Chapter 3 The Escape

The first lie began with a single step.

When the mansion doors shut behind me, I felt the night cling to my skin like freedom disguised as danger. My heart pounded so violently I was certain someone would hear it, that the guards stationed near the front gates would turn, that Charles himself would appear in the shadows and drag me back inside.

But he didn’t.

I kept walking, clutching the borrowed scarf around my hair, heels traded for flats hidden beneath my gown. My breath fogged the cool night air as I whispered to myself, “Keep moving. Don’t stop.”

Los Angeles at night was a beast. The streets roared with neon signs, laughter, car horns, and the heavy pulse of bass drifting from clubs. Every sound made me both alive and terrified. I hadn’t been alone like this in years.

I passed a row of street performers on Hollywood Boulevard, their painted faces shining under the glow of marquee lights. A guitarist strummed something soulful, and I paused, aching at the memory of who I had been, the girl who once believed art could heal.

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?” a man muttered, brushing past me.

I pulled the scarf tighter. “Yes,” I whispered, though my voice trembled.

It wasn’t just a night. It was a rebellion.

Inside the club, the air was heavy with perfume, sweat, and music that vibrated in my chest. The lights flickered red, then violet, shadows and bodies blending together like a fever dream.

I ordered sparkling water at the bar, the glass cold against my fingers. The bartender raised a brow.

“Not drinking?” he asked.

“Not tonight,” I said.

Not ever, I wanted to add. Charles never allowed it.

As I sipped, a pair of women laughed beside me, glitter dusting their shoulders, their dresses unapologetically daring. One leaned toward me. “First time here?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“You look like you stepped out of a painting,” she teased. “Don’t worry, honey. No one here bites unless you want them to.”

Their laughter trailed into the crowd, leaving me burning with equal parts envy and shame.

Then I saw him.

Across the haze of bodies, in the low light of the far end of the room, a stranger leaned against the wall as though the chaos bent around him. He wasn’t like the others he wasn’t trying to be seen.

And yet, I couldn’t look away.

Dark jacket, broad shoulders, eyes that seemed to cut through the crowd and land squarely on me.

My stomach knotted. For a moment, I thought I imagined it until he tilted his head, slow, deliberate, like he had been waiting.

I turned away too quickly, knocking my drink, water spilling across the counter.

The bartender shot me a look. “You okay?”

“Yes,” I said too fast. My pulse betrayed me, thundering.

The stranger appeared beside me without warning. His presence was steady, unhurried.

“You don’t belong here,” he said, voice low, warm but edged with something sharper.

I froze. “Excuse me?”

“Your hands.” His eyes flicked down. “They’re tense. Your shoulders are too straight. You look like someone who hasn’t breathed in a long time.”

I laughed, but it cracked. “That’s an odd thing to say to a stranger.”

“Maybe.” He studied me, unflinching. “But I’m not wrong.”

My chest tightened. For the first time in years, someone wasn’t praising my beauty or my dress. He was dissecting me, seeing through me.

“You should be careful,” I whispered, forcing my tone sharp. “Some people don’t like being read.”

“And some people,” he said, “need to be.”

His words struck something raw. I hated how they lingered, how a part of me wanted to keep listening.

I should have left then, melted back into the crowd, but my feet stayed planted.

At the midpoint, his hand brushed against mine on the counterbarely a touch, but enough to send a jolt racing through me.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

I pulled back, breath catching. “You don’t know me.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t I?”

The way he said it made me shiver. Like he knew more than he should. Like maybe he had been watching long before tonight.

I slipped away into the crowd, weaving between bodies, desperate to escape the weight of his gaze. My heart drummed as I pushed onto the dance floor, letting the chaos swallow me.

But when I turned, he was already there.

Not close. Not chasing. Just watching.

Like a storm waiting to break.

For the rest of the night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that every beat of the music was a countdown. That his eyes on me weren’t an accident.

That maybe, just maybe, he had been waiting for me all along.

As the lights strobed across the room, my gaze snagged on his one last time. This time he didn’t look away. Neither did I. The world blurred, and it was only two strangers locked in a stare that felt too dangerous to survive.

My breath caught as one thought screamed in my mind: *Who is he and why does it feel like he already knows me?*