Almost Free

Sarah moved to the window on shaking legs.

Her palms were slick with sweat as she pushed aside the thin curtain and leaned forward, peering down into the darkness below. The night air rushed in, cold against her flushed skin. From the second floor, the ground didn’t look impossibly far—but it wasn’t close either.

Her stomach clenched tightly.

It wasn’t too high, she told herself. But still, her heart pounded violently as she measured the height with her eyes again, trying to imagine the fall, the impact, the pain.

One wrong move and she could break a leg.

Or worse.

She pulled back from the window and pressed her forehead against the cool glass, forcing herself to breathe.

If she stayed, tomorrow would come.

Staying here till tomorrow meant marrying Shawn Carter.

Her chest tightened painfully as she clenched the curtain tightly.

'She absolutely wouldn't allow it'

She turned around abruptly, her gaze sweeping the room until her eyes spotted  what she was looking for.

She went to her bed and grabbed the light bedspread, her movements quick and precise. The fabric was thin, soft, familiar. She tested it with her hands, pulling hard. It didn’t tear.

'Good'

Next, she yanked down the light curtains, the rod clattering softly before she stilled it with a sharp breath. She froze, listening.

Thankfully, the sound didn't alert anyone.

The laughter downstairs continued, distant and careless.

They were still celebrating.

Her jaw tightened.

She worked fast, knotting the fabric together with trembling fingers. Her knots weren’t elegant, but they were tight—pulled until her knuckles turned white. She tied the makeshift rope to the sturdy window rail, tugging on it again and again to test its strength.

Sarah swallowed hard and looked down once more.

This was just the second story.

She could do this.

She swung one leg over the window, then the other, her heart slamming against her ribs so hard it hurt. The night air wrapped around her bare skin, raising goosebumps along her arms.

She gripped the fabric rope tightly and eased her weight onto it.

The cloth creaked softly.

Her breath caught.

“Please,” she whispered, not sure who she was begging. “Please hold.”

Slowly, inch by inch, she lowered herself down. Her arms burned almost immediately, muscles screaming in protest as she slid her hands lower, the rough knots biting into her palms.

She didn’t look down.

She couldn’t.

Her mind filled with images she didn’t want—her father’s cold eyes, Shawn Carter’s smile, Matilda’s silent satisfaction.

Her grip slipped slightly.

Sarah gasped, panic surging hot and fast. She tightened her hold, nails digging into the fabric, trying her best to focus. She could not give up. Not now, not ever.

Just a little more.

Her feet brushed against the wall, searching blindly until they found a narrow ledge. She planted her foot there, then the other, using it to take some weight off her arms.

Her breath came in short, shaky pulls.

She slid again and her shoes hit the ground.

Just as her feet touched the ground, a sharp breath tore out of Sarah’s chest.

Her knees buckled as her feet hit the solid earth.

She had made it. Her heart hammered wildly as she straightened, already turning toward the side gate.

'She could leave at last!'

But a harsh beam cut through the darkness, blinding her. Before she could even raise her hands to shield her eyes, two powerful grips clamped down on her arms from either side.

Her breath strangled in her throat.

“No—!” she gasped, instinctively twisting, but the hands were too strong

They yanked her back so hard her shoulder screamed in pain.

The light steadied, fixed on her face.

She squinted against it, tears springing to her eyes, and then she heard a familiar voice—soft, almost thoughtful.

“I only made a suggestion,” Wendy said. “I didn’t expect she would really try to run away.”

Sarah’s heart dropped into her stomach.

Her stepmother stepped forward into the light, one hand resting delicately on Mr. Vance’s arm as if she needed support to stand. Wendy’s face wore an expression of disbelief carefully polished to perfection, eyes wide, lips parted just enough to look concerned.

But her eyes.

How could Sarah not see the satisfaction that was beaming in her eyes.

Sarah went very still.

Her sweet, gentle stepmother—the woman who always spoke softly, who always claimed to want peace in the family—had predicted this. Had planned for it. Had made sure there would be guards waiting for her just in case.

Because Sarah escaping would be inconvenient for her.

Because if Sarah ran, the contract would fall apart.

And if the contract fell apart… it might affect Wendy’s precious daughter, Matilda.

Sarah let out a low, broken laugh before she could stop herself. It scraped painfully out of her chest, raw and ugly.

“So you were watching,” she said hoarsely, lifting her head to glare at Wendy. “Waiting for me to fall into your trap.”

Wendy’s lips pressed together, her fingers tightening slightly on Mr. Vance’s sleeve. “Sarah, don’t be dramatic,” she said gently. “We’re doing this for the good of the family.”

Family.

The word disgusted Sarah, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

“Thankfully, I listened to you,” Arthur Vance said, his voice cutting in sharply. “Otherwise, this would have been a disaster.”

He stepped forward into the light now, his face darkened, the coldness emitting from him would have send shivers down Sarah’s spine in the past but not again.

Instead he looked a stranger wearing her father’s face.

Sarah’s gaze locked onto him.

Something inside her finally snapped.

“A disaster?” she repeated. “You sold me. You locked me up. And I’m the disaster for trying to leave?”

Arthur’s jaw clenched. He raised his hand sharply.

Sarah flinched—pure instinct.

For a split second, his palm hovered in the air, trembling with restrained rage. Then he stopped.

His eyes flicked away, as if remembering something important.

Slowly, he lowered his hand.

But the anger didn’t fade. He looked at her again, his gaze full of disgust. “Take her,” he said coldly. “Lock her in the storeroom.”

The words hit harder than any slap.

The storeroom.

Sarah’s blood ran cold. But she didn't say anything. What could she say to an animal who eats his own cub?

The guards didn’t hesitate.

They dragged her away, and shoved her into the storeroom barely keeping her balance before the door slammed shut behind her.

The smell of dust and mold hit her first.

Sarah stood frozen, her hands still raised where the guards had released her. Slowly, she lowered them, her chest heaving.

The darkness pressed in. There was no window. Only a single, weak bulb near the ceiling that flickered uncertainly, casting dull yellow light over stacks of old boxes, broken furniture, and forgotten junk.

The air was stale and damp. She took a shaky step forward, her foot crunching over an old basket.

Her throat tightened.

This was it.

This was what her father had reduced her to.

A problem to be hidden and locked away, until finally sold out.

Her legs finally gave out.

Sarah sank down against the wall, her back sliding until she was sitting on the cold concrete floor. Her hands shook uncontrollably as she pressed them to her face.

But there were no tears.

Just a deep, aching pressure in her chest, like her heart was being crushed slowly, deliberately.

She squeezed her eyes shut, breathing through the pain, forcing herself to think.

'Think Sarah. Think'

Panic wouldn’t help her. Crying wouldn’t save her. Waiting certainly wouldn’t.

That old ugly man with bloated stomach would come over tomorrow.

Her stomach churned violently.

Her fingers curled into fists.

“No,” she whispered into the darkness. “I won’t let this happen.”

Her phone!

Her breath caught as she remembered—she still had it. The guards hadn’t checked her pockets. Slowly, carefully, she reached into her back pocket and pulled it out.

The screen lit up, dim but steady.

Sarah was filled with hope. She still had a chance to leave here!

But she didn't have his number.