Chapter 6
Elara
Yeah, the man that I should call him dad.
I looked at Dad. For a second—just a second—I thought he might say something. Might stand up for us.
But he just stood there in the doorway, his work clothes still dusty from the construction site, his eyes darting between his mother and his wife like he was watching a tennis match instead of witnessing abuse.
"What's going on?" he repeated, but his voice had already gone weak. Defeated.
My chest went cold.
"Your wife and her bastard daughter have disgraced this family!" Mrs. Ashford brandished one of the photographs at him. "Look! Look at what that orphan slut has done!"
Dad took the photo with trembling hands. His face went pale as he looked at it, then paler still when he glanced at the television screen where my pixelated face was still being broadcast to the entire city.
"Elara..." He looked at me, and I saw it in his eyes. Not anger. Not even disappointment.
Just embarrassment. Like I was a stain he couldn't quite scrub out.
"Dad." My voice cracked. "Please."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"Mother," he finally said, turning to Mrs. Ashford. "She needs to clean the house tonight. If you hurt her too badly—"
That was it. That was all he could manage.
Not "stop hitting my wife." Not "get away from my daughter." Just a weak protest about household chores, delivered in a voice so meek it made me want to scream.
"I can scrub my own damn floors!" Mrs. Ashford's face went purple again. "Get them out of my sight! NOW!"
Dad's hand twitched toward us. Then dropped.
He turned and walked away.
Just like that. Just like he always did.
I watched him disappear down the hallway toward his study, and something inside me shattered. This was how it had always been. Every time Mrs. Ashford screamed at Mom or hit her, Dad would either stand there uselessly or grovel afterward, promising it wouldn't happen again, begging his mother to show mercy.
Nothing ever changed.
I was done.
This house was suffocating me.
Mrs. Ashford threw the cane down with a clatter and stalked toward the kitchen, muttering under her breath about ungrateful charity cases and family shame. I heard her yanking open cabinets, pulling out pots and pans with enough force to make them clang.
Margaret was still on her knees beside me, her whole body shaking.
"Mom." I touched her arm gently. "Mom, we need to get up."
She didn't move. Just kept staring at the floor, at the photographs scattered around us like evidence at a crime scene.
"Mom, please."
Finally, she lifted her head. Her eyes were red and swollen, her forehead still bleeding sluggishly from where the cane had split the skin.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry, Elara. This is my fault. If I hadn't been so—"
"Stop." I grabbed her shoulders, maybe too hard, but I needed her to hear me. "This isn't your fault. None of this is your fault. She's a monster, and Dad's a coward, and I'm getting us out of here."
"Elara—"
"I mean it." I helped her to her feet, my own back screaming in protest. "I'm going to work harder. I'm going to save money. And when I have enough, I'm taking you away from this place. We're never coming back."
Margaret's eyes filled with fresh tears, but she nodded.
From the kitchen came the sound of Mrs. Ashford slamming a pot onto the stove. Then her voice, sharp and imperious: "Margaret! Get in here! You think you're too good to cook dinner now?"
I felt my mother tense beside me.
"I should—" she started.
"No." I kept my grip on her arm. "Let me talk to her."
But before I could move, Margaret pulled away. She was already heading toward the kitchen, her steps small and shuffling, her shoulders hunched like she was trying to make herself smaller.
And something inside me broke.
Not the sharp, sudden break from this morning when I'd realized what Vivienne had done. Not the hollow crack when Mrs. Cole had told me about Marcus's other girl.
This was different. This was final.
I couldn't stay here anymore.
I turned and walked back through the living room, stepping over the scattered photographs without looking at them. My bag was still by the front door where I'd dropped it. Still packed. Still ready to go.
I picked it up and walked out.
Nobody tried to stop me.
The bus back to the city didn't leave until eight PM. I sat in the small station waiting room, my back throbbing with every breath, watching the sun set through the grimy windows.
My phone was still off in my bag. I didn't want to turn it on. Didn't want to see the messages that were probably piling up—from work, from Marcus, from people I barely knew who'd somehow gotten my number and wanted to know if the girl in those photos was really me.
But I needed to check the bus schedule. Needed to make sure I hadn't missed the last departure.
I pulled out my phone and turned it on.
It immediately started buzzing. Text after text after text, flooding in so fast the screen could barely keep up.
I ignored most of them. But one name caught my eye.
Marcus.
I opened his messages with shaking fingers.
Elara, what's going on? Why aren't you picking up?
I'm doing great over here. London is amazing. I wish you could see it.
Text me back when you see this. Love you. —M
The messages were from hours ago. Before he'd seen the news. Before he knew.
I stared at the screen until my vision blurred.
My chest ached so bad I thought I might throw up. But I couldn't say it. I couldn't type the words "we're done." Two years. How do you just throw away two years?
