They Don’t Let Girls Leave

Julian’s fingers tightened around my bruised wrist, and I bit back a cry.

“Let go of me.”

“Not until you tell me who that letter was for.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He gave a quiet, ugly laugh. “You expect me to believe that? I watched you hand an envelope to the maid this morning. You were careful about it, weren’t you? Thought no one saw.”

My stomach twisted. I had thought I was being discreet. The housemaid hadn’t asked any more questions, and I had convinced myself that the letter would reach Alexander without attracting attention. I hadn’t considered that Julian might have been watching.

“It was a personal letter,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “You have no right to question me about it.”

His expression hardened. “You seem to have developed quite a lot of confidence lately. Someone’s been filling your head with ideas.”

“Please release my wrist. You’re hurting me.”

His eyes dropped to his hand. When he noticed the dark bruising already blooming beneath his fingers, he loosened his grip slightly, but he didn’t let go. His thumb moved over the worst of the marks, almost thoughtfully.

“Who did you write to, Sophie?”

I pulled against him again. “It’s none of your business.”

“Alexander Kane?”

I couldn’t stop my expression from changing. Julian noticed immediately, and the satisfaction that crossed his face made my stomach turn.

“So it was him.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you contacting him?”

“Let me go.”

Instead of answering, he yanked me away from the staircase. I stumbled after him, trying to free my arm without drawing attention from anyone who might be nearby. He took me through the adjoining passage and shoved open a door leading into one of the smaller rooms used for storing household supplies. The air inside was close and dusty. A narrow worktable stood against the shelves, with folded cloths and a few containers scattered across it.

“Get inside.”

“No.”

His hand closed around my upper arm, hard enough that I felt his fingers dig in, and he forced me through the doorway. I tried to turn back, but he shut the door behind us with a solid click. The lock didn’t turn, but the sound still made my pulse spike.

“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into,” he said.

“I haven’t done anything to you.”

“You sent a letter to a man Arthur specifically warned you to stay away from. Do you think that makes you innocent?”

“Alexander has nothing to do with you or Arthur.”

Julian stepped toward me. “That’s where you’re wrong. Anyone who gets involved with this family becomes my business. Especially little liars who think they can hide things.”

I backed away until the shelves behind me stopped my retreat. He caught my arm again when I tried to move past him, spinning me so my back hit the edge of a shelf hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.

“Did you tell him what happens in this house?” he demanded. “Did you tell him about Arthur? About me?”

I stared at him, my throat too tight to answer.

His expression changed. Something colder settled in. “You did, didn’t you?”

“Get away from me.”

I shoved against his chest. He caught both my arms and drove me backward against the shelves again. A container fell, hitting the floor with a loud clatter. I tried to call for help, but he clamped a hand over my mouth, pressing hard enough that my teeth cut into the inside of my lip. The taste of blood filled my mouth.

“Keep quiet,” he warned, his body crowding mine. His weight pinned me in place, the hard line of the shelf digging into my spine. I struggled, twisting my shoulders and trying to pull one arm free. His grip tightened, and the movement sent another sharp pain through my injured wrist. He forced me away from the shelves and down against the narrow worktable. The edge of the table cut into the small of my back. He lifted his hand from my mouth and caught both my wrists, forcing them above my head. His knee shoved between mine, spreading my legs just enough that I couldn’t kick freely. The rough fabric of his trousers scraped against my skin where my dress had ridden up.

“Perhaps you’ll learn to mind your own business,” he muttered, leaning over me. He released my wrists and moved his hand to my hip, gripping hard enough to bruise. I could feel the threat in the way he pressed closer, the deliberate weight of him, and the way his fingers flexed against my side as though he were deciding how far he was willing to go. Fear made my vision blur. I fought him harder, pushing at his chest with what little leverage I had, trying to get enough room to move. When he shifted his weight to restrain my arms more tightly, I managed to bring my knee up hard, driving it into the soft meat of his inner thigh.

He cursed, the sound low and vicious, and his hold loosened for a second.

I slipped sideways, knocking a stack of folded cloths from the table. Before he could catch me again, I reached the door and yanked it open. I ran into the passage, hearing him call after me, the sound of something else crashing behind me, but I didn’t stop until I reached the staircase.

I climbed as quickly as I could and locked myself in my bedroom.

For several minutes, I stood with my back against the door, listening for footsteps. My breathing was uneven, and my arms trembled as I looked down at them. The bruises on my wrist had darkened to a deep purple, and there were fresh marks where Julian had held me—red fingerprints on my upper arm, the shape of his hand still visible on my hip when I lifted my dress. My lip was split. My whole body felt scraped raw.

I went to the washroom and examined myself in the mirror. My dress was creased and twisted, the neckline pulled out of place. My hair had come loose around my shoulders. I straightened what I could, then washed my face and returned to the bedroom, wiping the blood from my mouth with the back of my hand.

I wanted to disappear. I wanted to pretend none of it had happened. But I had already spent too much of my life enduring things in silence while the people responsible carried on as though they had done nothing wrong.

I took my sketchbook from beneath the bed and opened it to a clean page. My hand shook as I wrote down what Julian had done, including the questions he had asked about the letter and the way he had pinned me. I recorded the time and the room where he had taken me. I took my phone from the bedside table and photographed the marks on my wrist, arms, and hip. I saved the pictures in a private folder before putting the phone away.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

A knock interrupted me.

“Sophie?”

Arthur.

I closed the sketchbook and pushed it beneath the drawing materials before approaching the door.

“What?” I asked.

“Open the door.”

I hesitated, then unlocked it. Arthur stood outside, his gaze moving over my face—lingering on my swollen lip—before dropping to my dishevelled dress.

“What happened to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

I stepped aside reluctantly. He entered and closed the door behind him.

“Julian said you caused a scene downstairs.”

My stomach tightened. “He said that?”

“He claims you attacked him and ran away.”

I stared at Arthur. “That’s what he told you?”

“I’m asking you what happened.”

I looked at the man standing in front of me. For a moment, I considered telling him nothing. Arthur had never given me a reason to believe he would take my side, and his father had already shown me what this family thought it could get away with.

But Julian was free to twist the story, and I couldn’t allow him to make me the guilty one again.

“He grabbed me,” I said. “He questioned me about the letter I sent. When I refused to tell him who it was for, he dragged me into one of the rooms and attacked me.”

Arthur’s expression changed.

“Attacked you how?”

“He held me down. He put his hand over my mouth. I tried to get away, but he wouldn’t let me go.”

“Did he touch you?”

I looked down at my wrist, then lifted the side of my dress just enough to show the dark marks already forming on my hip. “Look at me, Arthur.”

He followed my gaze. His eyes settled on the bruises, and his jaw tightened hard enough that I heard the faint click of his teeth.

“Why didn’t you call for someone?”

“I tried to get away. I didn’t have time to call anyone.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know.”

Arthur turned toward the door, then stopped. His shoulders were rigid. “What did you send in that letter?”

I almost laughed. Even now, that was what he wanted to know.

“I asked Alexander for help.”

His head turned sharply. “You contacted him after I told you to stay away from him?”

“I had to.”

“You had no right to bring another man into this family.”

“I was trying to get out of this house. Your cousin wouldn’t leave me alone, and your father—”

I stopped.

Arthur looked at me. The air in the room felt suddenly thinner. “My father what?”

The memory of Mr Oliver’s hands made my stomach tighten. I couldn’t bring myself to explain everything again, not to Arthur, who had never made me feel safe enough to speak freely. But the way he was watching me now—still, waiting, something dark and unreadable moving behind his eyes—made the words press hard against the back of my teeth.

Arthur took one step closer. His voice was low when he spoke again.

“What did my father do to you, Sophie?”

I opened my mouth, and nothing came out.