Chapter 2: The Escape Plan

Olivia pov

The brass lock clicked into place with a sharp, heavy sound. I leaned my back against the bedroom door and let out a long, shaky breath. Downstairs, the house was perfectly quiet, but my heart was beating so loud I could hear it in my ears. I walked over to the walk-in closet. My legs felt weak, and the bruise on my thigh burned with every step. I reached up to the very top shelf, my fingers scraping against the wood, and dragged down the old canvas suitcase. It hit the carpeted floor with a dull thud, throwing up a tiny cloud of dust.

"You have to hurry," I whispered to myself.

My voice sounded small and strange in the large, empty bedroom. I unzipped the suitcase. The metal zipper made a loud, scratching noise that made me freeze. I looked toward the locked door, waiting, listening. Nothing happened. Only the rain kept tapping against the glass windows.

I began to pack in total silence. I walked back and forth between the dresser and the bed, my hands trembling as I picked up my clothes. I did not take the nice dresses Damian had bought for me. I did not take the jewelry he had given me to wear to his company dinners. I only grabbed my thick, oversized sweaters, my plain t-shirts, and my old denim jeans. I folded them flat and pressed them down into the canvas bag. Every time a floorboard creaked under my feet, my stomach twisted into a tight knot. I felt like a thief in my own home.

I stopped near the nightstand and looked at my smartphone. The screen was dark. I picked it up, my thumb hovering over the glass screen.

"Should I call Mom?" I asked the quiet room.

My parents, Richard and Evelyn Bennett, still lived in the modest house in Ashford Heights where I grew up. They were retired schoolteachers. I could picture my mother sitting at the kitchen table, and my father reading a book in his favorite chair. I wanted to hear my mother’s voice. I wanted her to tell me that everything was going to be fine. I wanted to hear her repeat the words she used to tell me when I was a little girl: Beauty isn't a number on a scale.

But I let my hand drop. I shook my head and set the phone back down on the wooden table.

"No," I muttered. "I cannot call them."

Damian was powerful. He was the CEO of Carter Innovations, and he knew people everywhere. If I called my parents, he would look at the phone records on our joint account. He would find out. He had spent seven years slowly cutting me off from them, telling me they did not understand our lifestyle. If I dragged them into this now, Damian would go after them. He would make their quiet lives a nightmare. I could not let his cold cruelty reach them. I had to protect them by staying away.

I walked back to the closet and pulled out a pair of flat, comfortable shoes. As I pushed them into the side of the suitcase, my eyes caught a small reflection in the long closet mirror. I stepped closer and looked at myself.

The purple mark on my cheekbone was darker now, and my bottom lip was swollen. I wore an oversized, loose cardigan that made me look like I was trying to disappear into the fabric. I stared at my hazel eyes in the glass.

"Who are you?" I whispered to the reflection.

Memories started to surface, bubbling up from a time before this beautiful, terrifying house was built. Seven years ago, I did not hide in large sweaters. I remembered standing in a bright university hall, holding my degree in Business Administration. I graduated with honors. Back then, I was vibrant and quick-witted. I had worked as an executive assistant at a respected corporation, and I used to talk about running my own office one day. I used to look people in the eye when I spoke.

Then I met Damian at a networking event. He had been so attentive. He had made me feel like my plus-size body was beautiful, not something I needed to apologize for. I believed him. But after we got married, the compliments stopped. First came the little comments about my meals. Then came the rules about our money. Then he told me a respectable wife did not work outside the home. One by one, I had given up my jobs, my friends, and my independence until I became the quiet, fearful woman standing in this closet.

"You are still in there," I told the girl in the mirror. I wiped a stray tear from my good cheek. "You have to find her."

I turned away from the glass. I had one more thing to get. I walked over to the bed, knelt on the soft carpet, and reached my arm deep under the wooden frame. My fingers brushed against the dust ruffles until I felt the corner of a small, plastic zipper bag. I pulled it out.

Inside the bag was a stack of green twenty-dollar bills.

I sat on the floor and counted the cash. It was exactly two thousand four hundred dollars. This money was my biggest secret. For over a year, whenever Damian gave me cash for groceries or household items, I would save a few dollars here and there. If a grocery bill was forty-five dollars, I told him it was fifty. I hid the extra bills in my socks, in old book covers, and finally under the bed. It was a small, quiet rebellion. I had never told a single person about it, not even my childhood best friend Luca. Damian controlled every single bank account, but he did not know about this plastic bag.

"This is my ticket out," I whispered.

I unzipped the front pocket of the canvas suitcase and shoved the cash deep inside, hiding it beneath a pair of thick wool socks. I zipped the pocket shut and pulled the little metal tab until it was tucked away out of sight.

Suddenly, a bright flash of light cut through the dark bedroom.

Two bright beams of yellow light swept across the white ceiling, moving from left to right before disappearing. I froze on the floor. My breath caught in my throat. I knew those lights. They were the headlights of Damian’s sports car turning into our long driveway.

I scrambled to my feet, my heart pounding like a hammer against a wooden post. I looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. It was only eight o'clock in the evening.

"No, no, no," I panicked, my voice rising to a frantic whisper. "He said he was going out for hours. He is back early."

I heard the wet splash of car tires cutting through the deep puddles outside the front porch. The garage door opener began to rumble down below, a low, mechanical growl that vibrated right through the floorboards under my feet.

My hands shook so violently I could barely grab the handles of the canvas suitcase. I dragged it across the floor, trying to make no sound, and shoved it back into the depths of the walk-in closet. I pulled two large winter coats over it to hide the canvas material.

"Clean the kitchen," I remembered. Damian's voice echoed in my head: When I get back tonight, this kitchen better be clean.

I had not touched the kitchen. The torn paper receipt, the open velvet box, and the blood on the floor were still down there. If he saw them, he would know I had spent the last hour planning to leave instead of cleaning up his mess.

I ran to the bedroom door. My fingers fumbled with the heavy brass lock. I turned it to the left, and it gave a loud pop as the deadbolt slid back into the frame. I opened the door and stepped out onto the long, carpeted hallway.

The house downstairs was completely dark, but then I heard the heavy thud of the garage door slamming shut inside the mudroom.

I hurried to the top of the stairs, my hand gripping the wooden banister so tight my knuckles turned white. My whole body felt stiff with terror. I looked down into the dark foyer, my eyes wide, my ears straining to hear every movement.

A metal key slid into the front door lock. The metal scraped against metal with a sharp, clicking sound. The heavy brass doorknob began to turn slowly from the outside.

I froze at the very top of the stairs, unable to move a single inch as the large front door began to swing open into the dark house.