Chapter 27
CHAPTER 27
RAVEN
M y breath comes in short, shallow bursts as I storm into the kitchen, my vision blurred with unshed tears. He is killing my love for him. Every day bit by bit he is making me hate him. It is unbearable. The warmth of the house and the faint aroma of food and mulled wine being made waft through the air. It feels cozy, almost festive, like Christmas came early and entirely at odds with the chaos churning inside me.
Nora appears, her face lighting up when she spots me. She holds out a steaming mug. “Raven! You must try this. I’ve been perfecting the recipe?—”
“I’m so sorry, Nora,” I interrupt, my voice cracking. “But not right now.”
I skirt around her, desperate to avoid her kind eyes, her questions, and the realization of how wrecked I am. My eyes are stinging, but I refuse to break down here, in front of her. The gossip will definitely reach my mother if I do.
I don’t stop moving, my legs race me up the stairs, through the corridor and into the room that has never felt like mine. My mind races. I can’t stay here. I really can’t. I can’t endure this house, that man, this life for another second.
I know if I stay, I will freaking lose my mind and I am one hundred percent sure of that. How long will I be gone? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll never come back.
The thought is fleeting but sharp, like the sting of a needle. My father’s face flashes in my mind, the fragility of his body. He needs me. And I won’t let him down. I’ll figure it out somehow—I have to—but I can’t keep living like this, not with this … monster.
Maybe I don’t even have to stay married to him. There was no prenup, after all. I could just walk away and get a loan from the bank for the rest of my father’s treatments. What I have in the kitty might be enough to pay for the bulk of it.
I open the closet and stare up at the suitcase perched on the shelf. It’s old and familiar. Part of another life. I remember my thoughts when I packed it. Fear, confusion, but oh, so much hope for the future. I was so sure I could make this work. That our love would conquer whatever was wrong. The sight of it sends a sharp pang through me, but I push it aside. I need to leave now as quickly as possible.
Barefoot, I step onto the lower shelf, the wood pressing hard against my soles as I stretch upward. My fingertips graze the handle, but it’s heavy. It’s got all my books still inside it. The weight shifts as I tug at it.
“Come on,” I mutter under my breath, my voice shaking with frustration. I pull harder and the edge of the suitcase tilts forward, the books inside rattle ominously. The sudden shift in weight catches me off guard. A sharp pain shoots through my arm, forcing me to release my grip.
“Shit!” The curse rips from my throat as the suitcase crashes to the floor with a loud thud. The sound echoes in the quiet room, mocking me. My pulse hammers in my ears as I climb down and crouch beside the suitcase, one of the wheels is hanging precariously by a thread, barely attached. I press my palm to my forehead, squeezing my eyes shut against the hot tears that finally spill over. My chest heaves as I sink down onto the expensive Persian rug. I sit with my knees pulled up to my chest.
I bury my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking. The dam breaks and I let it all go. All of it. The anger, the grief, the sheer helplessness. I cry for the life I thought I could build, for the woman I thought I was, for the man who carved his name next to mine only to hack it out with such ferocity he was like a man possessed by a whole legion of demons.
This isn’t the way I wanted things to go. This isn’t the life I envisioned. But now, sitting inside this mansion, surrounded by broken things, I truly can’t see a way out.
When the tears stop, I sit with my arms wrapped around my knees, my head resting against them. My father’s face swims to the forefront of my mind. The thought of him—frail and needing me—is like a lifeline in the darkness. I take a shuddering breath, grounding myself in that singular focus.
My gaze falls on the battered suitcase at my feet, one wheel barely hanging on. It’s useless now, just like so much else around me. But I can’t afford to dwell on it. I need another one, and the staff won’t have anything suitable lying around—not without questions I can’t stomach answering.
That leaves only one option. At this point, it annoys me more than it terrifies me to even consider it, but he has to know anyway. Plus, perhaps it will be good to get his reaction—a way to ensure my leaving doesn’t endanger my father’s health care. The hallways feel colder somehow, the walls closing in as I head toward his study where he always spends time in the morning before he leaves for work.
I pass his bedroom and find the door slightly ajar. I look in, trying to detect movement to see if he is in there, but it doesn’t seem occupied. What I do see though is the sight of the perfectly made bed. The memories from last night flash through my mind—the way his hands had gripped my skin, the strength flowing from his body, the taste of his anger and desire mingled together. I look away, shame and fury burning through me. I need to focus. I have a mission.
His study. That’s where he’ll be.
I step back and make my way downstairs. The grand staircase spirals downward. The house is quiet, save for the faint sound of my footsteps. A thought comes in my head unbidden and unwelcome. This house needs children, lots of them.
I shake my head to clear the silly thought. I used to think this house was beautiful, back when it was Charles’s father’s. But as I descend the staircase now, what once felt magnificent now feels like a prison, every detail a relentless reminder of everything I’ve come to despise.
I can’t understand where he gets these ideas about me—about what I wanted, about who I am. Wealth? Status? He keeps throwing these accusations like they’re the core of my being, like they define me. It’s infuriating.
Yes, I wanted a better life than what I had when I was growing up dirt poor. So what? It’s good to have aspirations. Yes, I was prepared to marry Charles in exchange for saving my father’s life. Charles is an adult. He knew exactly what he was getting into. I never lied to him. He was the one who lied to me about his financial circumstances and tried to trick me into marrying him. We never even had sex.
The only person I’d ever had sex with was Earl. I always knew it would never be like what it was with Earl so I didn’t even bother to look for anyone else. What’s wrong with wanting my children to go to Harvard like Charles and his sister did? It’s a decision I don’t regret and I would do it again and again. I’m not going to let Earl convince me that I’m a bad person for wanting to help my dad and wanting a better foundation than I had for my children. And I’m sick and tired of trying to defend myself to him. Enough is enough.
My mind drifts to our days together in that rundown trailer park, sneaking around under the cover of night. Those were the best moments of my life, stolen and sweet, free of judgment and the crushing weight of expectation. I’d told him, over and over, how I never wanted to be without him. Even then, when the world seemed against us, I had chosen him.
Where the hell did he get this idea that I only ever wanted money?
I shake my head, pushing the thoughts aside. Doesn’t matter now. I’ve had enough. I’m not wasting my time chasing after ghosts anymore. If he won’t tell me, I won’t ask again. I reach downstairs and make my way to his study, which is tucked into the far corner of the house.
I pause outside the door, my heart thudding against my ribs. The anger that fueled me moments ago feels distant now, replaced by a simmering dread. Taking a deep breath, I knock.
“What is it?” an irritated voice calls from inside.
Of course, he is grumpy as usual, but I don’t care. I square my shoulders and push the door open. To my surprise, the curtains are drawn shut and the glow from a single desk lamp casts long shadows across the walls. The scent of aged leather and faint cologne lingers in the air. Earl is seated at the desk, leaning back in his chair watching me with an air of quiet contemplation.
“What do you need?” he asks, his voice edged with wariness, as if he’s bracing for another fight.
I step inside and shut the door behind me. My gaze flickers to the dark wood shelves lining the walls, the rows of books and neatly stacked papers, the multiple computer screens on his desk, their faint glow illuminating the sharp lines of his face. It’s a far cry from the man I used to know—the one who never cared for material things, who used to dream of a simple life with me.
“I need to borrow a suitcase,” I say flatly.
His brow furrows, his expression hardening. “What for?”
“That’s none of your concern,” I reply, my tone sharper than I intended.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his gaze unrelenting. “Everything about you is my concern, Raven.”
His words hang in the air, and I feel anger bubbling up inside me again, threatening to spill over. I straighten my shoulders, forcing myself to meet his gaze head-on. “Can you lend me one or not?”
For a moment, he doesn’t respond, his eyes scanning me. Finally, he shifts his gaze away, his tone flat as he says, “Talk to Nora. She’ll get you what you need.”
That’s it. No questions, no comments, not even a flicker of anything resembling emotion. I nod stiffly, unsure of what I expected. Curiosity? Understanding? Refusal? Something other than this distant, detached man who barely resembles the lover I once knew. He’s going to let me go! Just like that. No questions. No objections. A crushing disappointment pools in my chest and I hate that I feel it at all.
I spin around and go outside to look for Nora, but she is already coming towards me. She greets me with her usual brisk efficiency. “Mr. Jackson informed me that you’ll be needing a suitcase,” she says, her tone polite, but her eyes full of curiosity. “Please, follow me to the storeroom. You can pick a suitcase there.”
I realize how strange this must seem to her. A wife borrowing a suitcase from her husband, as though I’m some guest rather than the mistress of the house.
“Thank you.” I offer a small, tight smile and follow her up the stairs.
Nora steps aside to let me into the attic. I enter and notice that there are things that must have belonged to Charles’s family here too. They didn’t bother to take it with them. Dolls houses and rocking chairs.
A row of suitcases sits neatly in the closet. They are mostly pristine and absurdly expensive, but my fingers hover over the handle of a simple black one. I know this suitcase. I’ve seen it years before. Instinctively, I pick it up and go outside.
Nora waits in the landing, her expression unreadable.
“Thank you,” I say again.
She nods. “You’re welcome, Madam. If there is anything else I can do for you please do not hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you, but there’s nothing more I need, Nora,” I say softly, and even I, can hear the sadness in my voice.
Then I turn away and carry the suitcase back to my room. Once inside, I shut the door, put the suitcase on my bed and stare at it. It’s a blast from the past. I close my eyes and try to steady myself. The past couple of weeks have felt like a fever dream—unreal and vivid all at once. But the last two days? They’ve been a waking nightmare, a whirlwind of anger and longing and everything in between.
Bending forward I snap the suitcase open. It’s empty. The breath I’m holding comes out in a rush. I don’t know what I expected, but there’s nothing in it. Another disappointment for me.
Furious with myself for being so stupid and na?ve again I drag the suitcase with me over to the closet and start pulling clothes off hangers, one after another, in a frenzy of movement. Each garment drops into the open suitcase on the floor, their colors blending together into a heap of frustration and simmering fury.
The air fills with the sound of hangers clattering and fabric rustling. My hands work mechanically, folding and shoving as much as I can into the suitcase. Dresses, shirts, jackets—they all disappear into Earl’s black suitcase. The thought of having to return, even for something trivial, makes my stomach turn. No. I’ll take everything of mine now.
I reach for the front pocket of the suitcase to stuff it with my socks and my fingers brush against something smooth and flat. Pulling it out, I see it’s a neatly pressed man’s handkerchief. Something my grandfather would have owned.
Inside is an envelope. I freeze. My gaze locks on it, my pulse quickening. The paper feels delicate in my hands, the edges yellowed and slightly curled as if it’s been waiting for years to be discovered. My fingers tremble as I open it and take the folded letter inside it. The faint scent of old ink wafts up. The handwriting is unmistakably his, though a little neater than I remember—like he’d actually tried to make it perfect for once. My heart thuds painfully in my chest as I begin to read.
Raven babe,
I should probably be paying attention to Mr. Winslow right now—he’s going on about derivatives or something equally brain-numbing—but how can I when your seat is empty? It’s weird not having you here to roll your eyes at me every five minutes or scribble sarcastic notes in my notebook.
Charles, the nosy bastard again, had the cheek to ask me about you. I ignored him, obviously—no need to start another pointless fight. I wonder when he’ll get it through his head that you’re mine.
Also, what the hell were you thinking about making a midnight snack from random fridge leftovers? Food poisoning is a thing, you know. People even die from it!!! One day when I’m rich, you’ll only ever eat in the best restaurants.
Anyway, I was planning to skip after the first period and come over to see you, but I don’t think I can without Miss Loewe making a big deal about the both of us being absent. She has a dirty mind and she’ll probably tell all the churchgoers we’re fornicating or something. I mean, she’s not wrong, but she really should learn to mind her business.
Anyway, I hope you’re feeling better. I can’t stop picturing you all annoyed because your mom keeps fussing over you. You always hate being babied, but you know you secretly love it … maybe just a little.
I miss you like crazy. I don’t think I could live if you were not on this earth.
By the way, I’ve got our history notes. Well, my version of them. I marked the sections that’ll probably show up on the test because, let’s face it, we both know I’m better at guessing these things. You can thank me later by losing another bet. I’m calling it now: double or nothing, loser buys fries for a month.
Anyway, I’m going to show up at your door by lunch, but you’ll only find this after I leave. It’ll be under your pillow. Unless I forget to put it there—you know how just being with you makes me forget things. Not that I’m complaining.
I miss you terribly. Just wanted to write this note to make you smile. I’ve rubbed it with my scent or whatever, like you always say.
Get better soon, okay? Will kiss you soon. I mean, when I come during lunch.
Damn, all of this is so cheesy I might not give you this letter, after all. I just need to write down my frustration at your absence. The truth is all these words are really just to say, Baby Raven, I fucking miss you. Like crazy. Even though it’s only been one day apart. I know … I know … I’m a big baby.
Love u forever,
Your Earl
I read the letter again and again, my chest contracting with every word. It’s like a window into another life—one where he loved me with the kind of reckless crazy abandon that made everything feel simple and obvious. I took our love for granted. I never imagined it would not last. My fingers trace the faint smudge of ink at the bottom of the page, and for a moment, I let myself be pulled back to those days when his love was so absolute, so tangible.
I fold the letter carefully and press it against my chest. One thing is clear: this letter, hidden for so many years, is proof that the love we shared wasn’t just a figment of my imagination. It was real, despite how near impossible it is to believe now. I must hide it. If he finds it he will surely destroy it with the same ferocity he hacked away his name from the tree trunk.
I look at the suitcase. The lid is still open, clothes spilling out like the emotions threatening to overwhelm me. My hands tremble as I stare at the suitcase, half convinced I can simply close it and walk out.
But … I don’t think I can.
The words, etched into the paper with such deep love, refuse to leave my mind. They are a thread, pulling me backward through time, unraveling the hurt and anger I’ve wrapped myself in these last few days. Earl isn’t just angry. He’s wounded. Something happened. Something I don’t know about and he won’t tell me.
And I can’t ignore it any longer.
I kneel beside the suitcase. Just a few minutes earlier I was ready to leave, convinced that I could just walk out of this house, this marriage, and pretend none of it mattered. But as I grip the edges of the suitcase, my knuckles turning white, the truth stares back at me: I’m not ready. Not to leave. Not to give up. Not until I understand what broke us. No matter what, I will get to the bottom of his hate.
With a start, I take my clothes out of the suitcase and put them away in my closet, just the same way I put away the thought of running away.
When all my clothes are put away again, I press the letter to my chest. It’s not just a letter; it’s a piece of the Earl I used to know, the boy who once loved me so fiercely that it felt like we were untouchable. And maybe that love isn’t dead. Maybe it’s just buried, hidden under years of pain and resentment.
The idea terrifies me and fuels me all at once.
My fingers brush the corner of the envelope as I slip it back inside, safe but not forgotten. Rising to my feet, I glance around the room. The air feels charged, like the calm before a storm. I don’t have a plan, but the one thing I know is that I can’t run away. Not until I find the old him again. Not until I find out why he’s like this—why we have become like this.