Thatcher's Death, My Liberation

I'd been Liberty's shadow for three days now, following her every command like a ghost haunting my own home. Today, she wanted fresh flowers for the master bedroom—our bedroom, once. I gathered the vase from the kitchen and slipped into the garden, relishing the brief moment alone among the roses Georgia had loved.

"Make sure they're perfect," Liberty had called after me. "Thatcher notices these things."

As I cut stems and arranged them in the crystal vase, I thought of Georgia. Would she tell me to fight harder? Or would she beg me to save myself?

The sound of tires on gravel made me tense. Thatcher was home early. I hurried back inside, vase in hand, taking the service stairs to avoid him.

The house felt different today—quieter. Liberty must have been resting in the sunroom. I placed the flowers on the dresser in what was once our bedroom, now redecorated to suit her taste. The walls were repainted in soft gold instead of my preferred sage green.

I was about to leave when I noticed the door to Thatcher's study slightly ajar. He never left it unlocked.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I pushed it open wider. The room smelled of him—expensive cologne and leather-bound books. I shouldn't be here, but something pulled me forward.

His mahogany desk was immaculate as always. A folder lay open at the center, marked "Mitchell Divorce Settlement."

Divorce? We'd never finalized the divorce.

I flipped the folder open with trembling fingers. Inside were official-looking documents—our signatures on legal papers dated two weeks ago. But I'd never signed these. The papers he'd given me were different—he'd said they were temporary separation agreements.

"They were real, Rose."

I spun around. James Harrison, Thatcher's business partner, stood in the doorway.

"I don't understand," I whispered, though I was beginning to.

"The papers you signed were legally binding," James said, his expression uncomfortable. "Thatcher had them drawn up while you were... indisposed."

The room seemed to tilt beneath my feet. Another lie. Another manipulation.

"He wanted to make sure you couldn't claim any of his assets after what happened with Georgia," James continued, looking away.

I closed the folder slowly, my mind racing. "Thank you for telling me."

James nodded once and left me alone with the truth.

---

That night, I lay awake in my designated room—a converted maid's quarters near the kitchen, far from the master suite. The window was small but real, unlike the basement room's darkness.

I needed to get out. Now that I knew about the divorce, there was nothing keeping me here except fear and Thatcher's control.

The house was quiet. I slipped from my bed and crept downstairs in my socks, carrying my shoes. The basement had a small window that might be large enough for me to squeeze through.

I found it easily—a dusty pane set high in the wall of the storage room. It was smaller than I'd hoped, but desperation made me try.

The window scraped against my palms as I pushed it open. Cool night air rushed in, carrying the scent of the garden. Freedom.

I dragged a crate beneath the window and stepped onto it, wincing as it creaked under my weight. The opening was narrow—I'd have to wriggle through sideways.

I got my head and shoulders through before my hips caught on the frame. Panic fluttered in my chest as I pushed harder.

"Mrs. Edwards."

The voice froze me in place. I turned my head to see one of Thatcher's security guards standing in the shadows.

"Going somewhere?" he asked, his tone professionally detached.

"I—I needed some air," I stammered.

He approached slowly. "Mr. Edwards anticipated you might try something like this."

Of course he did.

"Please come down from there," the guard said. "Don't make this difficult."

I slid back into the basement, defeat washing over me in cold waves.

The guard escorted me upstairs, not to my room but to a different one—smaller, windowless, with a heavy lock on the outside.

"Mr. Edwards will deal with you in the morning," he said before closing the door.

I sank onto the narrow bed, my escape attempt thwarted. The walls seemed to close in around me.

Hours passed. The door finally opened, revealing Thatcher's silhouette.

"Did you really think I wouldn't notice?" he asked quietly.

I didn't answer.

"You've always been predictable, Rose. Even in your desperation." He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. "You failed Georgia. Now you're failing yourself."

His words cut deeper than any physical punishment could have.

"I've arranged something special for tomorrow," he continued, his voice eerily calm. "A reminder of what happens when you try to leave me."

He left me alone in the darkness, his threat hanging in the air like poison.

What new hell had I unleashed with my failed escape? And how much more could I endure before I broke completely?