He drags me to the door like I’m a sack of garbage. The vultures step aside like they’re watching trash taken to the curb.
“Don’t do this,” I say with a whimper. I stare at his handsome profile, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.
Someone snorts as if they’ve already found me guilty and deserving of death.
Rochester hauls me down the hallway, down the stairs, past the oil paintings of dead aristocrats who probably also had servants disappear. The entourage follows.My legs buckle. I fall forward, needing this to stop, but his iron grip keeps me upright.
Numbness falls over my senses for the rest of the journey. It’s part disbelief, past trauma. I spent my first two decades being dragged out of buildings by violent men. I didn’t escape to suffer the same.
Outside, the cool air hits my fevered skin like a slap. I blink, the back garden coming into focus. Floodlights assault my eyes from all directions, bringing me back to the present. I glance over my shoulder as he marches me across the patio. The others haven’t caught up yet, so I take my opportunity to speak.
“I didn’t say any of that stuff,” I lie. “You’ve got to believe me. She made it all up.”
Silence. The only reaction is his grip tightening until my arm turns numb.
“Don’t you want us to be together?” I sob. “Please. I won’t say anything. I’ll keep my mouth shut. It can be just you and me.”
The door behind us opens, and the others step out.
His lip curls with disgust. “Do not think for a minute that I would choose you over my beloved Blanche.”
“That’s right,” she hisses from behind.
My shoulders sag with defeat. This is it. I’m about to die.
He drags me through the manicured gardens, through the orchard. The foliage closes around us like a green tomb. Through the trees, the cottage stands half-hidden by brambles and neglect. Its windows gape black and empty, and the smell of rot drifts from its warped doorframe.
Rochester produces an iron key and turns the lock with the sound of breaking bones.
“Get inside.”
I plant my feet, shaking my head like a madwoman. “No. Please. I’ll disappear tonight. You’ll never have to think about me again.”
He shoves me through the entrance. I stumble, catching myself against a wall that feels slimy under my palms. The door slams like a coffin lid, sealing me in silence and rot. The key turns, and his footsteps retreat.
I launch myself at the door and pound on it with my fist. “Let me out!”
Nobody replies. Not even Blanche and her friends to gloat. These bastards have left me here to rot.
I turn in a circle, every fine hair on my body standing to attention. What the hell do I do now?
Water drips somewhere in the shadows like a metronome counting down to my death. How many times in my miserable existence did Dad or Brother Matthew drag me to the barn to await my punishment? I’ve lost count. Last time, I swore to make sure it would never happen again.
In the dark, I fumble along the walls, my hands finding dust and cobwebs and things I don’t want to identify. A fireplace covered in thick cobwebs. Old newspapers that disintegrate at my touch. A wooden crate stuffed with oil-soaked rags. A dented canister of something that reeks of industrial solvent.
I bump into a table, and my fingers close around a box that feels like matches.
Fire. That’s my way out.
I should burn this whole place to ashes. Light the shack like a funeral pyre. Won’t be the first time. Then I’ll take the limousine and drive it off the cliff. If I’m going down, so is this fucking estate.
But theyleft to get married. The only person I’d be hurting with the fire is myself.
I sink onto the damp floor, my back against the wall.
What’s next? Prison? I shake my head. Even if my fingerprints are all over Blanche’s bottle, so would Rochester’s. He wouldn’t dare risk his precious inheritance. Or the insurance payout he’s likely to put on his wife’s life.
What’s left? A shallow grave in these fucking woods?
