The next morning, I waited for my moment.

George had left instructions for heightened security—his paranoia always peaked after his outbursts.

To my relief, Lucas was on patrol. The young guard occasionally showed me a kindness that seemed out of place within these walls.

He did nothing particularly noteworthy that would warrant the other men informing George, but I could tell from the way he looked at my injuries that he was not as immune to the abuse as the older staff.

After a particularly brutal beating, he’d risked George’s disapproval when he secretly handed me some much-needed pain medication.

According to George, pain meds were beneath him, which meant he didn’t keep them in the house.

Just another form of his absolute control.

I slipped into the kitchen, my heart hammering against my ribs—ribs that ached with every panicked beat. Lucas was there, alone, his back to me as he looked for something in the pantry. I closed the door with a soft click and leaned against it, my breathing shallow.

“Lucas?” Oh my God, I was so scared.

He turned sharply, surprise etched on his face. “Mrs. James? Is everything okay?”

“Lucas, I...” Could I risk asking this of him? But desperation left no room for doubt. “I need your help.”

He frowned and wiped his hands on his apron, visibly wary. “With what?”

“Please, I need... I need something to communicate with my family.” My words tumbled out in a rush. “A phone, a laptop, anything George doesn’t have access to.”

“Mrs. James, you know I can’t?—”

“Lucas, please.” I stepped toward him, twisting my hands together. “You’ve seen what he does. It’s getting worse. If I don’t get out, if we don’t leave, he’ll—” I couldn’t finish the sentence, afraid to give voice to the grim reality that awaited me.

He looked at me, really looked, and saw the bruised woman standing before him. His jaw clenched, and a battle raged behind his eyes.

“Okay,” he said after an eternity. “I’ll find something. But we have to be careful.”

“Thank you,” I said, sagging in relief. “Thank you so much.”

“Shh,” he cautioned, glancing nervously toward the door. “Not here. We can’t talk about this here. If anyone overhears...” he trailed off. We both knew the repercussions, but I had to try for Roland. “I’ll bring you something, but I’ll come to you.”

“Thank you,” I said again, my mind already racing ahead. There was a chance now, a sliver of hope. And I’d cling to it with everything I had.

The next few days dragged on like a nightmare that refused to end.

Every creak of the mansion’s floorboards, every hushed conversation echoing through the halls, felt like a conspiracy to reveal my deepest secrets.

I couldn’t eat. I hardly dared to breathe.

The wait was agony, my battered body tense with the dread that Lucas had betrayed me or reconsidered his offer.

Then, just as my fear threatened to consume me, Lucas found me in the quiet sanctuary of the garden. His approach was silent, respectful, but the tremble in his hands betrayed his terror.

“Mrs. James,” he whispered.

Blood rushed in my ears, and I turned to face him, trying to hide the desperation on my face. “Lucas?”

He glanced around to make sure we were alone before reaching into his pocket. The small, sleek shape of a phone appeared in his palm, and my breathing quickened.

“Here. Take it,” he said, pressing it into my hand. The device felt like something impossible, both heavy and amazingly light. This was more than just the ability to make a call; this was about autonomy.

“Thank you,” I said, hugging it to my chest, anxious that he might reconsider and reclaim it.

“Promise me something,” he said, looking around nervously. “If he catches you, I wasn’t involved. You can’t tell him it was me.”

I nodded fervently. “I promise. He’ll never know it was you. I swear it.”

His relief was palpable, and for a moment, our shared fear connected us. “Be careful, Mrs. James. Good luck.”

“I will, and thank you.”

And with that, he hurried away, leaving me with a glimmer of hope in the face of approaching despair.

With a sigh of relief, I locked myself in the tiny powder room in one of the guest rooms. The phone was an alien object in my trembling hand.

My gaze remained fixed on it, a mixture of disbelief and awe coursing through me as I contemplated its boundless potential to help me break free from these oppressive physical and mental walls.

My fingers skated over the screen, my pulse throbbing in my ears.

“Come on, come on,” I muttered under my breath, scrolling through an endless sea of apps until I found the one I needed—a gateway to the outside world. Social media. My accounts had been dormant for so long due to George’s paranoia. But now, I hoped it would be my saving grace.

“Heather Crew,” I said as I typed, the name a talisman against my despair. My sister’s face popped up almost instantly, and the fear knotting my stomach loosened a bit at her smile. My thumb hovered over the message button, then I plunged into the abyss.

The words spilled out, unbidden, my fingers tripping over each other in their haste.

Me: Heather, it’s Zoey. I’m sorry for disappearing. I need help. Please. It’s urgent.

Send.

The wait was excruciating. Each second stretched into an eternity of doubt and second-guessing. Had she moved on? Forgotten me? Did she resent me for cutting her off?

Then, the phone vibrated. A notification. My heart leaped into my throat.

Heather: Zoey?! Where are you? Are you okay?

Heather’s concern leapt off the screen. And then, she sent the thing I so desperately needed: a string of digits. Her phone number.

Tears blurred my vision as I typed.

Me: Thank you . I’ll call soon. I promise.

With the number saved, the phone became my secret, my hope, my escape plan. I switched off the vibration, then clutched it to my chest, allowing myself a moment to breathe. Knowing George’s distaste for feminine hygiene products, I tucked the phone into a nearly empty tampon box.

The next time George left the house, I grabbed it and pressed the phone to my ear, the chill of its surface grounding me as I waited for the call to connect. My heart raced, a wild creature clawing for escape.

“Hello?” Heather’s voice was a balm to my anxious soul. A familiar warmth spread through the cold dread that had taken residence in my body.

“Heather,” I choked out in a hoarse whisper. “It’s Zoey.”

“Zoey! We’ve been so worried about you. Are you okay? Where are you?”

“Heather, I can’t... I don’t have much time.” The words tumbled out, laced with fear. “He’s getting worse. I need to get Ro and me out of here.”

“Zoey, listen to me,” she said firmly, her tone sharpening with determination. “We’re going to help you. We’ll get you both out, I promise.”

The line crackled slightly, and another voice came through. Deeper, steadier.

“Zoey, it’s Sam.”

“Sam.” Hearing his voice brought a surge of hope. Despite that he was my stepdad, I’d never imagined he would be willing to assist me. The animosity George had caused had created such a rift that I’d feared Sam had completely severed ties with me.

“Tell me everything. We’ll make a plan. But be quick, be concise. I figure you don’t have much time,” he said, his words efficient like the lawyer he was.

I relayed the details between shallow breaths, each word filled with desperation. When I finished, there was a brief silence on the line.

“Can you tell me if he has a set routine? Maybe a meeting or a golf game, or a specific time when he leaves you and Ro?” Sam asked.

“He sees his accountant on the last Friday of every month,” I said. “He usually spends most of the morning there.” George liked to know where his money was, so he monitored his finances closely.

“Okay, that’s good. We have eight days...” The line went quiet, and I feared the call had disconnected.

“Sam? Are you still there?” I asked tentatively.

“Sorry, I was lost in thought. I can fly over and hire a car. Can you and Ro get out? Go shopping? Then I could meet you at the supermarket, and we can leave.”

“Not alone. The staff does the shopping. If I want to go anywhere, I have a guard. He’s…

he’s paranoid, Sam, and he’s getting worse,” I whispered.

Despite that I was in the bathroom, with the shower running and two closed doors separating me from the main areas of the house, I was very aware that it was occupied by shifters with exceptional hearing.

If any of them heard me, reported me to George…

I didn’t want to think of the repercussions.

“Can you go anywhere without the guards?” Sam asked.

“Only here on the compound, but he has cameras everywhere and guards patrolling regularly, and they’re on constant surveillance,” I said, the flame of hope inside me sputtering.

Sam cursed under his breath.

“I’m sorry, Sam. I shouldn’t have called you. This is useless.” Through tears and a simmering anger, I muttered, “I’ll figure something else out.”

“We’re getting you out of there. We just need to plan it out first,” he reassured me.

The sound of his pacing echoed down the line, and I pictured him, phone in one hand, the other tugging at his hair.

He’d done that so many times when I was a teenager and he was dealing with a difficult client.

Remembering it broke my heart a little. “First, we need a way to communicate without the risk of being overheard,” he said.

“Even texting is risky. Even if you deleted the messages, if that bastard got his hands on the phone, he could still recover them.”

“I could set up an email,” I suggested. “There are plenty of ways to make an anonymous account.” I’d studied computer programming in college and knew my way around the internet. I was confident I could hide it from George.