A hand falls on my shoulder.
"Going somewhere, Miss Faulks?"
Donovan. His cologne hits me—something sharp and woody, like pine needles and cold. I turn slowly. His face is impassive, professional, but his grip on my shoulder is iron.
"Just to the garden." I force a smile, feeling it stretch across my face, artificial. "I love watching the sunrise."
"I'm afraid that's not possible. The grounds are off-limits without a proper escort." He shakes his head.
Heat flares in my chest. "This is ridiculous. It's my home. I should be able to go where I please."
"Your safety is our primary concern." His voice is maddeningly calm. Like he's discussing the weather. "Perhaps we can arrange for you to view the sunrise from one of the upstairs windows?"
I want to scream. To claw at his face. To run.
Instead, I nod stiffly. Let him escort me back to my room like a prisoner being returned to her cell.
The door closes. I press my forehead against the window glass, cold against my skin. Outside, the sky shifts from gray to pink to gold. The roses in the garden open their faces to the light.
Beautiful. Untouchable. Just like my freedom.
Attempt two: thwarted.
The day crawls by.I pace my room until I've worn a path in the carpet. Eleven steps from the window to the door. Eleven steps back. The walls seem closer each time I turn.
Late afternoon, I try again.
The kitchen is chaos at this hour—staff preparing dinner, the clatter of pots and pans, voices calling orders. Mrs. Holloway runs a tight ship, but even she can't watch everyone at once.
If I can slip through unnoticed, the service entrance is right there. One door. Freedom.
I make my way downstairs, trying to look casual. Like I'm not planning anything. Like my pulse isn't hammering in my throat.
The smell hits me first—roasting meat, fresh herbs, something sweet baking. My stomach growls despite the anxiety churning inside.
I'm reaching for the kitchen door when?—
"Miss Faulks?"
Mrs. Holloway. The housekeeper. Her gray hair pulled back in its severe bun, glasses perched on her nose, eyes sharp as ever.
"Is there something you need?" Her tone is gentle. Patient. Like she's talking to a child.
My mind scrambles. "I was feeling peckish. Thought I might grab a snack."
"Oh, you poor thing. All this wedding stress." Her expression softens. She pats my arm. "Why don't you return to your room? I'll have someone bring up a tray."
The kindness makes it worse. How can I explain that this place is suffocating me? That I'd rather starve on the streets than eat another meal in this house?
I can't. So I nod. Murmur thanks. Turn away.
Attempt three: foiled.
Night falls.The house darkens. And with it, my desperation grows teeth.
I can't stay here. Won't. Not one more day. Not one more hour.
This time, I don't bother with doors or stairs. They're watching those. Expecting them.
