Page 100 of Damsel in Disguise

And Alistair never hastily leaves his things behind—that’s never him. Unless it’s another test to see what I’d do.

Nope. Not touching his damned device.

Neither do I waste my time searching each and every corner in his absence. I already know what lies around. After all, I’ve been coming in and out of this place for quite some time as his unofficial assistant.

I’ve searched his drawers, revealing nothing but neatly arranged files, expensive pens, and documents stacked with obsessive precision.

Bookshelves full of the engineering genre. All organized, categorized, and untouched by chaos.

Tried pulling a few out to check for hidden chambers that we see in movies.

I checked behind the couch or inside the cabinets—nothing, not even an accumulation of dust.

It’s his office after all. Stripped of anything that could be turned against what serves him.

My gaze drifts toward the window again.

I straighten slowly, exhaling through my nose as the realization settles in—I can’t escape. Not like this.

The idea of the curtains lingers at the back of my mind.

It can allow me a descent if I twist it right and knot it properly, that is… if it doesn’t tear halfway and send me crashing down like a dead weight.

It’s stupid and reckless. So is everything else I’ve done so far. I can take a chance with this.

My gaze drifts toward the window, my last resort.

If I’m getting out of here, I need to figure out how to climb down as soon as possible.

The decision settles in with lethal finality.

I’m already leaving my phone and striding towards it, and grab onto the curtains, testing it first.

Stronger and heavier than it seems from a distance—yet meant to block out light, not bear weight.

That doesn’t stop me. I tug harder. The channel creaks faintly where it’s fixed into the wall.

I drag a chair over, the legs scrape softly against the floor despite my effort to keep it quiet.

Climbing up, I reach higher, fingers working at the hooks one by one. The metal legs of the chair shift slightly beneath me. My balance tilts just enough to send a sharp jolt of alarm through me.

A foot slips an inch—heart lurching—but I catch myself at the last second, gripping the wall with one hand as the other yanks the curtain harder in the process.

The channel breaks loose from its hold with a muted snap. The sudden release throws my weight off again. I manage to steady myself and rip the curtains free, tossing the entire length down to the floor.

It comes down heavier than expected, nearly dragging me along with it. I drop back onto the floor with the fabric pooled around my feet.

This can work.

I do the same for the other windows—collecting as much fabric as I can.

Once done, I don’t rush to do the knots. I gather all the curtains in one place and sit cross-legged on the floor. Then I start with twisting the length of the thick fabric tightly by temporarily tying it with the makeshift bars, doubling it over itself, pulling it firm until my fingers ache from the tension.

I knot it once. Twice. Again—tight, tighter—testing each loop with a sharp tug, grunting. My jaw clenches as I check for any give.

No slack. Perfect.

I get back on my feet and look down at the courtyard below.