Chapter 4
1335 Words
✨A whisper of freedom.✨
Flora's Pov
The house was still folded in on itself, like the still of the night but awaken. Even at dawn the walls seemed to listen. The floorboards remembered her weight. Every step felt like a confession.
She moved slowly, barefoot, her bag slung across her shoulder, the strap cutting into her collarbone. It was heavier than she expected—not because of what was inside, but because of what it meant.
She had packed only what she could carry without noise: clothes rolled tight, a little money she’d hidden for months, the photograph Margery once slipped into her pocket without a word. No keepsakes. No explanations. Leaving with evidences felt dangerous.
She paused at Finn’s door.
The hallway light was off, but the moon through the window gave her enough to see him. He was curled on his side, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, mouth slightly open. There was still a softness to him the house hadn’t managed to scrape away yet. His breathing was uneven, the kind that came with dreams too big for a body his size.
For a moment, Flora considered waking him. The thought rose sharp and desperate—Come with me. Get up. We can still make it.
She imagined his eyes opening. The confusion. The noise.
She didn't.
Instead, she knelt beside the bed and reached down, brushing her thumb gently across his knuckles. His skin was warm. Alive. He stirred but didn’t wake, fingers twitching as if he almost knew she was there.
I’ll come back for you,” she whispered.
She didn’t know if it was a promise or a prayer.
The words felt thin in the air. Fragile. Like something the house might swallow if she said them any louder.
Flora stood and backed away, closing the door with care, easing it until the latch caught without a sound.
She looked down the corridor to Cambilly’s door farther down the hall.
Flora hesitated.
Cambilly was already awake.
She stood in the doorway as if she’d been waiting, dressed in yesterday’s clothes, hair pulled back too tightly. Her eyes flicked first to Flora’s bag, then to her face.
“So it’s now,” Cambilly said quietly.
Flora swallowed. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” Cambilly cut in. Her voice was steady, too steady. “But you won’t make it past the drive if he wakes up.”
Flora shook her head. “You’re not coming.”
Cambilly’s mouth twitched, something like relief and something like grief crossing her face at the same time. “I know.”
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “I’ll keep him busy. Long enough for you to get to the trees.”
Flora grabbed her wrist. “Cambilly, no. If he realizes—”
“He won’t,” Cambilly said. “Not right away. And if he does… it won’t matter. Not for me.”
The words were careless, but her eyes weren’t. They were sharp, determined, already bracing for impact.
Flora’s chest tightened. “I’ll come back.”
Cambilly nodded once. “I know.”
They stood there for a second longer, the house breathing around them.
Then Cambilly grabbed her, hugged her, took in her smell and let her go.
Flora didn’t look back.
She didn’t.
Her heart didn’t slow. It only learned a new rhythm.
The back door creaked when she opened it.
Flora froze.
Her hand tightened on the handle. She counted silently—one, two, three—listening past her own breath, past the pounding in her ears. She waited for the sound of footsteps, for the clearing of a throat, for Trump’s voice to emerge calm and amused from the darkness.
Nothing.
Nothing at all so she slipped outside.
The air was cold and damp, heavy with the smell of wet earth and pine. The sky was just beginning to bruise with early light, a sickly blue-purple that made everything look unreal, like the world hadn’t decided yet whether to wake up.
Flora pulled her sweater tighter around herself and started down the long gravel drive. She didn’t run. She’d learned that running drew attention. Running looked guilty.
Walking looked like permission.
Each step sent a crunch through the quiet. She timed her breath to it, trying to make herself part of the sound instead of something separate. Her heart hammered anyway, loud and wild, like it was trying to escape ahead of her.
Halfway down the drive, she glanced back.
The house loomed against the paling sky, all dark windows and sharp angles. It looked smaller from here. Less powerful.
That was a lie, and she knew it.
She reached the tree line before she allowed herself to breathe properly. The gravel gave way to dirt and leaves, the path narrowing as it cut through the woods. Branches snagged at her sleeves. Something scurried away underfoot, making her flinch.
From there, it was less than a mile to the road.
She pictured it over and over in her mind—the bus stop with its crooked bench, the faded schedule nailed to the post. She imagined sitting there with her bag at her feet, just another early traveler, anonymous and unremarkable.
She imagined the way the world would feel when no one knew her name.
The thought was dizzying.
She was halfway there when she heard the engine.
At first she thought it was part of her imagination, the echo of fear finally finding its voice. Then headlights swept across the road behind her, pale and unforgiving, cutting through the trees.
Flora stopped.
She turned slowly.
Trump’s truck rolled to a stop as if he’d planned it that way all along, tires crunching softly on the gravel. The engine idled, steady and patient.
The driver’s door opened.
Her father stepped out, coffee in hand, dressed for the day like this was nothing more than an inconvenience. He looked rested. Awake. As if dawn belonged to him.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
Flora didn’t answer.
Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. Every lie she’d practiced dissolved under the weight of his gaze.
Trump smiled.
“I thought so,” he said.
Flora took off running.
She ran.
The decision came all at once, a surge of instinct so sharp it hurt. She bolted down the road, lungs burning almost immediately, the bag slamming against her side.
He didn’t chase her.
He didn’t need to.
By the time she reached the bend in the road, breath tearing at her throat, the truck was already there—parked broadside, blocking her path like a barricade.
Trump stepped out again, setting the coffee carefully on the hood as if it mattered. As if there were rules to observe.
“You really disappoint me,” he said quietly.
Flora backed away, every muscle screaming at her to turn, to run back into the woods, to disappear. There was nowhere to go.
“I trusted you,” he continued. “And this is how you repay me?”
Her throat burned. The word slipped out before she could stop it.
“Please.”
Trump tilted his head.
Not angry. Curious.
He grabbed her arm—not hard, not yet—and turned her back toward the house. His grip was firm, practiced, like he’d done this before in smaller ways.
Flora fought him then.
She clawed at his sleeve, nails scraping his skin. She kicked, heel connecting with his shin. She screamed—once, sharp and raw, the sound ripping itself free.
Trump’s hand cracked across her mouth.
Not enough to bruise.
Enough to silence.
“Careful,” he said softly. “You don’t want to ruin your face.”
The words landed harder than the blow.
He dragged her back to the truck, opened the passenger door, and pushed her inside. The seatbelt dug into her ribs as the door slammed shut. The lock clicked.
As they drove, Trump said nothing.
That was worse.
- Writer
