Medora
Two months later.
I probably looked like s**t. I hadn’t glanced at a mirror in weeks, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Several family meetings had been held about my “concerning behavior,” but I didn’t attend a single one, let alone care about what they had to say.
All I’d done in the past month was plot escape routes—schemes that felt increasingly desperate. I even sketched blueprints on how to get out of this house.
Let me walk you through my genius plans. At first, I thought of using a ladder to climb out of my bedroom window, but here’s the problem: the front door is unlocked, so I can leave the house—but not the estate. There are guards at the gate and more at the estate entrance. Even if I did manage to get past the first set, the second would catch me.
Have I give
