Pushing open the door, I step onto the stone patio, inhaling deeply. The estate grounds are vast, stretching endlessly in every direction. And there, beyond the neatly manicured gardens and dew-dropped hedges, looms the fence encircling the property.
My supposed cage.
I stomp forward, the wellies sinking slightly into the damp earth as I take in my surroundings. The estate sprawls endlessly,a mixture of pristine landscaping and wilder, untamed patches further out. It's beautiful, in a cold, curated way. The kind of beauty that comes with old money and the expectation that no one ever questions it.
As I round the side of the house, a glint of movement catches my eye–a long, low building partially hidden behind a hedge-lined path. Curious, I march toward it, brushing a few stray leaves from my coat. The structure is unassuming, almost forgettable compared to the grandeur of the house, but as I step inside, my breath catches.
Rows of cars.
Not just any cars, sleek, vintage two-seaters, polished to perfection, lined up as if waiting for a museum display. Jaguars, Aston Martins, a cherry-red Porsche that hasn't been driven in decades, but I know could still purr like a dream. The air smells faintly of motor oil and aged leather, a stark contrast to the crisp outdoors.
I run my hand along the hood of one of them, feeling the smooth, cool metal beneath my fingertips. So, Hayden collects cars. I shake my head, half amused, half exasperated. If I were going to be trapped here, at least there were distractions. And if I ever did manage to leave, I'll likely steal one of these for the road.
The thought sends a thrill through me, and I immediately scan the room for keys. There has to be a clue — a pegboard, a set of hooks, maybe even one left carelessly in the ignition. I move toward the workbench lining the back wall, searching through drawers and small compartments, but there’s nothing. No jangling sets of keys, no careless oversight.
Then I see it. Mounted to the wall in the far corner is a metal lockbox. Small, unassuming, but unmistakable.
I let out a bitter laugh. Sure, I’ll try it, but a man like Hayden wouldn’t just leave the keys to these cars unlocked.
I walk up to it, pressing my fingers against the cool steel to test if it might be loose. It isn’t. The keyhole is small, built for a precise mechanism, and I already know I won’t find the key anywhere obvious.
I try to remove the lid with my hands, but I can't wiggle it apart. Figures. Even his damn cars are locked up like treasures in a vault.
I push away from the lockbox, exhaling sharply before turning back toward the open doors of the garage. Fine. No cars, then. But there had to be more here.
There isn’t.
As I step back into the cold morning air, my eyes sweep across the grounds, searching for anything promising. Even if I wanted to go, where would I end up?
And then I see them.
Stables.
It’s not like I can just ride a horse back to my flat at Eulogia. But I’m desperate, and people have done odder things on that campus.
Tucked beyond the tree line, partially obscured by a line of tall hedges, the structure is long and elegant–the kind of thing that belongs to a functioning estate. My pulse kicks up in anticipation.
I march toward the building, the damp earth soft under my boots as I approach. But as I draw closer, my initial excitement dulls, a sinking feeling settling in my stomach.
The stables are empty.
The doors stand slightly ajar, swaying faintly in the breeze, and when I step inside, dust swirls in the shafts of morning light. The air is stale, tinged with the distant scent of old hay and leather, but there’s no sound of shifting hooves, no soft huffs of breath. The stalls, though beautifully crafted, stand vacant. Abandoned.
I run a hand over the wooden railing, my fingers catching on splinters. Whatever horses once lived here, they’re long gone.
My throat tightens as I glance around, taking in the discarded tack, the empty hooks where bridles should hang. A waste. A quiet, forgotten piece of the estate that no one bothered to maintain.
In a way, this Estate is nearly orphaned, except for my bedroom and the grand library. As though it’s tended to, but hardly used for all its grandeur.
I sigh, rubbing my temples before stepping back out into the cold. A dull ache settles in my chest as I glance back at the empty stalls. I can’t help but think of my horse Lilibet. Her steady, surefooted gait beneath me, the way she’d huff impatiently if I took too long to mount. She would have carried me far away from here without hesitation, trusting me the way I trusted her.
But there’s no Lilibet here. No familiar nuzzle against my palm, no rhythmic sound of hooves on soft earth. Just silence. Just another locked door in a place that already feels like a prison. No cars. No horses. No easy escape.
Frustration simmers beneath my skin, burning hotter with every step I take back toward the house. My boots slap against the stone pathway with unnecessary force, each stomp a wordless curse at this ridiculous, gilded prison. If I couldn’t drive away, and I couldn’t ride away, then I was going to find something else to do. And if I couldn’t leave, I could at least drink.
The wine cellar had to be here somewhere. A house like this, this old and excessive, was bound to have one. I just had to find it.
I push through the back entrance, shrugging off the thick coat and kicking off the wellies, and am back in the Keds the moment I step into the toasty warmth of the house. The heat seeps into my skin, chasing away the damp chill that had settled in mybones as I make my way through the winding hallways with a determined stride.
