3

The next morning, the sky hung gray and heavy.

In the first-floor dining room, the long table was laid with a lavish breakfast spread.

Black truffle omelets, creamy seafood chowder, French foie gras roulades, and freshly baked croissants.

My soul hovered beside the table, staring hungrily at all that food.

I hadn't eaten a proper meal in five full years.

Early in my illness, my mother had taught herself to cook nutritious meals, coaxing me to eat one spoonful at a time.

But later, when they grew tired of me vomiting on the carpet, they decided that "a bland diet is better for the nerves" and had the maid bring me nothing but a bowl of plain, unseasoned oatmeal each day.

The truth was simpler: their patience had run out, and they didn't want to bother the chef with preparing anything special for me.

Ethan, wearing a brand-new jacket, sat shoveling croissants into his mouth.

"Mom, Dad said I could pick a sports car from the garage and take it for a spin today.

"Jessica's waiting for me."

Victoria smiled and placed a slice of foie gras on his plate.

"Slow down.

"What's the rush? The car isn't going anywhere."

She glanced up at the clock on the wall and her brow slowly creased.

"Did she really stay out on the terrace all night? She didn't come back?"

Richard didn't even look up, his eyes still on the financial newspaper.

"How long can she hold out?

"Someone like her can't survive without this household.

"Mrs. Patterson, go check on her.

"If she won't eat, let her starve. Don't give in to her."

Mrs. Patterson wiped her hands and hurried upstairs.

Less than two minutes later, she came running back down, white as a sheet.

"Sir, ma'am, something's wrong.

"The terrace door is bolted from the outside. It won't open!

"Miss Amelia's quiet room is empty too.

"She never came back to her room last night!"

The atmosphere in the dining room turned cold in an instant.

Ethan slammed his butter knife on the table.

"What the hell is she trying to pull?

"Today is the first day of my adult life, and I'm supposed to pick up Jessica.

"She locks the door at the crack of dawn. Who is she trying to make a point to?

"She's a walking disaster for this entire family!"

Victoria flew into a rage too and shot to her feet.

The chair legs screeched against the marble floor.

"She locked the door?

"Now she's learned to go on hunger strikes as a form of protest?

"Richard, look at this daughter you've raised. Does she think the whole world has to revolve around her?

"Come on, let's go break the door down!

"I'm going to drag her down from that terrace today and demand to know what she thinks she's doing!"

I drifted behind my furious parents as they charged up to the top floor.

Their hurried footsteps held nothing but barely contained rage.

Not a trace of concern tempered their anger.

To hear them, anyone would have thought I had deliberately caused trouble again, not been missing all night.

On the third floor, Victoria kicked open the door to the quiet room.

It wasn't locked. The door swung open with her kick.

There were no windows inside.

All four walls were covered in foam that had been clawed to shreds.

The dark gray foam was mottled with dried blood from my episodes.

Victoria covered her nose in revulsion and stepped back.

"It reeks of rot in here. Disgusting.

"Hurry up, have the bodyguards break down the terrace door!"

Richard waved his hand.

Two bodyguards stepped forward with sledgehammers.

Just as they were about to swing, Victoria's gaze suddenly fell on something beneath the bed.

She frowned and nudged the pile of torn foam with the toe of her high heel.

A dull metallic clang rang out.

In a room where every hard object had been removed, the sound was jarring.

Victoria paused, then bent down and brushed aside the foam debris.

A black metal box stared back at her.

For five years, to prevent me from taking my own life, they had stripped the room of everything down to the last toothpick.

How could there be a metal box hidden here?