Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
I sit on the bathroom floor, my back against the cold tiles, listening to the broken sobs echoing through the walls. The sound tugs at something deep in my chest, a part of me I don’t want to acknowledge.
No man has ever cried for me. Not one. Not even when I left my piece-of-shit husband bleeding on the kitchen floor. Not even when his house caught fire and they thought I’d died.
But Rochester’s words from that last night keep creeping back. How he whispered he’d find a way for us to be together. The desperation in his voice when he held me, like I was the only thing keeping him sane.
Bullshit.
He couldn’t defend me when it mattered. Too busy playing that basic bitch for her money.
The sobbing becomes louder, more broken. Like he’s drowning in his own grief. My chest tightens, and before I can stop myself, I’m on my feet and unlocking the bathroom door.
I creep through the bedroom toward the hallway entrance, my bare feet silent on the wooden floor. The crying pulls at me like a fishing line hooked through my ribs.
What the hell will I say to him? Stop crying and get into bed? This could be a stupid ploy just for him to jack off. Still, I follow the sound like a moron. Because clearly, I haven’t learned a damn thing.
I remove the chair, twist the key, open the door a crack and peer through the gap. There’s no sign of Rochester. The hallway stretches empty in both directions, leaving nothing but shadows and the scent of medicine.
But the sobbing continues, even louder now. Coming from everywhere and nowhere, like the house itself is crying.
My throat tightens. I call out, “Edward?”
The broken weeping morphs into laughter. It’s unbridled. Feverish, sounding like someone fresh from an asylum.
Terror kicks me in the solar plexus. I slam the door shut and twist the lock, my hands shaking so hard I can barely work the mechanism.
Fucking hell. I’m losing my mind. Too much stress, too much fear, too many nights sleeping with one eye open. My brain is finally cracking under the pressure.
I crawl back into the four-poster and pull the covers over my head like I’m five years old again, hiding from the demons under the bed. Except this time, the monsters aren’t imaginary. It takes ages to get back to sleep, and even longer to sort through my confusion.
The next morning drags me back into the routine of playing house servant. As predicted, the drawing room is a mess, but so is the kitchen. The pink-haired woman must have been filming for social media because she left a bunch of equipment.
Movement from outside the kitchen window catches my eye while I’m sorting through what to toss away. A dark figure rushes between the trees at the edge of the lawn. He’s too far away to make out any features, but he looks driven.
I blink, and he’s gone. Vanished into the orchard like smoke.
A chill runs down my spine. Who the hell was that?
By afternoon, I’m hauling a tray of mint juleps to the terrace where Blanche and her crew are lounging like overfed house cats. There’s no sign of Rochester, not that I should care. It’s not like he’ll defend me, anyway.
I set down the glasses, keeping my head down and my mouth shut. Just invisible help doing invisible work.
“Edward was so desperate to marry me that he signed the prenup without even reading it,” Blanche purrs to the blonde at her side. “Poor darling would have agreed to anything. My lawyer says that’s how you know a man is smitten.”
My body freezes, and I suck in a breath through clenched teeth.
He signed it. Actually put his name on a document that fucks him over if he cheats. Which means every promise he moaned in the dark was a lie. I’m nothing but a hot body for him to use while he plays the perfect fiancé.
“Smart of them to include that adultery clause,” the pink-haired woman says with a nod.
Blanche giggles, the sound sharp as a knife to the gut. “I’m not worried about that. Edward says I’m the only woman who makes him forget his grief.”
My vision blurs around the edges. The tray trembles in my hands as I back away from the patio. The truth hits me with perfect clarity. If he signed the prenup so easily, then he was playing me for a fool.
It’s just like that morning eleven years ago, when Mom shoved me into that wedding dress, telling me it was my time. Dad said I was lucky Brother Matthew wanted a sinner like me. Mom soothed my tears, telling me he was gentle, feeble, a man of God who only needed a wife to help with his kids.
If I’d known the old bastard was a violent rapist, I would have run the moment they left me to get dressed.
After being betrayed by the two people who should have loved me the most, I should have known better than to trust Rochester. Promises don’t mean shit with the lure of money and power. Men say whatever they need to get what they want, then show you their true faces when it’s too late to run.
Thank God I never allowed him to fuck me raw.
I walk back into the house on autopilot, reach my room and yank my duffel bag from under the bed. Blanche can have him. I’m done being anyone’s dirty secret.
By the time I creep downstairs and slip out the front door, there’s no sign of the sports car.
But the black limousine still sits in the courtyard.
I send out a prayer that the keys are still in the ignition.
If I can get it started, I can drive to whatever passes for a ferry dock on this Godforsaken island.
But when I try the handle, it’s locked.
I yank the next one. Then the other. Then the other.
Nothing. Not a single fucking budges. My chest tightens with each failed attempt, panic clawing at my throat.
The sob that escapes sounds like last night’s broken weeping.
I lean against the warm metal and let the tears come, tasting salt and defeat and the sensation of being trapped. I’m completely and utterly fucked.
Later that night, I drag the chair back under the doorknob. I don’t want his hands on me. Don’t want his whispered lies while he uses my body to drain his balls before going back to his precious fiancée. Rochester can go to hell.
Around midnight, a soft metallic sound scrapes at the door. It’s careful. Deliberate.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
What the hell is he doing now?
I slip out of bed, my bare feet silent on the floorboards, and press my ear to the wood. The sound continues. It’s metal against metal, like he’s working with tools.
A tiny ping echoes as something hits the floor on my side. I crouch down, feeling around in the dark until my fingers find a screw. The bastard is trying to break in like a cat burglar.
Rage explodes in my chest like a bomb. This sick freak thinks he can just dismantle my lock while I sleep? Like I’m some helpless victim who won’t fight back?
“You motherfucker,” I hiss under my breath.
I grab the heavy dresser and drag it across the floor. The wood scrapes against wood, loud enough to wake the dead. I don’t give a shit. Let him know I’m onto his sick game.
The scraping from the hallway stops.
I wedge the dresser against the doorway, pressing my full weight against its side. My pulse hammers in my ears, and sweat beads on my forehead despite the cool air.
“Annalisa?” His voice comes through the wood, soft and broken. Nothing like the commanding tone he uses during the day. “Please. I just want to talk to you.”
I clench my teeth. Don’t respond. Don’t give him an inch.
“What’s wrong?” he continues, his voice thick with desperation. “Why won’t you let me in? I thought after everything… I thought you wanted this too.”
My heart plunges. What the hell is he planning?
“Keep it up and I’ll wake Blanche,” I call out, my voice sharp. “I’ll tell her all about her perfect fiancé.”
Silence stretches between us. I press my back against the dresser, every muscle tense, waiting for him to start unscrewing.
Instead, muffled sobbing echoes through the wood. Deep, broken sounds that make my gut clench, and I hate myself for feeling sympathy. Bastard’s probably putting on a show, trying to guilt me into opening the door. This is exactly what he wants: for me to crack.
I slide down the dresser until I’m sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest. The sobbing continues for what feels like hours, each wail scraping against my resolve.
Still, I refuse to respond. Refuse to give him what he wants.
Eventually, the crying stops. Footsteps retreat down the hallway, leaving me alone with the silence and my racing heart.
Hours later, dawn creeps through the small window, painting everything in shades of gray. My back aches from sleeping against the dresser, and my neck throbs with a painful crick.
When I finally work up the courage to pull the dresser away from the door, I find a piece of paper on the floor. Lips tightening, I bend down and unfold it.
It’s the same elegant handwriting as the note ordering me to wave back.
Annalisa,
I know you’re confused. I know last night frightened you. But you must trust me when I say there are other solutions, other paths to be together.
We’re closer than you think. Every problem has a solution. And every prison has a door if you’re brave enough to find it.
Trust me.
Rochester.
My stomach turns. What does he mean by prison? I shake off that question. He doesn’t know I’m on the run. It’s just word salad. He thinks I’m some girl who melts at a pretty turn of phrase. I read it three times before shaking my head.
What the fuck is Rochester planning?