I planned the escape on a morning when Charles kissed my forehead and told me to rest.
That was the cruelest part.
It would have been easier if he’d been angry. If he’d tightened his jaw or sharpened his voice. If he’d reminded me—explicitly—of everything he controlled. Fear is simple. Fear is loud.
What Charles offered instead was quiet.
He set the mug down on the bedside table with care, as if sudden noise might startle something fragile inside me. Steam curled upward, carrying the scent of chamomile and honey. Not sugar. He never forgot that detail. He brushed his thumb once across my temple, a habit he’d developed recently, like he was checking whether I was real.
“Try to sleep,” he murmured. “You’ve been restless.”
I nodded, even though I hadn’t told him that. Even though I hadn
