. No calls. No angry demands to get my ass back inside.
The validation feels dangerous and a little bit intoxicating. Like maybe I've actually found a crack in their control.
Three blocks down sits a small ice cream shop wedged between a yoga studio and a coffee roaster. The kind of place that makes everything by hand and charges eight dollars for a single scoop. I've passed it a hundred times driving to campus and never stopped.
Today, I stop.
The bell chimes as I push through the door, and the blast of unnecessarily violent AC slaps me like a dick in the face. A bored employee behind the counter grudgingly looks up from herphone, supremely uninterested in my existence. Or the pretty silver collar that's not-quite hidden beneath my hoodie.
"What can I get you?"
I scan the flavors, all artisanal and pretentious. Lavender honey. Balsamic strawberry. Brown butter bourbon.
Nothing as simple as chocolate or vanilla.
"Rose cardamom," I say, because fuck it. If I'm going to break rules, might as well commit to some weird ass flavor I'd usually never try.
The ice cream's bright pink.
Perfect.
I pay with cash and take my cone outside. There's a bench across the street, shaded by an oak tree that's probably older than the neighborhood itself.
The ice cream tastes like actual flowers. The kind that probably shouldn't be edible. I eat it anyway, watching cars drift past, trying to remember what normal feels like. What it felt like before Todd.
Before my boys became Kings.
Simpler times.Stupidertimes. Times when I didn't understand that love could turn into ownership so easily.
My phone buzzes.
KADE
Enjoying your walk?
Ice floods my veins.
He knows.
