5. Room 114
Chapter five
The deadbolt turned under my hand. I pushed the front door open, stepping into the empty penthouse.
The silence inside stretched through the rooms. I walked past the expansive living area and kitchen island without a second glance.
Staying in this marriage meant actively feeding my baby to the same wolves that spent the last year tearing me apart.
My flats clicked against the floorboards as I headed straight back to the master bedroom.
I crossed the threshold into the massive walk-in closet.
The sterile scent of cedarwood hung in the climate-controlled air.
I stopped in the center of the room, surrounded by custom shelving.
The space was a monument to the life I was abandoning.
I tilted my head back, scanning the top tier.
My old, battered suitcase sat wedged between Cassian’s folded duffels.
I reached up on my tiptoes. The new weight of my pregnancy made the stretch awkward. I braced my forearm against the shelving to steady myself until my fingertips barely snagged the handle.
“Just get it over the edge,” I whispered.
I gave a tug, forcing the luggage forward.
The bag scraped over the lip of the shelf and pitched down.
I stepped out of the way, letting it hit the plush carpet.
I crouched and unzipped the main compartment, revealing the empty interior, then stood and turned to the sprawling clothing racks.
Dozens of designer dresses hung aligned by color.
I reached out, brushing my knuckles against a blush-colored gown Cassian had purchased for a charity gala. The dress felt like a trap. Packing these clothes meant accepting the leash that came with them.
“You got what you wanted, and now you’re set for life,” Octavia’s polite, venomous voice echoed in the closet.
I grabbed the hanger and shoved it along the rod.
The dress rustled against the adjacent garments.
I pushed a row of party dresses out of the way, clearing a space.
I refused to let Cassian’s wealth become a cage for this child.
I dug into the back corner of the closet, pushing past the high-society armor until I found the practical clothes I owned before the wedding.
I pulled free a stack of sweaters and dropped them into the open bag, adding three pairs of scuffed shoes and a handful of basic shirts. I walked into the attached bathroom, grabbed my prenatal vitamins, and tossed them on top of the pile.
I hesitated, then reached onto the dressing table for the small velvet box containing the diamond necklace he bought me for our first Christmas.
It was a gift from my husband, not the estate, and it was the only piece of jewelry I could bear to leverage for my daughter’s freedom.
I tucked it away, kneeling on the carpet to zip the suitcase shut.
I was terrified, but I kept my hands moving, refusing to stop and think. I pulled a heavy winter coat from the rack and slipped it on over my maternity dress. My lower back ached from the long day, urging me to sit. I sank onto the edge of the ottoman, resting my hand over the baby.
“We aren’t taking his family’s money.” I traced the curve of my bump through my coat. “We don’t need his silk to survive.”
I pulled my smartphone from my coat pocket. The screen flared to life, casting a bright glow against the dim shelving. I tapped the rideshare app, loading the map to find a car to take me to the county strip mall. The loading icon spun.
“Just need a ride out of here,” I whispered to the glaring screen.
The map loaded, showing a cluster of car icons hovering near the high-rise.
I typed in the destination. My thumb paused just above the ‘Confirm Ride’ button.
A tiny black credit card icon sat directly beneath the estimated fare.
The Kensington corporate account logo glowed below it. I jerked my thumb back from the glass.
“I linked the black Amex to all your apps, Wren. You never have to worry about the logistics of surviving ever again, so just let me handle it,” Cassian’s voice echoed in my memory.
If I used his account, he would see the notification the second the driver accepted the trip. He would see the drop-off address, treat my departure like a paid vacation on his dime, and assume he still controlled my life.
“Cassian, I can pay for my own rides. I have my savings,” my own voice answered.
I backed out of the booking menu and pressed my fingertip against the icon on the home screen. The grid shook. I tapped the red prompt, deleting the app from my phone. I locked the device, set it down on a nearby shelf, and stood up from the ottoman.
I crossed to the back of the closet, reaching past a row of designer handbags that Cassian had arranged on the display racks. I dragged out my worn purse. When the zipper caught halfway, I gave it a hard yank to pull the main compartment open.
I dug my hands inside, my fingers brushing past old, faded gum wrappers, loose change, and crumpled store receipts. I pushed the debris aside, located the secret zippered pocket lining the back of the bag, and tugged it open.
I pulled out a folded wad of cash. I flattened the bills, counting the twenties and fifties in the dim light. It was the remains of my waitress tips. The money belonged to me, earned before I ever took the Kensington name. I rubbed the worn cash between my thumb and forefinger.
“Thank God I kept this.” I stared at the paper in my hand. “Thank God I didn’t listen to him.”
I slung the purse onto my shoulder and retrieved the smartphone from the shelf. I tapped open the internet browser and searched for a cheap motel near the county strip mall. Finding a low-rated listing with a local area code, I pressed the number and lifted the phone to my ear.
The call connected with a faint digital hiss, followed by a harsh, rhythmic ringing over the line.
“Pick up,” I whispered, pressing the phone tighter against my head.
A click sounded on the other end, followed by the muffled noise of a television playing in the background as a man cleared his throat.
“Starlight Motel,” the clerk mumbled.
I leaned my shoulder against the wooden shelves. “I need to book a room for tonight.”
“Yeah, we have a single available,” the clerk said over the receiver. “But I can’t hold it past midnight without a card on file, lady.”
“I’ll be there in less than an hour, and I’ll pay the deposit in cash.” I tightened my grip on the phone. “Just put the reservation under Gallagher. Wren Gallagher.”
The syllables tasted strange on my tongue. I had not spoken my maiden name aloud since the wedding rehearsal. Using it now felt like sliding a rusty key into an old lock. It belonged to me.
“Whatever you say, Ms. Gallagher,” the clerk replied, sounding bored. “Room 114. Just bring the cash to the night window when you get here.”
The line clicked dead. I pulled the phone away from my face.
I stared at the illuminated screen for a moment, running my thumb over the edge.
If I took it with me, Cassian would track the GPS signal by morning.
He would send the private security team to drag me back to the estate, telling everyone I was having a hysterical breakdown.
I held the power button down. The display flickered and went black, cutting the connection entirely.
I stepped out of the closet and walked down the hallway into the silent kitchen. I stopped at the edge of the island to set the darkened phone down on the marble.
I unzipped the main compartment of my purse and pulled out my wallet, flipping it open to reveal the row of platinum and black cards tied to Cassian’s name.
“Everything stays right here,” I murmured to the empty room.
I pinched the edge of a platinum Visa tied to the estate trust and slid it free. I dropped it onto the counter beside the phone. The plastic hit the surface with a soft clack. I moved to the next slot, extracting the black corporate Amex. I stacked it directly on top of the Visa.
I peeled out a third card, then a fourth. I built a deliberate, precise stack of plastic, aligning the edges until they sat perfectly flush against the counter.
Octavia would accuse me of draining the accounts on my way out.
She would tell the extended family that I plundered the trust funds the moment the gender reveal went wrong.
Leaving the physical evidence in plain sight shattered that narrative.
I traced my index finger over the raised numbers of the top card.
The Kensington name stayed right here on the counter, abandoned alongside the cards.
I dragged my suitcase down the penthouse hallway and pulled it into the private elevator. The doors slid shut, sealing me inside the quiet car. The digital floor indicator lit up, the numbers ticking down as the elevator descended.
The mechanical drone filled the small space. I gripped the extended handle of the luggage. The edge dug into my palm as I braced myself for the doors to open.
This building was designed to cater to every whim, but that luxury functioned as a tether.
Every staff member worked for Cassian. A text to the wrong concierge would stop me before I even reached the sidewalk.
The elevator slowed to a halt, shifting my weight down just as a muted chime echoed in the car.
The metal doors parted. The lobby stretched out in front of me, gleaming beneath the chandeliers. I stepped out into the heated space, pulling the bag behind me. The wheels squeaked against the floor.
The noise cut through the silence. Thomas, the night concierge, stood up from behind the curved reception desk.
He wore a uniform jacket and an earpiece, his posture stiff and strictly professional.
He spotted the luggage, abandoned his post, and hurried across the floor to intercept me near the vestibule.
“Ma’am, wait—let me get that,” Thomas said.
He reached out to take the handle. I pressed my hand against the sleeve of his coat, stopping him.
“I can manage the bag, Thomas,” I replied.
Thomas stepped back, blinking in confusion. His eyes darted to the winter coat zipped over my belly, then to the scuffed bag resting by my feet. His hand paused near the radio clipped to his lapel.
“Mrs. Kensington, please, let me take that! It’s freezing outside, so let me call the black car for you.”
The private car service meant climbing into a vehicle tracked by Kensington corporate security.
The driver would report my destination to Cassian within minutes, placing me right back under my husband’s supervision.
I needed to breach this concierge bubble, and the only way through was to use the title I was trying to abandon.
“That won’t be necessary, Thomas. Just hold the door, please, because I’m taking a street cab tonight.”
The doorman shook his head, panic flashing in his eyes. He glanced toward the street, where a gust of wind rattled the lobby windows.
“Ma’am, Mr. Kensington is going to fire me if I let you take a public cab this late. Please just wait inside.”
He was doing his job. He feared Cassian’s temper, just like everyone else on the estate payroll.
But I could not afford to be accommodating.
I wrapped both of my hands around the handle, squeezing it until my knuckles ached.
I squared my shoulders and locked eyes with him, adopting the exact unyielding tone I used to direct catering vendors.
“I am giving you a direct order, Thomas. Open the door, and do not call the service under any circumstances.”
My tone was hard and flat, leaving no room for argument. His hand dropped away from his radio.
I stood motionless on the marble, waiting in silence.
Thomas gripped the handle and pulled the street door open. The coastal winter wind surged into the lobby, carrying the bitter chill of the night. I stepped over the threshold, dragging my suitcase across the sidewalk to the curb.
The glass shut behind me, blocking out the heated air. The wind bit against my bare cheeks. I pulled my coat tight over my stomach, shivering as the temperature drop hit me. Traffic hummed down the dark avenue.
I raised my free arm toward the approaching headlights of a yellow taxi. The vehicle swerved toward the curb, tires crunching over a patch of road salt.
“Just pull over,” I muttered under my breath.
The taxi slowed, its brake lights washing the pavement in red as it idled a few feet away, engine rattling. I released the handle of my luggage and approached the passenger window. As it rolled down, the sharp scent of a cheap pine air freshener cut through the city’s exhaust.
The driver leaned across the passenger seat. He wore a faded jacket, glancing past me to survey the soaring, floodlit architecture of the Kensington high-rise before settling his gaze back on me with a wary scowl.
“Meter’s running,” the driver said. “But looking at where you’re standing, I need a fifty-dollar cash deposit upfront if we’re going past the bridge.”
Normally, a Kensington would threaten his medallion number or demand to speak to a dispatcher. A week ago, I might have lowered my eyes and let Cassian’s private driver manage the exchange. Tonight, I welcomed the friction.
I unzipped my purse, pulled a crumpled bill from the loose wad of cash I had left inside, and handed the money through the window to the driver.
“That’s fine,” I said. “Here’s the fifty. Take me to the Starlight Motel off Interstate 9, please.”
The driver pinched the bill, holding it up to the overhead dome light to check the watermark. Satisfied, he shoved the money into his breast pocket and unlocked the rear doors.
“The Starlight?” The driver frowned, looking at my coat. “Lady, you sure? It ain’t exactly a penthouse suite down there.”
“I’m absolutely sure. Please just drive.”
I pulled the rear door open and grabbed my suitcase with both hands, hauling it inside and wedging it into the footwell. I slid across the cracked vinyl to the far seat, pulling my purse onto my lap.
The driver shifted into gear, and the taxi pulled away from the curb, merging into the flow of city traffic. As the cold seat pressed into my legs, the cabin smelled like stale cigarette smoke, a world away from the heated leather seats of Cassian’s monitored fleet. It felt like breathing oxygen.
I sat in the back of the dingy yellow cab, clutching my purse as the floodlit tower disappeared into the distance.