Chapter 14 Darla
Darla
The ring on my finger feels like a shackle bolted through bone. My breath catches in my throat; it’s a ragged, shallow thing. I can’t breathe in here. If I stay, I become a line item and a headline, a ghost in my life. If I move now— now—I might still be a person.
I slip out of the salon before my father or Trent can stage their smiling photo.
The corridor beyond is hushed and carpeted, the thick pile swallowing the sound of my frantic heartbeat.
Portraits of long-dead ancestors watch with the cold indifference only old money can afford.
Down the hall, a server emerges from a service door with a tray, his blue mask plain, his movements precise.
Behind him, in the sliver of space before the door swings shut, I catch a flash of stainless steel and a single, glaring, red handle.
Fire panel.
The thought is a jolt of pure electric adrenaline. A way out. A chance.
My feet move, my body a puppet pulled by a single, desperate string of hope.
I walk as if I know where I’m going. Chin high.
Shoulders back. The crimson mask does half the work.
When I reach the service door, I pivot, my movements smooth, slipping in on the tail of the swinging tray as if I belong there.
The kitchen blooms around me—a sudden, violent assault of the senses.
Steam billows, hot and wet against my face.
The air is thick with the scent of garlic and the sharp crackle of oil.
The hard ballet of knives on cutting boards and the staccato shouts of orders is a chaotic symphony.
No one looks at me. In this world of urgent purpose, I am invisible.
The alarm pull is to the right, behind a rack of sheet pans, a slash of brilliant red against the cool steel. Red and ready.
My hand trembles as I reach for it, the silver fabric of my gown catching the harsh fluorescent light.
A series of horrifying still images flash through my mind.
Trent’s obsidian mask. My father’s pen scratching against a contract.
The steward’s neat columns of numbers. Midnight.
Transfer. Discretion. A future I will not have.
My fingers close around the cold, metal handle. What if they catch me before I can pull it? What if this makes it worse? The fear is a cold, paralyzing thing. But the memory of my father's dead eyes, the cold vault of Trent's touch—it’s a fire that burns hotter. I yank.
The world explodes.
Sirens rip through the estate, a mechanical, inhuman scream that slices through the delicate strains of the waltz.
Strobes stutter, casting the kitchen in a frantic, terrifying strobe of white light across stainless steel and marble.
Somewhere beyond the kitchen, people shout—confused, annoyed, their polite composure shattering like glass.
I run.
Back through the service door, down the corridor that spits me into the ballroom.
The chandelier is a storm of fractured stars, the strobing light turning the scene into a series of disjointed, nightmarish photographs.
Guests scatter like startled birds in a chaos of feathers, silk, and polished shoes skidding on the slick floor.
Masks turn, glittering and panicked, anonymous faces in a sea of terror.
“Evacuate in an orderly fashion,” a voice drones through the sound system, and the crowd does the opposite.
I hitch the silver fabric of my skirt and move with them, a ghost in the panicked current. Down the steps, across the gallery, out toward the open French doors. My heels skid on the slick marble. I kick them off mid-stride, the delicate shoes skittering away into the chaos, and I don’t slow.
The night air hits my face like a splash of cold water.
The courtyard is a new chaos—attendants in their blue masks trying to corral panicked guests, a bell chiming wildly on some platform where a girl had just been on display.
I cut between pavilions, my breath a ragged saw in my chest. I run past another girl in a startling crimson mask.
Her eyes, wide and terrified, meet mine for half a second.
She doesn’t move, but her fingers curl into fists at her sides, a silent, shared rebellion. I keep going.
A hedge breaks into a narrow path. I take it.
Sharp gravel bites my bare feet, and I welcome the anchor of pain, a reminder that this is real.
Lanterns sway, throwing light and shadow in a sick, disorienting rhythm.
My breath burns in my lungs. Just a gate.
A wall. A hole in the world big enough to crawl through.
For three seconds, the world slows to a flickering reel of breath, light, breath.
“Darla.”
The voice stops me like a hand around my throat. Ice floods my veins. I turn.
Trent steps out from a side path, mask still in place, tux immaculate. His fury is a palpable thing, a sudden drop in temperature, a winter that settles in the surrounding air. He moves fast for a man who never hurries, closing the space with a predator’s certainty.
“Bad idea,” he whispers in a low voice full of venom. When I try to dart past, he catches my arm. His grip is iron and immediate. Pain sparks up my shoulder, sharp and hot.
“Let go.” My voice comes out raw, a pathetic, pleading sound.
He doesn’t. He shoves me back hard into the prickly hedge.
Branches claw at my skin. The hard edge of the mask grinds into my cheekbone.
He cages me with his body, a wall of tailored wool and cold intent.
The hand on my arm slides to my wrist and twists.
I bite back a cry as heat shoots up my forearm.
“You don’t run,” he hisses, his breath hot and smelling of champagne against my ear. “You don’t embarrass me. Not here.”
“I’m not yours.” The words scrape free, tasting of blood and defiance. “I will never be yours.”
His other hand fists the silver fabric at my hip and yanks. Seams scream, a high, tearing sound. Cold night air hits my thigh. “You signed when you put on the ring.” His voice is almost conversational, the calm more terrifying than a shout. “You belong to me now.”
Panic surges—hot, blinding, primal. I thrash, landing the heel of my hand against his jaw. His head snaps sideways. For a second I see the man under the mask—flesh, not monster—and hope flares like a match.
He backhands me.
White light blooms behind my eyes, a silent explosion of pain.
The back of my head knocks against the hedge; sharp leaves fill my mouth with the bitter taste of green and dirt.
I taste blood. Before I can recover, his knee slams into my side.
A sickening crack echoes in my head as pain explodes along my ribcage, stealing the air from my lungs.
I gasp, folding in on myself as he shoves me harder into the hedge.
The world narrows to the sound of his heavy breathing, the frantic, terrified thumping of my heartbeat, and the ripping sound of silk.
“Stop,” I choke. “Don’t—”
His hand clamps onto my throat, fingers digging in, squeezing just enough to promise worse. “You’ll thank me later,” he murmurs, his voice a chilling caress. “You’ll be trained.”
The way he says it, I’m an appliance, not a person. Something animal in me, something cornered and feral, rises, teeth bared. I stop clawing at his arm. I go still. A calculated surrender. It makes him confident. Sloppy.
His jacket gapes. Inside, a shoulder holster gleams under the lantern light—black, oiled, real.
I move. Not a thought, but a reflex born from a primal need to survive.
Holster, right side. Strap buckled. Safety off.
The math is ugly but familiar: pain now or never.
My fingers slip under the lapel, wedging between leather and cold, heavy metal.
He registers it a heartbeat too late. His hand crushes tighter on my throat, stars pricking the edges of my vision, but my grip closes on cold steel.
I wrench.
He lunges. We slam into the hedge again, leaves and thorns and breath punched out of me. The gun is heavier than I expect, slick under my bleeding palm. His thumb jams into the nerve at my wrist; my fingers spasm, but I don’t let go. The muzzle yawns between us, an open, black mouth in the dark.
“Let. Go.” His voice is low and deadly, each word a separate, final command.
No, the word is a silent scream in my head.
I pull the trigger, unconcerned with aim or consequences.
The world fractures. The crack of the gunshot is a physical thing, a sound that rips through the garden and tears the night apart. For an instant, everything is absolute—the violent recoil punching up my arm, the sharp, acrid smell of smoke in my nose, the hot sting of powder against my skin.
Trent staggers. His grip on my throat loosens. He looks down at himself like he’s looking at a glitch in a suit—more confused than afraid—then he folds sideways onto the gravel, a puppet with its strings cut.
Silence drops, then slams back into the sound of alarms and distant, panicked shouting. Somewhere to my right, a radio squawks. “South hedge. Shots fired.” Feet pound. The night tilts.
My ears ring so hard I can barely hear my hitched, ragged breathing. My hand shakes violently around the gun, which now feels impossibly heavy. I drop it. It hits the stones with a final, metallic clatter, and I flinch like it’s fired again.
I’m moving before I know it. Stumbling. Running.
Branches whip my arms. Gravel chews my feet.
My cheek throbs in a sickening rhythm with my pulse.
I can’t feel the ring anymore; my fingers are swollen and slick with blood.
The diamond is just another shard of glass. I’ll cut it off when I can cut clean.
The hedges break into a service lane. A gate looms at the end, chained but not locked all the way through.
I jam my hands into the rusted links and haul.
Metal screams in protest before the gap opens like a mouth.
I shove through and tear the skin of my back on a protruding wire.
The pain is a flare that keeps me conscious, a reminder that I am alive.
The night air hits me fully—cooler, rawer, honest. The estate and its glittering horrors fall away behind me.
I run.
Every step on the broken pavement is a verdict: live, live, live. The alarms fade to a distant, broken siren. My lungs burn. My vision swims, clears, and swims again. Somewhere under the panic, a compass in my soul needles north, fixed on one word: Outsiders.
Headlights shine across the road far behind me. I cut through the trees. My dress snags and tears until what clings to me is only what I need to keep moving.
When I spill out onto another road—vacant, cracked at the edges—I aim myself toward town. Toward the bar with the bad floor and the loud music. Toward leather, laughter, and a code that has always felt more like truth than the law my father wears like a suit.
I don’t look back.
Under streetlights that buzz like tired bees, I run barefoot. Blood stripes my ankles. The ring glints, stupid and bright.
I am shaking. Filthy. I am breathing.
And I am heading for the only place that has ever felt like a door that opens instead of a lock that clicks.