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Scarlett

T he chandelier casts a kaleidoscope of light across the room, each shard of brilliance dancing on the walls like spectres of joy. I can’t help but be mesmerized, my gaze fixed on the twinkling display as if it holds the secrets of the universe.

My glass fills my palm with rainbows, while the liquid inside swirls with the promise of oblivion. They’re pretty, so pretty, just like the diamond on my hand—a stone that seems to weigh more with each passing moment.

Alex’s hand finds the small of my back, his touch more like a brand through the thin fabric of my dress.

He guides me away from the grandeur of the party, from the chandelier’s hypnotic glow, and into the quieter corridors.

The music fades to a distant murmur, replaced by the echo of our footsteps on the marble floor.

The room we enter is dimly lit, the atmosphere a stark contrast to the revelry we’ve left behind. It’s just us, or so I think, until my eyes adjust and I realize we’re not alone.

The board of directors, a conclave of men in tailored suits stand in a semicircle, their expressions unreadable. Then Vincent appears, and they raise their glasses in a toast, but the smiles don’t reach their eyes.

I try to focus on their faces, on the words being said, but it’s as if a fog has descended upon my mind.

Vincent’s voice is muffled, his words indecipherable, lost in the whooshing of blood in my ears. Can anyone else hear this? Is it just me?

I look to Alex for guidance, but his face is a mask of stoicism, betraying nothing.

The room starts to spin, the light above me becoming a blur of colour and shadow. I’m vaguely aware of my straps being gently pushed down my shoulders, the cool air kissing my skin.

A shiver runs down my spine, and panic begins to claw its way up my throat as I lose all sense of control.

Alex’s hands, once a source of comfort, now feel like manacles, trapping me in a reality that’s warping before my eyes.

I want to run, to scream, to fight off the hands that are now wandering over my body.

But my limbs are like lead. And my voice, my voice is a mere whisper in the void.

The room is closing in on me, the faces of the men a grotesque gallery of leering grins and hungry eyes that I can’t escape.

I wake with a jerk. My eyes dart around the room, expecting to see him, only he’s not here.

I can smell his aftershave. I can see the imprint in the pillow beside me.

Did he stay last night? Or was I so out of it that I didn’t move after he was done with me?

I grit my teeth, pushing my body up, and every single inch of me protests the movement.

I know we had sex last night, but it feels like we didn’t just fuck. It feels like he brutalised my body more than usual.

My body is shaking, shivering, trembling and I’m not sure why.

I need to get to the library.

The words repeat in my head. But why? What’s so great about the library?

There’s only one way to find out, so I force my body to move, force myself up and go to the bathroom. In the mirror I look just as pale as I remember, but I swear there’s a new look in my eyes. One of defiance. A spark that wasn’t there yesterday.

I’ll have to be careful, so damn careful.

I can’t let them know that I know. I need to pretend, to be the best damn actress of my life.

My stomach twists with both fear and hunger. I need to eat more. To get myself stronger. I can’t fight them if my body is too weak and exhausted to even walk a few steps.

“Scarlett?”

For a second my fear traps me.

I know it’s my husband. I know he is here to ‘check up on me’, to no doubt assess if I’m going to be a good little wife today, or a disobedient bitch.

Well bad news, Alex. I’m not your trapped little creature anymore.

I’m not some songbird you’ve caught and locked away… songbird. That word stirs a memory.

Rafe.

Fucking Rafe.

He knows.

He even taunted me about it.

So is he part of this, is his rivalry with his brother even real? Or another level of deception meant to confuse and isolate me further?

Before I can contemplate that, the bathroom door swings open and Alex is there, with a hard, frustrated look on his face.

“Did you not hear me calling you?” He says. Apparently, there’s no softness to him today. Just angry, pissed off Alex.

I frown, stepping back, letting my eyes dart wildly about me as if I’m on the verge of losing control. “I, I…” I trail off, before taking a step forward and I clutch at his crisp shirt like it’s the only thing holding me up. “Alex?” I gasp, my voice thick with relief, as if he’s my salvation.

He stiffens, before his arm wraps around me. “It’s okay.” He murmurs.

“I woke, I woke and I didn’t know where I was, where you were. What -where am I?”

He softens more, leading me back to the bed, falling for my compliant, sick girl act. “You’ve been ill, my love.” He says.

“Ill?” I repeat like the word makes no sense whatsoever. Like this whole conversation hasn’t been repeated countless times before.

He scoops me up, places me in the bed and pulls the covers back. “You need to rest. You need to recover.” He cups my cheek and then he pulls my hand, gently opening it before placing a handful of white pills into my palm. “You need to take your meds.”

I stare at them. Any resistance now will fuck everything up - but if I take them, I know I won’t be in any fit state to find out what the fuck is going on here, or to fight them if that is what is needed.

“Here.” He says, handing me a glass with an expectant tone to his voice.

I take it, unable to hide my reluctance and I swallow the pills, only because I know there isn’t any other choice here.

He smiles, clearly content that he’s managed to find me so fucking docile this morning and I lean into him, pretending that I need him, that I trust him. That I find comfort in his presence.

“Get some rest.” He says, gently leaning me back into the pillows. “I’ll have a maid bring up some breakfast for you.”

I smile back, murmuring my thanks, all meek and obedient - just as he likes. And then I wait as he turns and walks so damn slowly out of the room. In my head I can hear a literal clock ticking. Tick tock. Tick tock.

I’m running out of time already.

As soon as the door shuts, as soon as I’m alone, I spring from the bed and I’m in the bathroom, hunched up over the toilet, hurling those fucking pills back up.

It’s not easy to do. I ram my fingers so far down my throat that I’m practically choking on them, but I’m not giving up.

No fucking way. I practically wail with relief when I realise it’s working.

There’s little food in my stomach, and along with the pills comes a mouthful of foul-tasting bile.

I grab a swig of mouthwash, rinsing away the taste, and in my head it’s like a swig of champagne. A toast to my victory.

After I’ve fixed my features in the mirror, I get back into bed, playing the game further because the maids are not on my side. The staff are all on his payroll.

Every single person in this house is the enemy until I can categorically prove otherwise.

It’s late morning. I laid in bed, playing the sick little wife for as long as I could bear. But that voice kept repeating in my head.

Get to the library.

I don’t have a clue what it means, but as I walk in, I’m more than grateful to see it’s empty.

The scent of leather-bound books and the faint aroma of aged paper fill the air, offering a comforting familiarity. I wander between the towering shelves, my fingers grazing the spines of books as I pass.

I’d hoped that simply being in this room would trigger some sort of revelation.

But as I stand here, surrounded by shelves, nothing comes.

Disappointment washes over me, but I refuse to let it defeat me. I need to be proactive, to search for something—anything—that might help explain why this place holds some sort of importance.

I begin to examine the titles more closely, pulling out volumes at random, flipping through pages in the desperate hope that something will jar my mind into cooperation. But it’s all just words on a page, devoid of meaning, failing to ignite the spark of recognition I so desperately crave.

And then, almost as if it’s calling out to me, I see it. Gold embossed letters that glint in the dull light. With trembling hands, I pull it from the shelf. It’s an old book, the cover is almost worn entirely at the edges and could obviously do with being rebound.

As I open it to the first page, my heart skips a beat.

My own messy handwriting stares back at me, the ink barely dry in places.

It’s a record of my thoughts, my fears, my suspicions— a chronicle of my descent into complete madness. Or so they would have me believe.

I sink into a nearby armchair, the book clutched tightly in my hands as I begin to read. Page after page, entry after entry, I delve into the mind of a woman who is both intimately familiar and at the same time, a complete stranger to me.

There are gaps, moments of time that are missing or distorted, but the overarching narrative is clear; I am being manipulated, controlled, and almost certainly drugged by the very people who claim to care for me. By my own husband.

The realization is both terrifying and liberating. Terrifying because it confirms my worst fears, and liberating because it validates the nagging doubts that have plagued me for so long.

I am not insane.

I am not imagining things.

There is a conspiracy unfolding around me, and I am at the centre of it.

With newfound determination, I add my latest observations to the journal, documenting everything I’ve learned, everything I’ve experienced since my last entry.

It’s a risk, writing it all down. If they found this, if they realised what I know… but what choice do I have? This journal is my lifeline, my only hope of maintaining my sanity in a world that seems intent on destroying it.

Once I’ve finished, I tuck the book back into its hiding place on the shelf, ensuring it’s positioned exactly as I found it. But as I turn to leave, a sense of unease settles over me. The library may be a sanctuary, but it’s not a fortress.

There’s no guarantee that my secrets will remain safe within these walls.

I need a better hiding spot, one that’s less conspicuous, less likely to be discovered by prying eyes. And also, one I can more easily access.

I tuck the book into the crook of my arm, concealing it as best I can and then I creep back, out into the corridor and to my room.

There’s a thick wool rug that covers a lot of the floor, but beneath it is solid wood.

I search for a loose board, focusing beneath my bed, where it’ll be harder to notice. Within seconds I find a small, almost imperceptible gap between two of the floorboards.

Using my nails, I manage to pry the board up just enough to slip the book inside before I put everything back, smoothing out any signs of disturbance with my hands.

It’s not perfect, but it will have to do.

But my heart still skips, it leaps as if this one act of defiance might set me free.

I must be patient, I must be smart , I tell myself and above all, I must do whatever is necessary to survive.