His Cruelty, Her Escape

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed midnight, twelve hollow strikes that reverberated through the silent bones of the Peterson manor. Technically, I was eighteen now.

I sat curled in the wingback chair of the library, the leather cold against my legs. In my lap lay Flora’s copy of *The Little Prince*, its spine cracked and worn from years of my desperate handling. There was no cake, no balloons, no warmth. Just the smell of old paper and the oppressive silence of a house that had been more of a mausoleum than a home for the last five years.

I traced the silver locket resting against my collarbone. *Happy birthday, Lily.*

The front door slammed downstairs, shattering the quiet. The sound was followed by the heavy, uneven thud of footsteps ascending the stairs. My stomach tightened. Arthur.

He wasn’t supposed to be back until tomorrow. He was at the gala—the one I wasn’t allowed to attend because I was the "charity case," the orphan ward who didn't fit the Peterson brand.

The library doors burst open. Arthur stood framed in the doorway, his tuxedo jacket slung over one shoulder, his tie undone. He looked like a fallen angel—devastatingly handsome, but marred by a chaotic, terrifying energy. The scent hit me from across the room: aged whiskey and the cloying, floral sweetness of expensive perfume. Isabela’s perfume.

He didn’t look at me. He looked *through* me. His eyes were bloodshot, glazed over with a mixture of intoxication and rage.

"Arthur?" I whispered, closing the book. I stood up, my movements slow, practiced. Like approaching a wild animal.

He stumbled forward, catching himself on a mahogany desk. "She laughed at me," he slurred, the words thick and jagged. "With him. With that... nobody."

He was talking about Isabela. He was always talking about Isabela.

"You should go to bed, Arthur," I said softly, stepping toward the door, intending to slip past him. "I’ll get you some water."

As I tried to pass, his hand shot out, clamping around my wrist. His grip was iron, bruising instantly. He yanked me back, spinning me until my back hit the edge of the sofa.

"Don't walk away from me," he growled. He leaned in, his breath hot and acrid against my face. He blinked, his focus shifting, hazing over. "You always leave. You left me in the car, Flora."

My breath hitched. "Arthur, I’m Lily. Flora is gone."

"Liar," he hissed, pressing his body against mine, pinning me to the upholstery. "You’re right here. You saved me. You owe me."

Panic flared in my chest, sharp and white-hot. This wasn't the distant, cold guardian I had lived with for five years. This was something else—a monster built of grief and liquor. I pushed against his chest, but it was like pushing against a wall.

"Arthur, stop! It’s me, Lily!" I cried out, my voice cracking.

He didn't hear me. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his other hand tearing at the