Escape
1034 Words
Sarah began observing everything.
Not casually—methodically.
Every corridor. Every shift change. Every door that opened and closed without her permission.
The house functioned like a living organism. Too large for just two people, yet run with ruthless efficiency. She noticed patterns others assumed she wouldn’t understand.
The kitchen inventory had a separate entrance.
Supplies were brought in through it every morning between ten and eleven. Staff restocked the kitchen during that hour. Only the cooks were allowed to remain inside—one head chef, one assistant. Two other staff members handled the rest of the house.
Which meant one thing.
For a brief window, the inventory door stayed open.
Rafael left the house every morning between seven and eight.
If she could reach the inventory… she could reach outside.
The problem was everything else.
Guards everywhere. Every exit monitored. Anna shadowing her constantly, polite but watchful. The house wasn’t just protected—it was sealed.
Still, Sarah had made her decision.
She had to try.
⸻
She woke early the next morning, long before the house stirred.
Rafael’s arm was heavy around her waist, his body warm behind hers. He slept holding her now—always had for days. What had once terrified her had become routine, and that terrified her more.
It had been eleven days since she’d decided to escape.
Eleven days of sleepless nights, of pretending calm while her mind ran endlessly ahead.
“Awake already?” Rafael murmured, his voice thick with sleep.
She didn’t answer.
Her silence usually ended with him pulling her closer, reminding her—wordlessly—where she belonged. She couldn’t endure that again this morning. Her body was already exhausted.
When she didn’t respond, he chuckled softly and shifted, flipping her so she was beneath him.
Her eyes flew open.
“Don’t pretend,” he said quietly, his mouth close to her ear. “I know when you’re awake.”
“I was sleeping,” she said, barely audible.
“You can lie,” he replied calmly, locking eyes with her, “but not to me. I know every thought you have.”
“No, you couldn’t,” Her breath hitched.
“When it comes to you,” he continued, unblinking, “everything is possible.”
For a moment, they just stared at each other—so close it felt intimate, dangerous, inevitable. Like two souls caught in a collision neither could undo.
“Why me.. Rafael?” she asked softly.
Something shifted in his expression when she said his name.
“It was always you but it began the day we met on that rooftop,” he said, voice low. “You just didn’t know it yet.”
Her chest tightened.
“You could have anyone,” she whispered. “I’m nobody. When you’re done with me, my life will be ruined. I won’t be able to marry. No one will want me. You’ve destroyed me.”
His hand moved—too fast. Fingers closing at her throat, not squeezing, but warning.
“If you ever think someone else can have you,” he said coldly, “I will end them in front of you.And I will f**k you over his dead body which make sure you remember—forever—who you belong to. I’ll ruin you piece by piece until my name is the only one you can cry out, loud enough for the world to understand who owns you.”
The threat wasn’t loud.
That made it worse.
“You are mine,” he finished. “And I don’t share.”
He kissed her then—hard enough to steal the breath from her lungs, controlled enough to remind her resistance was pointless. Soon the kiss turned into something else.
When he pulled back, his mark already visible on her skin, her resolve wavered.
But only for a moment.
She still had to try.
⸻
That afternoon, the kitchen bustled with activity.
Sarah moved like she belonged there.
That was the key.
At exactly 10:17 a.m., the house shifted into its usual rhythm. The kitchen doors opened and closed in steady intervals. Crates were wheeled in. Empty boxes were taken out. Voices overlapped—routine, careless, predictable.
No one looked at her.
She stood near the corridor that led to the inventory wing, holding a folded linen bag against her chest. Her blue dress was modest, forgettable. Hair tied back. Head slightly bowed.
Not hiding.
Blending.
The inventory door was open.
She had been watching this moment for days.
Two cooks passed her, arguing about stock levels. A helper dragged a crate past her without a glance. Anna was nowhere near—sent upstairs with fresh linens, exactly as Sarah had hoped.
She stepped forward.
One step.
Then another.
Her heart slammed so violently she was sure it could be heard. Her fingers tightened around the fabric in her hands, knuckles white, breath shallow—but her pace never changed.
Guards stood near the main gate.
Not here.
This exit wasn’t important enough. It never was. It smelled of cardboard and dust and waste—nothing worth guarding.
She crossed the threshold.
The inventory wing swallowed her.
For a brief second, terror froze her spine. This was the point of no return. If someone called her name now—if a voice rose, sharp and suspicious—everything would end.
No one did.
She walked with the waste staff toward the disposal path, matching their speed, matching their silence. Her eyes stayed lowered. Her steps stayed even.
Guards didn’t count faces.
They counted purpose.
And she looked like she had one.
The outer service door opened.
Sunlight spilled in.
She stepped outside.
Still walking.
Still calm.
Only when the path curved—when the house disappeared behind trees and walls—did her breath finally break. Her lungs burned as if she’d been underwater too long.
But she didn’t run.
Not yet.
Running would make her visible.
Each step away felt unreal.
As if the world might snap back any second.
But it didn’t.
Behind her, the house stood silent.
Unaware.
And inside that silence, something dangerous waited—patiently—for the moment someone noticed she was gone.
- Writer
