As she retreats, I hesitate, my mind racked with worry. Every day, I dread seeing my father; the fear that he’ll see through me eats at me. Taking a shaky breath, I slip out of my bedroom and hurry down the grand stairs, each step heavier than the last.
“Ah, finally. There you are. Honestly, the amount of time you spend in that bedroom is just plain rude. Heavens only know what you’re doing in there. You should be preparing for your wedding.” Father stands from the dining table to face me with a stern expression.
“Linda called and thought you might be interested to know the final arrangements for the wedding.”
How really fucking lovely of Linda. Rub it in some more. Vile, incestuous swine that she is. Planning her son’s wedding as if she were the one getting married to him.
I didn’t respond, my mask still in place, but he anticipates my lack of enthusiasm.
“Do not even think of doing anything to embarrass me! You will marry the boy; the least you could do is pretend to be interested in the whole affair.”
I quite literally bit my tongue. Little did he know. I’ll die before I say my marriage vows. If he finds out I’m planning an escape, he’ll kill me.
If my plans succeed, he’ll hunt me down and kill me.
If my plans fail… Well, I’ll throw myself off the balcony in the library.
“I will arrange a meeting with her.”
“Don’t bother, she’ll be here within the hour.”
Fuck-shit-fuck. “Okay. I’ll be in the gardens until she arrives.”
To not cause suspicion, I make sure not to rush, to walk different routes, and not to appear too interested as I travel through the expanse of the northern gardens. The blueprints for the house and the surrounding gardens' landscape were memorised long ago. It was only a year ago that I started paying more attention to the walls that trap me.
I’ve helped the gardeners under the guise of wanting a hobby, taken every sport or physical education I could, and followed the maids to learn their routines. It’s been a process. I’m hopeful that it will pay off when I need it the most.
There it is. My tree in the north east corner is going to be my one-way ticket to freedom. Everything looks in order, but it doesn't stop me from coming back to check -even from a distance- every few days.
It allows me to breathe.
The day when I need an escape is getting closer and closer; I can feel it.
The wedding may be next week, but I feel as if someone is hiding in wait around every corner, waiting to tie me up and sweep me away. Trapped and holed away for the rest of my life.
4
Kaden
Driving down the winding roads that lead to Marcus’s estate, the city fades away behind me. Arching trees line the roads, their branches bare from the winter’s frost but the sun shines brightly overhead. You might almost forget that it’s still chilly outside.
As I approach, grand metal security gates swing open, allowing me passage onto the Burke estate. Manicured lawns stretch out on either side of the long driveway - crisp green, carefully sculpted.
The house itself is imposing—three stories of glass and stone, perched atop a gentle hill, its windows catching the sun and throwing reflections onto the gravel drive.
I spot Marcus waiting for me on the front steps, his body tense, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his fitted coat. His mouth is set in a grim line, jaw tight as he watches me approach. He greets me with a stiff handshake, his grip firm but cold.
Up close, I notice the new lines etched into his face, the deep furrows that weren’t there seven years ago. Stress hangs off him like a heavy cloak, and his eyes flicker restlessly toward the house as if expecting trouble to step out at any moment.
“Thanks for coming,” he says, his voice lowered and brittle. Up close, I notice the lines on his face that weren’t there seven years ago.
We head inside, footsteps echoing on the marble floor. The entryway is cavernous, sunlight streaming through a chandelier that throws fractured rainbows onto the walls. The house is quiet, almost too quiet for its size—the kind of silence that presses in around you. A distant grandfather clock ticks solemnly somewhere in the depths of the house.
Marcus leads me to his study, shutting the heavy doors behind us with a soft finality. The air smells faintly of leather, ink, and old bourbon. He gestures for me to sit, then crosses to a desk cluttered with papers and tablets, the surface a controlled chaos of business and worry.
“You’ve seen the file,” he says, not bothering to sit. “Ashleigh’s been getting death threats—texts, emails, even letters. You know why I haven’t gone to the police. I’ve tried to investigate on my own, but with no outside help, I’m limited. I don’t know who I’m able to trust at this point.”
He hands me a manila folder full of printouts, then unlocks his phone and slides it across the desk. I sort through the evidence: scrolling through chilling messages, scanning the details, cataloguing timestamps and sender information. The threats are specific, relentless, and designed to terrify.
