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Scarlett

I have to be quick.

I know I have barely any time left before the hypothetical walls of my cage come crashing down.

So I force myself up from his bed, not daring to look back at him because I know if I do, I’ll break. I’ll crumble. I’ll give in, and all my sacrifices up until now will be for nothing.

My heart feels like it breaks even more as I take each step away from Rafe but I shut it down, shut down those emotions.

I am not weak.

I am not weak.

I will not give in to those emotions.

And besides, I can cry, I can mourn and do whatever the fuck I want, once my vengeance is had.

If I’m alive, that is…

I brush that thought aside. That won’t help me. Nothing will help me.

No, I need to just focus on what I can get, what I will get. On the raging fury boiling in my veins.

As I enter the main wing of the house, it’s so quiet I can hear every movement of my bare feet on the floor. Where the fuck is everyone? It’s unnerving to think that a house that has to be filled with over a dozen staff is this damned silent.

Are they hiding? Have they fled? Have they decided after my last violent outburst that that was the final straw? Even if they had, they couldn’t leave, not until tonight, not until the tide is back out.

They’re as trapped here as I am.

I clench my fists, burying the swirl of emotions at the thought of them, those silent onlookers who may not have set up my imprisonment, but were more than happy to keep the walls of my cage in place.

As I climb the main staircase, I hum a tune, a song, that same fucking one that’s been repeating in my head, only now I know every verse, every syllable. Every note.

“In the garden where shadows grow,

A secret whispers, soft and low.

The roses bloom, but then wilt away,

And the truth lies buried, night and day.”

“The songbird weeps within her cage,

A melody lost to both time and age.

Her wings are clipped, her cries are unheard,

A prison is built around every word.”

“They twist the key and lock the door,

What was mine is mine no more.

Echoes are calling, walls can speak,

And as the hunted hides, the strong grows weak.”

“A thread unravels, a tale is undone,

This song of silence is never sung.

Beware the mirror, for it tells no lies,

And see the truth now with vengeful eyes.”

Am I crazy now? Am I as mad as they tried to make me out to be?

My lips curl at the concept, perhaps I am. Perhaps I am beyond reason now, beyond morality too. They’ve carved out those pieces of my soul, torn them from my bones. The only parts left of me now clamour for blood, their blood.

I let out a cackle.

It’s manic. Fractured. It echoes off those high walls and those dark, oppressive portraits.

And then quick as a flash, I’m reaching out, lashing out, tearing through those crusty old canvases, stripping away those faces as if I’m murdering each and every one of Alexander’s ancestors. Destroying their essence, their memory, all of it.

Fuck you, Alexander. Fuck you.

Even if he does kill me, even if he does win, then this house will never be the same. This house will always carry the evidence of me, of what they did, and what I did in return.

No, if the Forster’s continue on, if they do prosper, then the ghost of me will drive them from this cursed place. I’ll force them out, I’ll claim this mausoleum of a home as my own and I’ll torment anyone who dares to exist here.

A slowly building hum reaches my ears. Goosebumps erupt over my skin, and something cold and deadly creeps up my spine.

He’s back.

My dear husband.

He’s flying back.

I must have barely minutes left, barely a few precious moments before I am once more rendered helpless, returned back to my neat little box.

I pick up my pace, climbing the stairs two at a time. As I round the corner, I come face to face with a maid. She stares at me in shock before she stumbles back, turns and runs off, clearly anxious to be there, ready for her master’s arrival.

I roll my eyes, cursing the precious time lost, and continue on to my room.

Inside the space is bare. I know this is not where my last round of torture took place. I know Alexander deliberately had me stored away somewhere Rafe would be unable to find me, but it’s still unnerving to look at that bed and know what horrors I have endured here.

Under the bed, I pull at the floorboards, yanking the wood up, and feel the splinters bite as they embed themselves under my nails.

The gun is gone. Vanished like it was never there to begin with.

Oh, I knew it would be.

But that was not what I was looking for. I reach in, far into the darkness as if I’m reaching into the very bowels of this building and I pull out the phone that’s been hidden this entire time. It’s dusty, dirty, but it comes to life with a glow as I push the on button.

There’s only one contact in this. One name that’s as fake as my marriage is. My thumbs shake as I type the message, as I try to hold my panic in.

‘It is time. Everything is set. Everything is ready.’ I write, sending it quickly before turning it off again. I don’t need a reply. I don’t need confirmation.

I toss the phone back where it came from, hastily shoving the wood back in place so no one can detect that there’s anything untoward beneath it.

As I stand, I can hear that hum has become a whirl of blades. Are they circling the house? Trying to hunt me down from the outside because they’re too afraid to come face me on foot?

No, that isn’t it. But it amuses me to think of their fear, his fear, my husband’s.

He’s enjoyed mine for far too many months. He’s enjoyed using me, abusing me, exposing me to all manner of unspeakable horrors.

I flex my fingers, steeling myself for this last trick of the game. My last move.

He won’t find me here. He won’t find me in my room like a good little wife.

No, he’ll find me in the drawing room, waiting for him by the great bay windows with the colossal power of the sea crashing behind me, as if this were a scene from a movie, as if this were some great theatrical moment, and I guess in a way, it is.

Because he still doesn’t realise; he’s still utterly clueless.

Oh, he knows who my family is, he knows who my father is.

But he doesn’t know me . He doesn’t know the real Scarlett Heath. He only knows the one he created in his head; the sweet, simpering, na?ve girl, and then the crying broken creature he tried to turn me into.

Not the one of wrath.

Not the one of vengeance.

Not the one who is going to carve out his god damned heart and feast on his entrails.