Chapter Twenty Seven
Once the dining room is out of sight, I bolt up the staircase, my pulse hammering inside my ears.
In a matter of hours, our fragile sanctuary has been shattered.
Sure, I knew Phillip was due home any day, but I was waiting for Rhys’ instruction.
Waiting for him to be ready to make it. Turns out, I received it in front of the man he loathes. We’re leaving tonight.
A heady mix of adrenaline and fear bleeds through my chest, the unknown lingering.
For a girl who had it all planned out meticulously, to get my degree and have a stable job, it’s dangerous territory.
But I trust in the men who will be by my side.
I’ve seen the sacrifices they’re willing to make for my well-being.
Darting to the guest bedroom, I mimic Clayton and start to stuff my clothes into my backpack. Addy has forgotten the concept of gravity, her body slumped across the bed as she calls out things to remember.
“Phone chargers! That lamp! Bread for the road!” Despite smirking, I roll my eyes at her and make my way over to said phone charger.
Lingering by the bedside table, my fingers stroke the book I was currently reading.
A shadow appears over my shoulder, a gasp locking in my throat as Rhys’ inked arm reaches past me to pick up the book and place it in my hand.
“Take it. Take whatever you want. He won’t miss any of it.
” Before he has the chance to turn away, I catch the pang of sadness that claims Rhys’ features.
The tight pull at his mouth that has nothing to do with objects or money or the leather-bound book pressed against my chest. He’s talking about the undeniable truth that his father will not miss him either, and that walking out of this manor tonight is severing the final cord that has been strangling him his entire life.
Even when love is long dead, grief still finds a way to sink its teeth in.
Setting the book aside, I step closer, wrapping my arms around his middle from behind, pressing my cheek between his shoulder blades. His body is tense beneath my touch, coiled like he’s bracing for impact, the way this place has trained him to be.
“You’re allowed to mourn it,” I murmur quietly.
“Even if you’re the one walking away.” Rhys exhales slowly, the sound shuddering through him.
A hand lands on my shoulder, Clayton’s presence stepping in to complete our union.
I can’t help the smile that curves over my lips.
It’s not just the manor that Rhys is leaving behind, but the life he thought he’d always have.
The money, the power. He doesn’t know how else to be, but we’ll show him. We’ll work it out together.
“Come on,” Rhys steps away from my hold, and I know it’s not a rejection.
It’s urgency. At Rhys’ insistence, we take whatever we deem useful, along with the satin pajamas I’ve taken a liking to.
Drawers are yanked open, clothes strewn across the bed, and a suitcase Rhys produces lying open on the floor.
We move fast, folding only the things that matter, stuffing the rest in with reckless abandon.
Every sound that passes my receivers makes my heart jump.
A door slamming somewhere below. Raised voices echo faintly through the manor, Phillip’s venomous tone leaking through the walls.
“I need my passport. I’ll be right back,” Rhys grunts, storming out of the door with his shoulders tightly bunched. Catching Clay’s eye, I swallow past the hammering of my heart.
“I need the bathroom, so I’ll handle the toiletries,” I shift towards the door. Clay’s fingers brush my wrist, and I blink up at him, surprised by the warmth of his expression.
“Make sure to get that gold-leaf shampoo. My hair’s never felt so glorious,” he winks.
The ache in my chest ebbs away, my breath sawing out at the sight of Clay’s gentle smile and earnest eyes.
The irony isn’t lost on me. The man who could rarely show emotion has found his feet in this hellhole, whilst the one who hid his pain behind a smirk has been forced to confront his demons.
Pushing up on my tiptoes, I press my lips against Clay’s mouth.
“In case you didn’t know it already, I’m so grateful for you.”
“Hearing it is always welcome,” he mumbles against my lips before stealing another rushed kiss.
Spinning me by the shoulders, Clay eases me into the hallway.
A booming sound that can only be attributed to a man’s voice trickles through the halls, spurring me into a light run.
I burst into the bathroom, closing the door with my back before realizing I’m not alone.
Klara’s head snaps up, her teary eyes widening as she takes me in from her crumpled position on the floor.
The air between us pulls taut with everything unsaid.
Instant regret laces through me, logic saying that we can pick up toiletries on the road.
But then her face contorts with anger, and I know I can’t walk away. My stubborn pride won’t let me.
“I hope you’re happy!” Klara screeches, piercing my implants.
I manage to hide my wince, watching her stand.
Her mascara has run down her cheeks in inky valleys, her blonde hair a mess from being tugged on.
Meeting me chest for chest, another sob bubbles out of her. “He’ll never be happy with me now!”
Had I been anyone else, maybe I could have walked away from a crying Klara, believing she’s a product of her parents and therefore deserves to be used as a pawn.
But it’s not in my nature to leave a woman torn up about a man she was being forced to marry.
This is for the best, even if it doesn’t seem like it to Klara right now.
Lifting my arms, I shock us both by dragging her in for a hug. For all the riches and parties that Klara would have benefited from as Rhys’ wife, that’s not what she’s crying about on the bathroom floor. She’s crying because he won’t be happy, and that’s something I understand all too well.
“I’m not saying this to hurt, only because it’s true.
He never would have been happy with you, Klara.
” She tenses in my hold, but she doesn’t pull away.
She doesn’t hug me back either, so I’m left clinging to her like a koala.
“He never would have been happy living this life, lost in his father’s shadow. He doesn’t want to be stuck here.”
“I know that,” Klara croaks, her head sinking into my shoulder.
Wetness presses into my collarbone, the gloop of her mascara settling into the cotton.
I feel rather than hear her sharp inhale, followed by a soft, broken sob.
Her hands slowly wrap around my waist, where they tightly cling onto my t-shirt.
“I would have tried, though. I would have done my best to…to,” Klara hiccups and shudders. I pat her back, nodding gently.
“I don’t doubt that. For what it’s worth, I am sorry that you were both put in this position. You do deserve better.”
Klara’s head lifts, her face is red and blotchy.
Reaching for a hand towel, I brush the mess away from underneath her puffy eyes.
A blackened, marred mess remains, but it’s somewhat better.
She catches me glancing over her cocktail dress, a metallic silver hugging her figure perfectly.
Although, contrary to what I expected, Klara shifts uncomfortably.
“I’ve put on three pounds since Rhys left campus. I binge eat when I’m stressed. And now, I’m too heavy for the top of the pyramid. The cheering squad is calling for my removal from the team.” Fresh tears trickle down her face, and damn my soft, gooey center, my heart breaks for her.
“Klara, look at me,” I insist, my hands gently catching her wrists before she can turn away.
Her skin is cold, her shoulders curled inward like she’s spent her whole life trying to take up less space.
I wait until her red-rimmed and glossy eyes finally meet mine.
“You’re beautiful,” I state evenly, not as a kindness but as a fact.
The kind that doesn’t disappear just because someone taught her to measure her worth through someone else’s approval.
She scoffs weakly, shaking her head like she’s heard it all before, but I can see the crack.
The hesitation. The part of her that wants to believe me, but has never been given permission to.
And it hits me then how familiar that feeling is, how many women are raised to barter themselves into smaller, quieter lives because it keeps the peace.
Even the ones who seem loud and confident have shackles that so many others bear.
My chest tightens with something fierce and protective.
“It’s time you lived for yourself. Not for your parents, not for appearances, not for a man who sees you as an accessory instead of a person.
” Her breath stutters, and I don’t let go of her wrists.
“You don’t need a betrothal to be worthy.
You don’t need permission to choose joy.
You are allowed to want more. You are allowed to take up space.
And you are allowed to walk away from anything that makes you feel like you’re drowning just to keep everyone else afloat. ”
“How are you…how do you know who you are so resolutely?” Klara whispers, not trusting her voice. I smile then, the simplicity of it encasing us.