Page 14 of The Betrothal

“You suppose right.” He squeezed me tenderly before stepping away. “It’ll be okay, Isabelle.”

Without waiting for a response, he strode from the room.

Slamming my belongings onto the counter, I noticed a small slip of paper peeking under the edge of the fridge. Pulling it out, I found a soft scrawl across the paper that read Removers with a long complex string of numbers and letters below.

I recognised Sophie’s gentle handwriting.

Thinking, I slipped my laptop from the shelf, curiosity getting the better of me. I opened the internet browser typing the digits slowly, carefully, into the search engine, it yielded nothing, and a slight feeling of disappointment fell over me.

Unsure what I expected, I left the page to make a cup of tea, changing my clothes, finally returning past the kitchenette and to the small lounge area.

But now the page on the screen had changed. Where previously it had been mostly blank, a simple error message on a plain background, now the screen was black, white text running over it in lines.

Sitting myself on a chair, I pulled the laptop closer.

It was a type of menu. Descriptions ranging from the full experience to person removal service, each priced differently. Some one-off costs, others listing annual charges beside them.

The schedules were comprehensive, lists of documentation, identity cards, marriage certificates, housing arrangements, telephone support, in-person visits as required, the latter listing pricing arrangements dependent upon location, guardian status and requirement for safe houses during transport.

This was the service Sophie alluded to, the one her wife’s friend had used.

The costs were inordinate, thousands for transport to tens of thousands for paperwork, the annual support costs on top of accommodation were more thousands per month.

How could anyone afford this?

I’d been careful throughout university, drawing down funds from my allowances, saving them, and there was plenty, certainly enough for the initial outlay, sufficient for rent for a few months, but not forever.

Adrenaline swelled inside me as I read and reread the service list. Could I?

My family, although ridiculously wealthy, were hardly likely to offer to fund me. They would lock me up and throw away the key if they thought I would run.

And running? Well, it didn’t end well, enforced medication, sedatives, talk of hysteria and maladjustment.

The thought of running out of funds, becoming destitute, unable to pay the ongoing charges. It was sobering, terrifying. Coming home, the fall-out from jilting Teddy. It was so much, almost too much.

Although.

Aunt Rose.

Aunt Rose had been wealthy in her own right, married before the child quota was enforced, she had no children of her own, and had always been extremely fond of me, but not my sister.

I thought to the funds she had left to me. Everything she owned, the cruelty of it being that I had no financial rights, and the funds could be drawn only by my guardian.

Father had sighed when I had asked him to assign it to me, saying I had no use for it and to discuss it with Theodore, a futile suggestion. Teddy had no interest in my financial freedom nor any other.

But as I sat, upgrading my tea for trusty vodka, fantasising about a version of me that would be bold enough to outsource my freedom, a trickle of excitement became an avalanche of hope.

It was definitely the vodka. My blood swam with it, as it swam with the thought of a different future.

Before I knew it, I was entering my contact details and situation.

Chewing my nails nervously, worry overcame excitement, regret, then fear, my musings overwhelming me. But it was all wiped when my phone rang with a withheld number.

CHAPTER FIVE

ISABELLE

“Aren’t I seeing you in what, eight hours?” Sophie laughed down the line.