Chapter 56: The Escape

The moon sagged low in the sky, a pale silver disc hovering above the Vexley estate like it was standing guard. Its glow spilled over the sculpted lawns and the endless hedges trimmed so perfectly they looked unnatural, hemming in the mansion like a fortress. The estate slept, but not peacefully—the silence was too sharp, too watchful, as though even the trees and the wind knew this house was a place of secrets and betrayals. Upstairs, in the grand bedroom that belonged to her only in name, Eliana Bennett walked in frantic circles. The plush ivory carpet swallowed the sound of her bare feet, but it did nothing to soften her agitation. Her chest rose and fell quickly, and every turn she made only pressed the walls in tighter. A crystal chandelier glittered above her, its prisms scattering moonlight across the silk-draped four-poster bed. To anyone else, the room would have been a dream—luxury carved into every detail. To Eliana, it was just a cage dressed in silk. Her stomach cramped with hunger, a hollow, twisting ache. She had refused food all day, her silent protest against the prison she was forced to endure. The dizziness came in waves now, each spell tugging her closer to collapse, but the ache in her chest—born of longing, fear, and desperation—was far heavier. She dragged her fingers through her curls, the strands messy and knotted from hours of pacing and tossing, and whispered aloud, as though reminding herself she still had a voice: "I can’t stay here another night." The words shook, but they didn’t break. Her gaze flicked to the heavy oak door, memory flashing of the guard stationed there earlier. His expression had been of pity, helplessness, but his words final: "Orders from Mr. Vexley, ma’am. No one leaves without his clearance today. Especially not you." The sentence had landed like a lock clicking shut inside her chest. The estate was built to keep people in as much as it was to keep them out. Cameras blinked from the corners of every hall, guards moved like shadows across the grounds, and the electronic locks on the doors hissed with quiet menace. Still, Eliana’s thoughts clung to the one fragile hope she had: Clara. Clara, the maid who always looked at her differently—not with suspicion or contempt, but with something gentler, something like understanding. She wasn’t much older than Eliana, maybe the same age, but she carried herself with the tired grace of someone used to serving quietly in the background. From the beginning, Clara had offered kindness without reason: sneaking her an extra slice of bread at breakfast, smoothing her blankets when Eliana couldn’t use one of her hands after the accident. And in this house—like in every grand house—Eliana knew the truth. The maids saw and heard everything. She prayed Clara would choose mercy tonight. The antique clock on the wall ticked with suffocating patience, each second dragging. Finally, when the hands pushed past two, Eliana forced her trembling fingers to work. She pulled on her old jeans, worn at the knees, and a faded sweater that still smelled faintly of the life she had been ripped from. Her suitcase—the small box she had refused to unpack—waited by the bed like an unspoken promise. She gripped the handle and slipped toward the door. The hall beyond was dim, the light sconces burning low. Lavender drifted faintly in the air from the freshly changed linens, a scent meant to soothe, but tonight it only made her feel like throwing up. Her heart rammed against her ribs as she eased the door open a crack and peered out. Silence. Then—footsteps. Soft, measured, approaching steadily. Eliana froze, her throat tightening. She could already picture the guard’s heavy hand shoving the door wide, the order barked through clenched teeth. But then, the figure came into view. Relief slammed into her chest. Clara stood there, her dark hair pinned neatly back, a folded blanket in her arms as though she were on some simple errand. Her expression was calm, practiced—but her eyes flicked to Eliana’s suitcase and softened. "Miss Eliana?" Clara whispered, her voice laced with concern. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a soft click. Her apron was still tied neatly, but her eyes held a knowing glint under the low light. "You’re not asleep. I figured as much. You look like a ghost, dear—pale and trembling." Eliana’s eyes welled up, but she blinked back the tears. "Clara, I... I have to get out of here. Rafael’s locked me in like some prize he won. I can’t breathe in this place. My papa—he needs me. What if he’s alone, wondering where I am? Please, you have to help me." Clara hesitated, glancing over her shoulder as if the walls themselves might betray them. She was young, barely older than Eliana, with a round face framed by stray wisps of hair escaping her bun. Her hands fidgeted with the blanket’s edge. "Oh, darling, I know. I’ve seen how he’s been with you—possessive, like you’re a fragile doll he’ll break if he lets go. But the estate... it’s guarded tighter than a bank vault. Cameras everywhere, alarms on the doors." Eliana stepped closer, her voice dropping to a urgent plea. "There has to be a way. You’re the only one who’s been kind to me here. You know the back passages, the staff exits. Clara, please. If I stay, I’ll wither away. I’ll help you in return—anything. Just get me past the gates." Clara’s face softened, a maternal instinct kicking in despite her youth. She sighed deeply, her shoulders slumping. "Alright, but only because I can’t watch you suffer like this. Mr. Rafael means well, I think—he’s just... broken inside. But you deserve your freedom." She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a small keycard, the kind used for service doors. "There’s a side entrance through the kitchen gardens. The guards rotate at 2:30; we’ll have a five-minute window when the east wing camera glitches—it’s an old system glitch no one’s fixed. I’ll distract the night watchman with a false alarm in the west wing." Eliana’s heart soared, a flicker of hope igniting in her chest. "Thank you, Clara. I don’t know how to repay you." Clara pressed a wad of bills into Eliana’s hand—crisp notes totaling a few hundred dollars, her own savings from tips and overtime. "Take this. It’s not much, but it’ll get you a cab, some food. Head straight to the main road; don’t look back. And Eliana... be careful. The world’s not as kind as you are." Tears streamed down Eliana’s face as she hugged Clara tightly. "You’re an angel. I’ll never forget this." They moved like shadows through the house, Clara leading the way down a narrow servants’ staircase that creaked faintly under their weight. The air grew cooler, laced with the earthy scent of herbs from the kitchen garden. Clara paused at a door, swiping the keycard. It beeped softly, unlocking with a click. Outside, the night air was crisp, carrying the faint chirp of crickets. Clara pointed to a hedge-lined path. "Go that way—crouch low. The gate’s manual; twist the latch counterclockwise. I’ll handle the distraction now." Eliana nodded, clutching her box. "Goodbye, Clara. Stay safe." "Godspeed, dear," Clara whispered, before slipping back inside. Eliana darted through the garden, her heart hammering like a drum. Thorns snagged at her sweater, but she pushed on, the cool grass damp under her shoes. She reached the gate, her fingers fumbling with the latch until it gave way with a metallic groan. Freedom rushed in like a wave—the open road beyond, dimly lit by streetlamps. She slipped out, the estate’s lights fading behind her as she ran, her breaths coming in sharp gasps. The city streets were empty at this hour, save for the occasional passing car. Eliana flagged down a cab after a tense ten-minute walk, her hands shaking as she handed over some of Clara’s money. "To St. Mary’s Hospital, please. As fast as you can." The driver, a grizzled man with a thick beard, eyed her curiously but nodded. "Rough night, miss?" "You have no idea," she murmured, sinking into the seat as the cab sped off. Her mind raced with images of her father—his frail form, his kind smile fading under illness. "Papa, I’m coming. Hold on." The hospital loomed ahead, its emergency lights creating a sterile glow. Eliana burst through the doors, the antiseptic smell hitting her like a wall. She rushed to the reception desk, where a tired nurse in scrubs looked up from her computer. "Please," Eliana panted, leaning on the counter. "I’m here for my father—Frank Bennett. Room 214. I need to see him right now." The nurse typed quickly, her brow furrowing. "Bennett... Frank. Let me check." A pause stretched into eternity. "Ma’am, your father was transferred four days ago. To another facility." Eliana’s world tilted. "Transferred? What? By who? Where?" The nurse shook her head sympathetically. "I’m sorry, the records don’t specify the new hospital. It was arranged privately—no forwarding details left here. Maybe check with his doctor?" Rage boiled up in Eliana, hot and blinding. "Privately? That means... Rafael." Her voice rose, drawing stares from a few late-night visitors. "He did this. He took my papa to control me!" Storming out into the cool night air, Eliana fumbled for her phone, her fingers trembling as she dialed Rafael’s number. It rang once, twice, before he picked up, his voice groggy but alert. "Eliana? It’s the middle of the night. What’s—" "Where is he, Rafael?" she snarled, her words laced with venom. "Where did you transfer my father? You had no right! Give him back to me—now!" There was a stunned silence on the other end. Rafael’s breath hitched, realization crashing over him like ice water. "Eliana... how are you calling from outside? You’re supposed to be—wait, you left? How did you—" "Don’t change the subject!" she shouted, pacing the hospital steps. "You locked me up, and now you’ve hidden my papa? Is this your idea of protection? Controlling everything I care about?" "I... It’s not what you think. I can explain everything," Rafael stammered, his usual sarcasm shattered. Confusion laced his tone, laced with dawning panic. "Eliana, listen—get back here. It’s not safe out there. Mirabel—" "Safe? With you?" She laughed bitterly, tears streaming. "You’re the danger! Tell me where he is, or I swear—" The line crackled with his urgency. "Eliana, please. I swear on my life, I didn’t move him to control you. Come back, and I’ll explain everything to you." "Liar!" she cried, hanging up and switching off her phone in a fit of fury. Her chest heaved, the night air biting her skin. Inside the estate, Rafael Vexley sat bolt upright in his bed, the phone slipping from his hand. His grey eyes, no longer pretending to be clouded, widened in shock. "She’s out," he muttered, his voice a hoarse whisper. "How the hell...?" His heart raced, a foreign terror gripping him—not for his secrets, but for her safety. He swung his legs over the bed, grabbing his wheelchair and wheeling himself out of his room with frantic speed. The halls were silent, the estate’s grandeur mocking his desperation. He reached Eliana’s door, pounding on it. "Eliana? Open up!" No answer. He tried the handle—unlocked. Pushing inside, the room hit him like a void: bed neatly made, her box gone, the air still carrying her faint floral scent. "No... no, this can’t be." He wheeled around, searching futilely. Panic clawed at him, raw and unfiltered. "Clara!" he bellowed into the intercom. "Get security—now!" Back at the hospital, Eliana wiped her tears, determination steeling her. "I have to confront him in person. Demand answers." She stormed toward the road, hailing a cab under the streetlights. One slowed, but before she could reach it, a black SUV screeched to a halt in front of her, blocking her path. The door flew open, and two burly men in dark suits lunged out. "What—hey!" Eliana screamed, dropping her box as one grabbed her arm, the other snatching her belongings. "Let go of me!" "Quiet, miss," one growled, his grip ironclad as they hauled her into the vehicle. The door slammed shut, tires squealing as the SUV sped into the night. Eliana thrashed against the leather seats, her cries muffled by the tinted windows. "Who are you? Where are you taking me?" No response—just the hum of the engine and the pounding of her heart. Miles away, Rafael paced his study, discarding his wheelchair, phone in hand. He dialed Eliana again and again, but each time, it went straight to voicemail. "Switched off," he whispered, dread pooling in his gut. "Eliana... what have I done?" The estate felt emptier than ever, the shadows closing in as the night deepened.