Chapter 3
The days before their departure crawled by with agonizing slowness, each hour stretching like an eternity as I went through the motions of my daily routine. But beneath my carefully blank expression, every nerve in my body hummed with anticipation and terror.
I had to be careful. Methodical. One wrong move, one suspicious glance, and my only chance at freedom would evaporate.
The staff donation bin in the basement laundry room became my first target. Twice a year, the household staff contributed old clothes for charity—items deemed too worn or unfashionable for their own use, but still serviceable. I waited until the laundry was empty during the dinner service, my heart hammering against my ribs as I rifled through the collection.
A faded gray hoodie with a small hole near the left elbow. Dark jeans with frayed cuffs, probably donated by one of the gardeners. A pair of worn sneakers that looked close to my size. Nothing that would be missed, nothing that screamed wealth or privilege. Perfect for disappearing into a crowd.
I stuffed the clothes into a garbage bag and hid them in the deepest corner of my closet, behind winter coats I never wore.
The kitchen proved more challenging. Mrs. Patterson, the head cook, had eyes like a hawk and knew exactly how much food went in and out of her domain. But she also had a soft spot for the stray cats that sometimes wandered onto the estate grounds, and I'd seen her slip them scraps when she thought no one was looking.
"Poor little things," I whispered to her one afternoon as she prepared dinner, pointing to a tabby cat visible through the window. "They must be so hungry."
Her face softened. "Breaks my heart, it does. But Mr. Robert doesn't want us feeding strays."
I nodded sympathetically, then waited. Sure enough, over the next few days, I noticed her setting aside small portions—crackers, dried fruit, pieces of bread. When she stepped out to tend to other duties, I carefully pocketed what I could. Not enough to be noticed, but enough to keep me alive for a few days if necessary.
The library was my final stop. Mr. Ainsworth had been a collector of maps in his younger days, and the room still held dozens of atlases and city guides from decades past. Most were outdated now, but I found what I needed in the wastebasket—a crumpled city transit map that someone had discarded after planning a shopping trip.
I smoothed it out carefully, studying the subway lines and bus routes with the intensity of a general planning a campaign. The nearest station was three miles from the estate. If I could make it that far without being spotted, I could disappear into the maze of the city.
On their last night before the trip, I served dinner with hands that trembled only slightly. Robert was discussing merger details with Amanda, his voice animated in a way I rarely heard. She hung on his every word, occasionally offering suggestions that made him smile with genuine warmth.
They looked happy. Excited. They had no idea that their perfect life was about to be disrupted by the ghost they'd tried so hard to forget.
"Belle," Amanda said as I cleared the dessert plates, "make sure the house is spotless while we're gone. I don't want to return to any unpleasant surprises."
"Of course," I whispered, not trusting my voice to remain steady.
Robert didn't even glance in my direction.
I watched from my bedroom window as their car pulled away at dawn, taillights disappearing into the morning mist. Then I waited. Three hours. Four. Until I was certain they were truly gone, that this wasn't some elaborate test.
At 3 AM, I dressed in the stolen clothes, my hands shaking as I pulled the hoodie over my head. The fabric smelled like someone else's life—detergent and faint cologne and freedom. I stuffed the hoarded food into the hoodie's front pocket, folded the map into my jeans, and crept through the mansion's silent corridors.
The service key had been easier to duplicate than I'd expected. Months ago, I'd pressed it into a bar of soap while cleaning the housekeeper's office, then carefully carved a wooden replica during the long, sleepless nights in my room. It wasn't perfect, but it turned in the lock with only the slightest resistance.
The service entrance opened onto the estate's back gardens, where the darkness was thick and welcoming. I slipped out like smoke, pulling the door shut behind me with barely a click.
The night air was sharp against my face, carrying the scent of frost and dying leaves. For the first time in seven years, I was outside these walls without permission, without supervision, without the weight of their judgment crushing down on me.
I was free.
The euphoria lasted exactly thirty-six hours.
Amanda's scream echoed through the mansion the next morning, piercing enough to wake the dead. I wasn't there to hear it, of course—I was huddled in a 24-hour diner fifteen miles away, nursing a cup of coffee and trying to make myself invisible. But I could picture it perfectly: her face contorting with rage as she realized her favorite target had escaped.
The phone call to Robert must have been spectacular. I imagined her voice, shrill with panic, spinning a web of lies to explain why his property had gone missing. And Robert, his pride wounded by the defiance of someone he considered beneath contempt, would have reacted exactly as she intended.
By noon, my face was everywhere.
The convenience store clerk looked at me suspiciously when I bought a bottle of water, his eyes flicking between my scarred features and something beneath his counter. A security guard at the bus terminal did a double-take that made my blood run cold. And when I caught a glimpse of a flyer taped to a streetlight, my own face stared back at me—a photo from some family gathering years ago, before the accident, but with my scars crudely added in red ink.
"DANGEROUS CORPORATE THIEF," the headline screamed. "WANTED FOR INDUSTRIAL ESPIONAGE."
The lies were beautiful in their simplicity. Who would question the word of the Ainsworth family? Who would believe that a scarred, mute servant girl was anything other than what they claimed?
For two days, I lived like a hunted animal. I slept in doorways and public restrooms, moved constantly, ate sparingly from my dwindling supply of stolen food. Every face in the crowd was a potential threat, every siren in the distance a sign that they were closing in.
On the third day, my luck ran out.
The convenience store was supposed to be safe—a little family-owned place in a rundown part of the city where the security cameras were old and the clerk looked half-asleep. I just needed water and maybe a candy bar to keep my blood sugar stable.
But when I approached the counter, the clerk's eyes went wide with recognition.
"Hey," he said, reaching for something behind the register. "You're that girl. The one on the flyer."
I bolted.
The chase was brief but terrifying. The clerk shouted behind me, and I heard the squeal of brakes as cars swerved to avoid my desperate sprint across the street. I ran blindly, my damaged body protesting every step, until I found myself trapped in a dead-end alley between two industrial buildings.
The footsteps behind me were measured, professional. Not the clerk—these were Robert's people.
"End of the line, sweetheart." The voice was calm, almost bored. Two men in dark suits blocked the alley's entrance, their faces hidden in shadow. "Mr. Ainsworth wants to have a word with you."
I pressed my back against the brick wall, my chest heaving.
After everything—the planning, the escape, the brief taste of freedom—it was over.
They started walking toward me, unhurried and confident.
How was I supposed to escape from this? Were they going to send me back to Silver’s place?
Why, after all the trouble I took, still wasn’t I able to escape the doom fate brought me?
You may also like
