Chapter 3: The Escape
1292 Words
Scarlett.
The stairs were cold beneath me, but not as cold as Adrian's words still echoing in my head.
You're nothing. You've always been nothing.
My phone buzzed in my trembling hands. Another notification. Another knife twist.
@ChicagoEliteTea posted: Adrian Pierre's wife had a MELTDOWN at the Winter Ball tonight! Full video in bio. This is MESSY.
I clicked before I could stop myself. The video loaded—shaky phone footage of me on my knees, gathering divorce papers while Adrian stood over me like a king addressing a beggar. The comments were worse than the photos.
This is so embarrassing
Girl, have some DIGNITY
He dodged a bullet tbh
Another notification popped up, this one a text.
Mrs. Pierre, this is James from Mr. Pierre's office. Your belongings have been packed and sent to your parents' address. The locks have been changed. Mr. Pierre suggests you find alternative accommodation. Have a pleasant evening.
My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped the phone. Then another message appeared.
Also, Mrs. Pierre, Mr. Pierre wanted me to inform you that he's tracking your location for security purposes. He'll know exactly where you are at all times. This is for your safety, of course.
The words blurred as tears filled my eyes.
He was tracking me. Controlling me. Even after signing those papers. Even after destroying me in front of everyone.
I stood on legs that barely held me and stumbled toward the curb where a taxi sat idling.
---
"Evanston," I told the driver, my voice barely a whisper. "Please."
My mother opened the door in her bathrobe twenty minutes later, her face crumpling when she saw me.
"Oh, Scarlett. Oh, honey—"
"Don't." I pushed past her, my ruined dress catching on the doorframe. "Where are my things?"
"In the garage, but sweetheart, you need to sit down. Let me make you some tea—"
"I don't have time for tea, Mom." My voice cracked. "I need to pack. I need to leave."
My father appeared in the hallway, and the disappointment in his eyes nearly broke me. "Scarlett Anne, what happened tonight? We saw the photos. The videos. Everyone is calling, asking—"
"I don't care what everyone is asking!" The words came out as a sob. "I need my things. Now."
In the garage, I found six cardboard boxes—my entire life with Adrian reduced to containers you could buy at Home Depot. I grabbed a duffel bag and started throwing things inside. Clothes. My laptop. The framed photo of my grandmother that Adrian had never let me display because it "didn't match the aesthetic."
"Scarlett, please." My mother stood in the doorway, twisting her hands. "Talk to us. Tell us what's happening."
"Adrian and I are divorced." I couldn't look at her. "And he's tracking my phone. And he changed the locks. And everyone in Chicago thinks I'm pathetic. Is that enough explanation?"
"Oh, baby—"
"I'm not a baby, Mom! I'm a twenty-eight-year-old woman who just had her husband tell her she's nothing in front of half the city!" My vision blurred with tears. "I need to leave. I need to go somewhere he can't find me."
My phone buzzed again. Another text.
Mrs. Pierre, Mr. Pierre has requested your current location. Please respond within ten minutes, or we'll be forced to send someone to check on your welfare.
"Before he what?" my father asked, reading over my shoulder.
"Before he finds me and makes my life even more of a nightmare than it already is."
I zipped the duffel with shaking hands and pushed past them toward the door.
"Scarlett Anne Hawthorne, you stop right there!" My mother's voice broke. "You can't just run away!"
I turned at the door, and the look on her face—the fear, the worry, the love—almost made me stay.
Almost.
"I love you both," I whispered. "But I can't stay here. I can't be Scarlett Pierre anymore. She's broken. She's nothing. Adrian made sure of that."
"Honey—"
But I was already running to the waiting taxi, my mother's sobs following me into the night.
---
O'Hare Airport was chaos—crying babies, delayed flights, people rushing in every direction. I stood in front of the departures board, barely able to see through my tears.
London - 2:45 AM - Gate B12
London. Far away. A place where Adrian Pierre's name meant nothing. Where Scarlett Hawthorne could disappear.
I ran to the ticket counter. "One ticket to London. Next flight. Please."
The agent's eyes widened at my appearance—barefoot, red dress torn, mascara streaked down my face—but she typed quickly. "One seat available. One-way. Eight hundred seventy-five dollars."
I counted out cash from my secret account with trembling hands. The account Adrian didn't know about. The only thing he couldn't take from me.
"Gate B12. Boarding in thirty-five minutes."
I ran.
Through security, down endless terminals, past shops and restaurants that blurred together. My bare feet slapped against cold tile. My lungs burned. But I didn't stop.
Gate B12. Final boarding call.
"Wait!" I gasped, stumbling up to the desk. "Please!"
The agent scanned my pass. "Cutting it very close, Miss Hawthorne."
I hurried aboard and collapsed into seat 24B, wedged between a sleeping woman and an empty aisle seat. My whole body shook as the engines rumbled to life.
Someone slid into the aisle seat. A man with sandy blonde hair and kind hazel eyes.
"First time to London?" he asked gently.
I turned to him, and whatever he saw in my face made his smile fade.
"I just needed to leave," I whispered.
He held out his hand. "Louis. Louis Cavanaugh."
"Dera." The lie came easily. "Dera Lane."
The plane pushed back, and I watched Chicago's lights shrink through the window. Somewhere down there, Adrian was probably celebrating. Probably with Veronica in his arms, laughing about the pathetic wife who'd thought she mattered.
"What are you running from?" Louis asked quietly.
"Everything." The word came out broken. "My husband. Ex-husband. My life. Myself."
"London's a good place for fresh starts." He pulled out a book. "Word of advice—get a burner phone when you land. Whatever you're using now, he can track it."
My phone lit up with another message, and Louis reached over, powering it off.
"Better," he said. "Now try to sleep. You look like you need it."
The exhaustion hit me all at once—physical, emotional, soul-deep. My eyes closed as tears slipped down my cheeks.
"Thank you," I whispered. "For being kind. For not asking questions."
"Everyone deserves kindness," Louis said softly. "Especially when they're breaking."
I fell asleep with those words echoing in my head, safer than I'd felt in years.
---
"Ladies and gentlemen, we're beginning our descent..."
I woke to gray English morning light. Louis was still reading, looking fresh despite the overnight flight.
"Welcome to London," he said with a small smile.
The plane landed. People gathered bags. Louis disappeared into the crowd with a wave.
I followed on shaking legs through immigration, through customs, into the arrivals hall.
I pulled out my dead phone, thinking about burner phones and new names and lives where Adrian Pierre didn't exist—
The world tilted.
My vision went dark at the edges, sparkling and fading. I heard someone scream—realized it was me. Felt the ground rushing up.
Strong hands caught me, but it was too late.
The last thing I saw before everything went black was a concerned face hovering above me, asking if I was okay.
And all I could think was: No, I'm not okay. I don't think I'll ever be okay again.
- Writer
