I don’t need to look to know it’s him. Winston, checking in. He’s been calling nonstop since this morning’s argument—when I said I wanted a job, a life beyond the walls of this house. When I told him no, I wouldn’t spend another holiday pretending, wouldn’t smile while he disappeared on business.

Business. His excuse. His permission slip. The reason his mistress gets to live unburdened while I play the role of devoted wife.

He thinks I’ll always be here when he comes home.

He’s wrong.

The only time I confronted him about it . . . well, I ended up with a broken arm. After that, I tried hard not to disagree with him. Not to argue about the other woman. I’ve been trying hard to be who he wants me to be, thinking that I’ll survive.

That was until today.

Today, everything will change. He’s supposed to be gone until tomorrow night, which makes this my only chance to leave.

I silence the phone, tossing it onto the bed and grabbing a small notebook from the drawer instead. It’s old, the cover worn from years of handling. Inside are scribbled dreams, memories—fragments of who I used to be, someone who felt safe and whole once upon a time.

I tuck it gently into the duffel, my hands trembling.

Footsteps echo down the hallway, sudden and unmistakable. My body goes rigid. My heart crashes into my ribs, every muscle tenses, and my breath stills in my throat. Thankfully, I locked the door so the nosy maid wouldn’t be checking on me. She gets a kick out of my misery.

“Henrietta?” His voice is deceptively calm, controlled—but I recognize the hidden warning beneath the velvet tone. He doesn’t knock. He never does.

My gaze darts to the packed bag, pulse surging.

What is he doing here? He shouldn’t be home. Not yet.

I haul the duffel up, muscles straining against the ache and urgency flooding through me. Trembling fingers shove the window open, the old frame groaning in protest. The warm night air brushes against my skin, thick and humid, grounding me in the reality of what I’m about to do.

One leg over the sill. Then the other.

“Henrietta, I know you’re in there. Open the fucking door.”

The handle rattles hard, violently—metal clanging against metal, a brutal warning of his anger, his impatience. Another jolt, harder this time. He’s done waiting.

My pulse spikes. There’s no turning back.

I shove the duffel through the window and follow, hitting the ground with a jarring thud. My knees absorb the impact, but the weight of the bag yanks me forward. I catch myself, breath coming fast and uneven as I press low to the earth. The scent of damp soil clings to the air, thick and heady, but it does nothing to steady me.