“This is Mrs. Dorsey,” Jackson says. “She’ll make sure you’re comfortable.”
Comfortable. The word sticks like glass in my throat.
And then another appears—a man this time, shorter, wide through the middle, with dark skin and gentle eyes that don’t belong in this place. He wipes his hands on a flour-dusted towel knotted at his waist.
“Mr. Lyle,” Jackson says warmly. “The heart of this home.”
Lyle dips his head in acknowledgement. He doesn’t meet my eyes long. But in the second he does, I feel it. The pity again. The‘I’m sorry’ he can’t say out loud.
Jackson releases me, his palm sliding down my arm, like it’s a caress instead of a command. “Mrs. Dorsey, if you’d be so kind, give our guest a tour. Donnie will accompany you.”
I almost laugh. Atour. Like I’m a bride seeing my new house. Not a prisoner being marched deeper into her cage.
“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Dorsey replies. Her voice is flat. Dutiful. But her gaze cuts past Jackson to me. Her lips press tight, and I know she wants to say more. She doesn’t.
We move.
The marble floors stretch beneath feet, veined with silver that catches the light from chandeliers. The ceilings soar high enough to echo. The walls are pale, broken by oil paintings—men with stern faces, women draped in pearls, none of them smiling. Their eyes follow. Judge. Condemn.
Donnie lumbers behind us, hands shoved in his pockets, whistling off-key. A watchdog with too many teeth.
Mrs. Dorsey walks briskly, pointing out rooms like this is all perfectly normal. The library, lined with shelves and leather armchairs. The dining hall—a table long enough to seat thirty. A ballroom with polished floors that gleam like ice.
My pulse drums hard in my ears.
“This wing is private,” Mrs. Dorsey says quickly, regaining her composure. She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t have to. The tension in her jaw says enough.Don’t ask. Don’t look. Don’t push.
We keep walking.
Every step makes me smaller, even though the house is too big, too open. There’s nowhere to hide. Nowhere to breathe.
Mrs. Dorsey’s heels click on the marble as she leads me deeperinto the house. I’m barely listening to her soft, practised words anymore— something about the East Wing being quieter, more private. My stomach is a knot, twisted so tight it might snap. Every hallway looks the same—long stretches of pale walls, thick rugs muffling steps, chandeliers dripping with crystals that sparkle like they’re laughing at me.
Finally, she stops in front of a door. It’s white, carved with delicate flowers and painted gold at the edges. Too soft. Too pretty. Like it’s waiting for a little girl to skip through it, not a prisoner being shoved inside.
Mrs. Dorsey opens it. “This will be your room,” she says, voice clipped.
The space is enormous. My breath stutters when I step inside. A four-poster bed dominates the center, its frame carved from dark mahogany with a canopy draped in sheer white curtains. At the foot sits a velvet chaise in blood-red. The wallpaper is pale cream, patterned with gold vines that twist like chains. A chandelier dangles low, scattering light across polished floorboards and a massive armoire with brass handles.
It’s beautiful. Too beautiful. Which makes it worse.
Because I can already see myself locked in here, the walls closing in. The pretty details morphing into prison bars. The curtains like gauze thrown over a body.
Mrs. Dorsey hesitates. Her mouth parts like she wants to say something, but Donnie shifts behind us, clearing his throat. She stiffens and smooths her apron instead. “If you need anything, ring the bell beside the bed.”
I nod, my throat raw.
And then she leaves. Donnie leaves too. The heavy click of the lock echoes through the silence, and my chest constricts.
I’m alone at least for a moment.
But I know—I know—he’s coming.
I pace the room, my hands shaking. My eyes catch on the objects around me, desperate for a weapon. The only thing that looks remotely useful is the silver candelabra sitting on the dresser. Heavy, ornate, its arms curling into jagged points.
I grip it with both hands, hiding in the middle of the room, staring at the door.
It doesn’t take long.
