Inside, a loud thud—a fist slamming against the door. Then his voice, loud and seething.

“Henrietta, I swear you’re going to pay for this.”

Inside, the pounding at the door grows louder, more furious. But I don’t dare glance back.

The car I arranged waits several houses away, engine idling softly. I sprint toward it, bag bouncing painfully against my hip. My breath catches as I yank open the passenger door, startling the driver.

“Ms. Owens?”

Now I’m Silvie Owens, and if that doesn’t work, I have a few other names to spare. Hopefully he won’t find me.

“Just drive . . .” It was supposed to be the bus stop, but Winston is here, and he might look there first. He’ll find me. I slide into the seat, thoughts racing wildly. The car is booked under another name, which is anonymous enough. No one saw where I came from. Nobody will know where I’m going—at least, not yet.

“Yes, but where am I going?”

“Maryland,” I say abruptly. “Head toward Maryland.” My voice quivers, but my grip tightens fiercely on the bag, as though clinging to this new life will make it real.

As the car accelerates, leaving the neighborhood behind, I risk one final glance at the neighborhood. Towering windows glow with deceptive warmth, a facade promising a happiness I’ve never felt. A place filled with wealth, power, and the absolute control of assholes who think we’re objects and not people. The house that trapped my silence, the doors that kept me locked away, the floors that absorbed my quiet desperation.

Pain pulses through my ribs, and I press a careful hand against my side, feeling the fresh bruises bloom beneath my fingertips. That was the last time. After that . . . no more. My wrist is stiff where he wrenched it too far—just enough to remind me who he thinks I belong to.

But I’m leaving all of that behind now—his expectations, his demands, the suffocating blueprint he designed for my life, shaping me into something convenient, obedient, and small.

The further I travel from him, from that life, the lighter I become, though my body still aches and my breath trembles. Fear clings to the broken parts of me, whispering uncertainties. But beneath that fear, something else begins to rise—faint, unfamiliar, and beautifully fragile.

Freedom.

For the first time in years—maybe ever—I can almost believe I’ll finally learn how to breathe again.

Chapter One

Atlas

The hum of the tattoo gun fades into the background as Keiffer, one of the owners of the Ink Art Gallery, finishes up with his last client of the night.