Chapter 4
Brooke
The men drag me through the front doors, and the inside of the manor is nothing like the outside.
Black and white marble gleams beneath my feet, reflecting the chandelier overhead in broken shards of light.
Gold trim lines the walls. A sweeping staircase curves up through the center of the foyer, with dark banisters polished to a shine.
Everything looks expensive, pristine, carefully placed.
It should feel beautiful. Instead it makes my skin crawl.
They haul me deeper inside and into a study. Dark wood shelves climb from floor to ceiling, packed with books in perfect rows. The desk is broad and polished, the leather chair behind it untouched.
They force me into a straight-backed chair facing the desk. The zip ties stay tight around my wrists. One of the men yanks them once more, testing the tension until the plastic bites deeper into my skin, then steps back.
Grant stands near the doorway.
“Outside,” he tells the others.
They all file out without argument, Grant smirks as he follows them out. The door closes with a firm click.
I look around the room.
The desk, a leather blotter, a closed laptop, a heavy glass paperweight. A fountain pen resting in a holder. My eyes lock on it for a second. The metal tip is sharp enough to stab. But not strong enough to cut through industrial plastic.
I scan lower.
No scissors in sight. No letter opener within reach. The drawers are closed tight. Behind the desk, a glass-front cabinet displays nothing but rows of books.
My gaze moves to the corners of the room. A bar cart stands against one wall. Crystal decanter. Glass tumblers. No corkscrew visible from here.
Think Brooke.
The bookshelf to my left has decorative bookends made of solid metal. If I could reach one. If I could get close enough to grind the plastic against an edge.
I keep scanning. Nothing loose. Nothing I can use to escape.
Their voices continue outside, clear through the wood, and I force myself to listen while my eyes keep moving, cataloging every object, every surface, every possibility.
Grant speaks first. “She’s pregnant.”
There's a pause.
Then a voice answers. “And?”
“So John wants you to be careful with her,” Grant replies.
A soft sound follows, almost a breath of amusement.
Grant continues, “John said don’t kill her. No permanent damage. Discipline her if you have to. But don’t kill her.”
“John says?” the voice repeats.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“And Kristie?” the voice asks.
Grant lets out a quiet laugh.
“She doesn’t believe John has the standing to override her,” Grant adds. “Her words, not mine.”
A faint shift, like someone leaning back against the wall. “So whose request am I supposed to follow?”
Grant doesn’t hesitate. “That’s up to you.”
The voice responds. “You know me. I make my own rules.”
“I know,” Grant says. “Which is why I’m telling you. Kristie will contact you soon.”
there's a brief pause.
“Don’t do anything too extreme before she calls,” Grant finishes. “She wants to see it.”
A low hum of acknowledgment answers him.
“I’ll decide what we do with her for now,” the voice says.
Grant’s footsteps begin to retreat down the hall. “I figured you would. Have fun brother.”
The space outside the study goes quiet. A single set of slow footsteps approaches the door. I straighten in the chair as much as the zip ties allow. My pulse hammers in my ears. The handle turns. The door opens.
A tall man walks in. His posture is relaxed, and his expression is calm.
His hair is sandy blond. He wears a light-colored polo and pressed pants.
His face is clean-shaven. His movements are polished and relaxed.
He looks like he comes from old money. He closes the door behind him and looks at me as if he is examining a new object.
“You’re Brooke,” he says. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
I keep my eyes on him.
“I’m Elliot, I run the Manor. I want you to understand this clearly. The Manor is a safe place. I’m here to watch over you and guide you through your stay.”
He speaks gently.
“You’ll meet my colleagues who live here,” he adds. “They help me maintain structure.”
He opens the door and steps to the side.
Three people stand waiting in the hallway.
The first steps forward. He is tall and lean, with light brown hair slicked neatly back from a high forehead.
His face is narrow, almost boyish, with pronounced cheekbones and a mouth pulled into an eager, unsettling smile that shows too many teeth.
“Hey, I’m Knox,” his tone is friendly, but it sounds forced.
The next is a young woman with dark hair pulled high into a tight knot, a single braid falling over her shoulder. She wears a fitted black top and black slacks. Her makeup is flawless, dark liner sharpens her green eyes, and her lipstick is a deep muted red. She looks over me before she speaks.
“Hi, I’m Sophie.” Her smile is restrained, professional, and cool. “I’ll help you settle in.”
The last man steps into view. He has a buzz cut and a thick, muscular build. His posture is relaxed, shoulders loose, head slightly angled as if he is listening more than watching. His expression holds a faint, unreadable calm, neither friendly nor hostile.
“I’m Asher,” he says.
All three watch me, but none of them show open hostility. Their politeness feels fake, like they have been taught to greet people this way.
“They’re here to assist you,” Elliot explains. “You’ll learn the routine. Everything is scheduled. Once you understand the structure, your days will feel predictable.”
A guard approaches the doorway. “Her room is ready.”
Elliot nods. “Good. We’ll take her there now.”
He looks back at me with the same light expression. Nothing in his voice carries threat. Everything about him feels designed to appear calm and approachable.
“You’ve had a long trip,” Elliot murmurs. “It’s best to get you settled.”
Knox steps to my left, and Asher steps to my right. Sophie walks just ahead of us. Elliot leads the way through the hall at a comfortable pace, as if this is a tour instead of a transfer. I follow because the restraints give me no other choice.
“I want you to feel comfortable here. If you follow the routine, everything will run smoothly.”
Nothing in his tone reveals what Grant warned him about. Nothing in his expression shows anything violent. But something in him doesn’t sit right, and I can’t ignore it.
The guard opens the door and guides me inside.
The room looks nothing like a cell. The walls are painted a soft neutral color.
There's a large window with curtains pulled open to show the courtyard lights below.
A small dresser stands against the wall.
A matching desk sits in the corner with a bottle of water already placed on top.
A rug covers most of the floor. The lighting is soft and warm.
The bed looks comfortable with a thick blanket and two pillows arranged neatly at the headboard. Everything looks expensive and neat.
That makes me more nervous.
The guard comes behind me and cuts the restraints. I rub at my wrists with numb, clumsy hands, trying to soothe the sting. It only makes the bruises flare. My limbs feel both too light and too heavy, shaky in a way that makes me furious.
The door locks behind them. I sit on the bed and keep my hands in my lap. My mind spins. I last about ten seconds before the tears come.
I press my palm to my mouth, but the sob pushes through anyway. My chest aches. My throat tightens. I fold over and cry into the blanket. Everything hits at once. The terror. The confusion. The ride here. The restraints. John’s words. Mary’s. The Collective. Grant. Elliot. All of it.
But nothing hits harder than the thought of Seth.
I cry until my eyes burn. I cry until my head throbs. I hold my stomach because the pain there scares me. I think about the life that Seth and I created. I think about him never being able to meet our child. I think about him dying in that ballroom.
If he is dead, I have nothing left to lose.
That breaks me again. I curl on the bed with the blanket clutched in my hands.
The room stays silent. The walls give me no sound, no hint of anything outside.
Time drags. My body shakes. My breathing keeps slipping out of control.
I try to slow it, but the grief stays heavy.
My chest hurts. My stomach tightens in waves.
Hours pass like minutes. I barely move. When the knock finally comes, it startles me so badly I almost fall off the bed.
I wipe my face with the blanket. “Yes,” I whisper.
The door opens. Sophie stands there with a fitted red silk dress folded neatly in her arms. Her expression looks friendly at first glance, but something in her eyes doesn’t match it.
“It’s time for dinner.”
My voice barely works. “I need a minute.”
“You don’t have a minute.” She interjects. “You need to change.”
I stand slowly. My legs feel weak. My face is still wet, but Sophie acts like she doesn’t notice. She hands me the red silk dress. I change with her waiting inside the room. She watches without discomfort. She watches like it's routine.
When I finish, she steps back and looks me over. “Good. Come with me.”
Asher and Knox stand outside the door. Asher gestures for me to walk ahead of him. Knox gives me a calm nod, as if this is normal.
We walk to the dining room. The table is long. The plates are set. The lighting is warm. Elliot sits at the head of the table with a small smile that looks practiced.
“Brooke, join us.”
I sit slowly. Sophie sits beside me. Knox sits on my other side.
Asher takes the seat across. Elliot raises his hand slightly, and a servant enters with a tray of steaming food.
He places plates in front of us with quiet movements.
Roasted chicken. Vegetables. Bread. Water.
My body reacts before my mind does. My stomach cramps with hunger.
Elliot notices. “Eat, Brooke. You need it.”