No Escape

Alina arrived at Emma's apartment on the twentieth floor, a modest unit in the business district—far from the luxury of the Blackwood mansion, but warm in a way that mansion had never been.

The clock showed eleven at night when Alina arrived. The entire journey from the Plaza Hotel to there passed like a fog. Alina didn't remember how she hailed a taxi, didn't remember what she told the driver, didn't remember taking the elevator or knocking on Emma's apartment door.

What Alina remembered was only one thing: Junior's screams.

"MAMA! MAMAAAA!"

That sound repeated in her head like a broken record. Every time Alina closed her eyes, she saw Junior's small face—brown eyes full of tears, hands reaching out desperately, his small body struggling in Margaret's harsh embrace.

Alina sat on the sofa with a blanket wrapped around her body, staring blankly at the window displaying the city lights at night. Emma was busy in the kitchen, occasionally glancing over with a worried face.

Alina's phone vibrated hard on the table. The name on the screen made her chest tight: Daniel Blackwood.

Alina stared at the phone without moving. Letting it ring until it died.

Five seconds later, it rang again.

And again.

"Alina, do you want me to answer it?" Emma came out of the kitchen with two cups of hot tea.

Alina shook her head slowly. Her hand trembled as she reached for the phone, turning it off completely.

The momentary silence felt like relief—no ringing, no vibrating, no Daniel Blackwood demanding anything from her.

"Good," Emma said with a satisfied tone, sitting beside Alina. "You don't need to talk to anyone tonight. Especially not him."

Emma handed her a cup of chamomile tea. "Drink. This will help you relax."

Alina accepted the cup with trembling hands, but didn't drink immediately. She stared at the steaming tea's surface, seeing the reflection of her own blurred face—swollen eyes, pale lips.

Who was this woman?

Five years ago, Alina Hayes was a rising star in the world of interior design—a junior designer at a renowned architectural firm with a portfolio that was beginning to be recognized. She'd handled boutique hotel projects, residential complexes, even made the shortlist for an international design competition.

Interior magazines had featured her work with the headline "Young Designer to Watch."

But all of that stopped instantly when she married Daniel. Margaret said: "Blackwood wives don't need to work. It's embarrassing."

So Alina closed her laptop for the last time, left unfinished project drafts, and became nothing. Just Mrs. Blackwood. Just a shadow.

"Alina?"

Emma waved her hand in front of her face. "Are you okay? You're spacing out."

"Sorry," Alina sipped her tea—warm, but it couldn't warm the cold that had penetrated her bones. "I was just wondering how I got here. How I became this woman."

Emma looked at Alina with teary eyes. "You became this woman because you loved too deeply. Because you gave everything to someone who didn't deserve it."

Alina smiled bitterly. "Stupid, right?"

"Not stupid. Just human." Emma squeezed her hand. "But now you're here. You got out. And you're not going back."

Alina didn't answer. Because deep down, she wasn't sure about that statement.

How could she not go back when Junior was still there? When that little boy might still be crying looking for her?

The clock showed two in the morning when Emma finally persuaded Alina to lie down in the guest room.

"Try to sleep," Emma said gently, turning on lavender aromatherapy. "I'll be in the living room if you need anything."

Alina lay on the bed, staring at the unfamiliar room's ceiling. So different from her room at the mansion—no crystal chandelier, no satin sheets, no cold luxury.

But there was warmth. There was a sense of safety she'd never felt in the Blackwood family's luxurious mansion.

Alina's eyes began to feel heavy. Physical and emotional exhaustion finally overcame her spinning thoughts.

Alina was almost asleep when her phone—which she'd unconsciously turned back on—vibrated hard.

Incoming message.

Alina reached for her phone with half-open eyes, thinking it might be a message from Mrs. Helen.

But what appeared on the screen made all her drowsiness disappear instantly.

Daniel Blackwood (02:13): You think you can just run away like that?

Alina stared at the screen with a pounding heart. Her fingers trembled over the keyboard, not knowing whether to reply or not.

Before she could decide, a second message came in.

Daniel (02:14): Junior won't stop crying. He refuses to sleep in his room. He refuses to eat. He's sitting in front of your bedroom door waiting for you to come home.

Alina's chest tightened. She could imagine Junior—his small body sitting on the cold marble floor, hugging his teddy bear, his brown eyes swollen from crying.

Daniel (02:15): This is your fault.

Those three words stabbed like a knife.

Her fault?

Alina stared at the message with trembling hands—between shock and anger. How could Daniel say this was her fault? He was the one who let Margaret take Junior from her arms. He was the one who stayed silent when Alina was humiliated in front of hundreds of guests. He was the one who never defended Alina even once.

And now he said this was Alina's fault?

Alina's fingers moved on the keyboard, typing angrily. But before she finished, her phone rang. Daniel was calling.

Alina stared at the name on the screen—Daniel Blackwood Calling—with bated breath.

Alina declined.

Five seconds later, Daniel called again.

Alina declined. And the man called again. Finally, Daniel sent a message.

'Answer or I'll make a scene tonight at your damn friend's house!'