Semua Bab Prisoner of Shame: Bab 21 - Bab 30

At the mansion, David caught the blur of Brielle's figure darting around the hallway corner—and something inside him fractured. Not just snapped. Shattered. He surged forward, fury driving every step.She was inches from the stairs when his body collided with hers.Her scream cut off as her head slammed against the wall. Then silence. Her body crumpled like a ragdoll.David stood over her, chest heaving, his vision clouded with red. Then—nothing. Just the eerie quiet of realization.Without speaking, he knelt and gathered her into his arms. She was warm. Still breathing. No blood. No fracture. Just limp.He carried her to the bedroom and laid her on the bed as carefully as if she were made of glass—his rage already decaying into dread. His fingers traced the curve of her skull, trembling now. He couldn’t lose her. Not after everything.Not after how far he'd gone.She didn’t wake for hours.The light had shifted across the room by the time her lashes fluttered.A moan slipped from her

Talia had been quietly digging for weeks, combing through digital threads and abandoned phone trails like a ghost hunter chasing a spirit that refused to scream.No bus tickets. No train logs. No Uber receipts. No flight itineraries—not under Brielle, not under Anne, not even under Lila, her little sister’s name, which she sometimes used for burner accounts.It was like she’d vanished into vapor. And Talia knew Brielle too well to believe she would just go.Not without saying goodbye.Not without leaving something real.The silence wasn’t freedom. It was a cage.Desperation coiled tighter around her ribs with every passing day. And then one afternoon—without a plan, without warning—Talia drove to the Knightwood estate.The mansion was too still. Pristine, like it had been bleached of human life. David opened the door with a softness she didn’t trust, dressed in a sweater and slacks like he’d just returned from some picturesque grief retreat.“I want to see the letter,” she said, no pr

By morning, Brielle had committed every detail to memory.The creak of the porch step. The way the sand curved just past the dune fence. The distant blur of rooftops half a mile out. The three joggers—two women, one man—who passed by every morning at 8:12. She'd counted the seconds. She'd timed the wind.She had one chance. One.And she would not waste it.At breakfast, she played the part he needed—bright-eyed, tender, the perfect imitation of the girl he thought he'd broken. She wore the white cotton dress he’d laid out for her, let him kiss her forehead, laughed when he told her she looked like a dream.Then she poured the syrup on too thick.She slid into his lap as he served eggs onto her plate, brushing her lips against his neck.“Can I have some more juice?” she asked, voice sticky with sugar. “Please, baby?”David looked down at her, completely disarmed. His fingers traced her cheek. “Of course, sweetheart.”He rose, humming as he walked back into the kitchen.And the moment t

It had been a month since David had locked her away.He stood in the bathroom, cleaning the wound she'd left in his shoulder—a narrow, shallow stab mark. Brielle had caught him off guard. For weeks, she’d been compliant. Quiet. Even tender. She’d touched him like she meant it, looked at him like she might be softening. He’d believed she was adjusting. That her defiance had burned out.But when she’d found the knife—hidden under a napkin on one of the breakfast trays—she hadn’t hesitated. She plunged it into him, kicked him hard in the stomach, and bolted.She’d made it farther than he expected. Down the hallway. Through a jammed door she shoulder-checked until it cracked. She’d flown down the stairs, barefoot and determined.And she’d nearly made it.He caught her just before the last door. Tackled her. Her body had hit the tile with a dull, painful thud.“Don’t make me do this,” he’d warned, breath ragged with pain and betrayal. But she’d still struggled. Still fought him.His anger

A week later, Brielle’s bruises had faded just enough to pass casual inspection. Not gone—just ghosted. Concealed by sleeves and smiles. Her soul, however, remained black-and-blue.David insisted on driving her to the hospital himself. His hand never left her thigh during the ride, a faux-casual grip that felt more like a tether. Like if he let go, she might bolt through the windshield.The halls of the hospital smelled like antiseptic and surrender. Brielle’s breath caught as she neared her mother’s door. Every step toward Marlene felt like stepping over coals—pain she had to welcome, guilt she had to carry.Marlene looked fragile, sunken into the bed like a fading memory—but her eyes flew open the moment Brielle stepped inside.“Brielle?” Her voice cracked with disbelief. “Where have you been? I was so scared.”Brielle’s body buckled. Tears broke before she could fake control. “I’m sorry, Mom. I—I just needed to breathe. Everything was falling apart. I went to LA… I didn’t know how