Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Vivianne: Sixty-Seven Days
The walls are closing in. Each hour that passes, the noose tightens another notch. Cameras in every corner—their red lights blinking like demon eyes. Guards patrolling the halls with military precision. The constant weight of being watched, cataloged, and contained.
I can't breathe in this house anymore.
I have to get out.
Midnight. The house settles into its nighttime rhythm—creaking floorboards, the distant hum of the heating system, the whisper of wind against windowpanes. Most of the staff have retired. This is my chance.
I slip out of my room, backpack pressed against my spine.
Inside: cash from my emergency stash, my passport, a change of clothes, Grandmother's letters.
The essentials for disappearing. My hiking boots dangle from one hand, laces tied together.
I'll put them on outside. For now, thick socks muffle my footsteps on the carpet.
The hallway stretches before me, dimly lit by wall sconces. Each shadow could hide a guard. Each corner could reveal Marcus, Donovan, or one of the faceless men in dark suits.
My pulse pounds so hard I taste it—metallic, sharp, like fear has a flavor.
I make it to the grand staircase. The marble gleams below, polished to a mirror shine. I start down, keeping to the edge where the steps are less likely to creak.
Halfway down, a voice cuts through the darkness.
"Miss Faulks?"
I freeze. Every muscle locks. The backpack suddenly weighs a thousand pounds.
Marcus's silhouette materializes at the bottom of the stairs—broad shoulders, that slight limp from an old injury. "Is everything alright?"
Think. Think.
"I couldn't sleep." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Thought I'd get some water."
He moves closer, and the light catches his face. Concern etched into the lines around his eyes. The same concern he's worn since I was a child, since he pulled me out of the pool when I nearly drowned at seven.
This would be easier if he were cruel.
"Let me get that for you, miss." His gaze drops to the boots in my hand. Lingers there. "You shouldn't be wandering around at night."
My fingers tighten around the laces. "I can manage."
"I'm afraid I must insist." His tone shifts—still kind, but firm. Immovable. "Your father's orders. You're not to be unescorted anywhere. Even within the house."
The walls contract. The air thins.
"Of course." I force the words out. "How silly of me to forget."
He leads me back upstairs. His footsteps are heavy, deliberate. Mine feel like a death march. At my door, he pauses.
"Miss Faulks." His voice drops low. "I know this is difficult. But please understand—we're just trying to keep you safe."
Safe. The word tastes like a lie.
I nod. Don't trust myself to speak. The door closes, and I sink to the floor, back pressed against cool wood. The backpack slides off my shoulders.
Attempt one: failed.
I crawl into bed and cry myself to sleep.
Pre-dawn light bleeds gray through my windows. I've always loved sunrises—used to sneak out to watch them from the east garden, the world quiet and new and full of possibility.
Surely they can't deny me that.
I dress quickly in yesterday's clothes. No backpack this time. Nothing suspicious. Just a girl wanting to greet the day.
The hallway outside my room is empty. Silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock at the far end. Hope flutters in my chest—fragile, desperate.
I make it all the way to the back door. My hand closes around the handle, cool brass under my palm.
A hand falls on my shoulder.
"Going somewhere, Miss Faulks?"
Donovan. His cologne hits me—something sharp and woody, like pine needles and cold. I turn slowly. His face is impassive, professional, but his grip on my shoulder is iron.
"Just to the garden." I force a smile, feeling it stretch across my face, artificial. "I love watching the sunrise."
"I'm afraid that's not possible. The grounds are off-limits without a proper escort." He shakes his head.
Heat flares in my chest. "This is ridiculous. It's my home. I should be able to go where I please."
"Your safety is our primary concern." His voice is maddeningly calm. Like he's discussing the weather. "Perhaps we can arrange for you to view the sunrise from one of the upstairs windows?"
I want to scream. To claw at his face. To run.
Instead, I nod stiffly. Let him escort me back to my room like a prisoner being returned to her cell.
The door closes. I press my forehead against the window glass, cold against my skin. Outside, the sky shifts from gray to pink to gold. The roses in the garden open their faces to the light.
Beautiful. Untouchable. Just like my freedom.
Attempt two: thwarted.
The day crawls by. I pace my room until I've worn a path in the carpet. Eleven steps from the window to the door. Eleven steps back. The walls seem closer each time I turn.
Late afternoon, I try again.
The kitchen is chaos at this hour—staff preparing dinner, the clatter of pots and pans, voices calling orders. Mrs. Holloway runs a tight ship, but even she can't watch everyone at once.
If I can slip through unnoticed, the service entrance is right there. One door. Freedom.
I make my way downstairs, trying to look casual. Like I'm not planning anything. Like my pulse isn't hammering in my throat.
The smell hits me first—roasting meat, fresh herbs, something sweet baking. My stomach growls despite the anxiety churning inside.
I'm reaching for the kitchen door when—
"Miss Faulks?"
Mrs. Holloway. The housekeeper. Her gray hair pulled back in its severe bun, glasses perched on her nose, eyes sharp as ever.
"Is there something you need?" Her tone is gentle. Patient. Like she's talking to a child.
My mind scrambles. "I was feeling peckish. Thought I might grab a snack."
"Oh, you poor thing. All this wedding stress." Her expression softens. She pats my arm. "Why don't you return to your room? I'll have someone bring up a tray."
The kindness makes it worse. How can I explain that this place is suffocating me? That I'd rather starve on the streets than eat another meal in this house?
I can't. So I nod. Murmur thanks. Turn away.
Attempt three: foiled.
Night falls. The house darkens. And with it, my desperation grows teeth.
I can't stay here. Won't. Not one more day. Not one more hour.
This time, I don't bother with doors or stairs. They're watching those. Expecting them.
But the old servant's passages—those haven't been used in decades. Father probably doesn't even remember they exist.
The wardrobe in my room is massive, ornate, and older than I am. I shove it aside, muscles straining, sweat beading on my forehead. It scrapes against the floor—too loud, much too loud—and I freeze, listening.
Nothing. No footsteps. No voices.
I keep pushing until the wardrobe reveals the small door behind it. The wood is old, the paint peeling. The handle sticks, then gives with a reluctant groan.
Stale air rushes out—thick with dust and age and secrets. The passage yawns before me, darker than dark.
I step inside. Pull the door closed behind me.
The darkness is absolute. Suffocating. I feel along the wall with trembling hands, finding the steep stairs by touch alone. They're narrow, twisting, carved directly into the stone. My fingers trace rough mortar and cold rock.
Down. Down. Each step careful, measured. One slip and I'll tumble, break my neck in the dark where no one will find me.
Cobwebs catch in my hair, across my face. I brush them away, skin crawling. Something skitters nearby—rats, probably. The sound echoes off the stone, making it impossible to tell how close.
The air grows colder. Damper. The smell changes from dust to earth, to the sharp tang of wine.
The cellar.
My foot hits flat ground, and I nearly sob with relief. Pale moonlight filters through high windows, just enough to see by. Rows of bottles glint like eyes. The floor is packed earth, cool under my feet.
I navigate between the racks, heading for the far corner. There—the old coal chute. Haven't used it since the house converted to gas heating, probably fifty years ago.
It's smaller than I remember. Much smaller.
But I'm desperate.
I grab the iron ring and pull. The door swings open with a metallic shriek that makes my teeth ache. I freeze, listening.
Silence.
The chute angles steeply. Stars glimmer through the opening at the top. Fresh air, cool and sweet, kisses my face.
Freedom.
I climb in feet-first. The metal is cold, rough with rust. It scrapes my sides as I wriggle upward, pushing with my feet, pulling with my hands. The space is so tight my ribs can barely expand to breathe.
For a terrifying moment, I'm stuck. Can't move forward or back. Panic claws at my throat.
Then something gives. I surge upward, tumbling out onto grass wet with dew.
I'm out. Actually out.
For a heartbeat, I just lie there, gasping. The sky above is vast and dark and full of stars. The air tastes like possibility.
Then—
A shout from inside the house. Muffled but distinct.
They know.
Adrenaline slams through me. I lurch to my feet and run.
The manicured lawn gives way to rougher ground. My socks are immediately soaked, cold seeping into my feet. But I don't stop. Can't stop.
The woods loom ahead—a dark wall of trees. I plunge in, branches whipping my face, catching in my hair. Thorns tear at my nightgown. I don't care.
Behind me, more shouts. Closer now.
"Miss Faulks! Stop!"
"She went toward the woods!"
"Get the lights!"
The underbrush grabs at my ankles. Roots snake across the path, invisible in the darkness. I stumble and catch myself on a tree trunk. The bark scrapes my palms raw.
Keep moving. Just keep moving.
Flashlight beams cut through the trees behind me—white, stark, searching. They sweep back and forth like prison spotlights.
I veer left. Then right. Trying to lose them in the maze of trees.
But the Faulks estate is vast, and I've never been this deep in the woods. The darkness is disorienting. Every tree looks the same. Every shadow could hide pursuit.
My breath comes in ragged gasps. My legs burn. A stitch forms in my side, sharp as a knife.
An owl shrieks somewhere close. The sound is primal, predatory. I nearly scream.
The voices behind me grow louder. They're gaining.
How? How are they so fast?
Then I realize—they know these woods. Patrol them nightly. While I'm running blind, they're following familiar paths.
I push harder, legs pumping, arms swinging. My foot catches on something—a root, a rock, doesn't matter. I'm falling.
The ground rushes up. I hit hard, the impact driving the air from my lungs. Leaves and dirt fill my mouth. The taste of earth and decay.
Get up. Get up NOW.
I scramble to my feet. Take two steps.
The ground disappears.
For a sickening moment, I'm airborne. Then I'm tumbling, rolling, the world spinning in a blur of dark and darker. Trees, sky, ground—impossible to tell which is which.
Branches claw at me. Rocks slam into my ribs, my shoulders, my head. Pain explodes in bright stars.
I land at the bottom of a ravine with a bone-jarring thud. For a long moment, I can't breathe. Can't move. Can only lie there, stunned and aching.
Blood fills my mouth. I've bitten my tongue. Or split my lip. Maybe both.
My head throbs. When I touch my temple, my fingers come away wet and dark.
Have to move. Have to—
A light finds me. Bright. Blinding.
"I've found her!" Male voice. Triumphant. "Over here!"
No. No no no.
I try to stand. My legs don't work right. Everything tilts.
Hands grab me—rough, efficient. Pulling me upright.
"Easy now, Miss Faulks." Donovan's voice. Close to my ear. "You're safe. We're taking you home."
Home. The word is a curse.
"No." It comes out as a whimper. "Please. No."
But he's already lifting me, carrying me like a child. My protests dissolve into incoherent sounds. The world swims, edges blurring.
I must have hit my head harder than I thought.
Other guards surround us as we emerge from the woods. Their flashlights create a bubble of harsh white light. Beyond it, the darkness presses in—hungry, mocking.
So close. I was so close.
The house rises before us, every window ablaze. It looks like a palace. Like a postcard of wealth and privilege.
It's a prison.
Father stands on the front steps. Even from a distance, the rigid set of his shoulders is visible, the tight line of his jaw.
As we approach, his expression shifts—anger morphing into shock. His eyes widen, taking in my appearance.
"My God." His hand reaches toward my face, stops just short of touching.
"Look at you. Your face—" His voice cracks.
"You're covered in scratches. Are those bruises forming?
" His gaze sweeps over me, cataloging damage.
The concern in his eyes looks almost real.
"You could have been seriously hurt." Softer now.
Almost gentle. "Do you understand how dangerous that was? "
I want to laugh. Want to scream. Want to tell him that staying here is more dangerous than any ravine.
But I'm so tired. So broken. The words won't come.
I slump in Donovan's arms, and Father steps back. The concern vanishes, replaced by cold efficiency.
"Take her inside. Call Dr. Morrison. And double the security detail."
They carry me through the door. The marble floor gleams, spotless and cold. My reflection stares back from the polished surface—wild-eyed, disheveled, streaked with blood and dirt.
I don't recognize myself.
Is this what I've become? A desperate animal, clawing at her cage?
The door to my room closes with a final click. Donovan sets me on the bed, surprisingly gentle. Then he's gone, and I'm alone.
Outside, Father's voice carries through the walls. Giving orders. Tightening security.
The walls press closer. The air grows thick.
I've failed.
I'm trapped.
And the wedding looms—sixty-seven days away. I counted this morning, marked it on the calendar like counting down to my execution.
I curl into myself as dawn breaks. The light creeps through the windows, gray and cold. My body aches. Every breath hurts.
The tears come. Harsh, wrenching sobs that shake my frame. Each one tears something loose inside.
But beneath the despair, beneath the pain and fear and exhaustion—
A spark.
Tiny. Stubborn. Refusing to die.
This isn't over.
I will find a way out.
I have to.
Because the alternative—marriage to Prescott, life as a broodmare for Sentinel, whatever that means—is worse than death.
As sleep finally claims me, dragging me under with heavy hands, my last thought is of Paul.
Where is he?
Does he know what's happening?
Will he come before it's too late?
I can only hope.
For now, it's all I have left.