My phone buzzes at nine AM with the aggressive energy of someone who will not be ignored.
Chris: PROOF OF LIFE REQUIRED IMMEDIATELY
Chris: Also coffee. Non-negotiable.
Chris: If you don't respond in 10 mins I'm calling the police and also your dad which is somehow worse
I stare at the screen, caught between the desperate need for normalcy and Hugh's voice echoing in my head about staying close to home. The walls of this mansion have been closing in for days, shrinking with every awkward encounter, every avoided glance, every almost-kiss that keeps replaying in my brain.
One hour. I just need one hour of being a normal nineteen-year-old whose biggest problem is choosing between oat milk and almond milk.
I find my father in his study. He looks up when I knock, and I catch the flash of worry that's become his default expression.
"I'm meeting Chris for coffee," I announce. "Just for an hour. I'll take the driver, stay in public places, probably won't even jaywalk. Very responsible, very boring, extremely low-risk outing."
"Claire..." He sets down his pen, that familiar crease forming between his brows. "I'm not sure that's the best idea right now. With everything that's been happening—"
"Nothing's been happening, Dad. That's the problem. I've been trapped in this house for days, slowly losing my mind, and if I don't talk to someone who isn't you or Hugh or Mrs. Walker asking if I want more tea, I'm going to start having conversations with the furniture."
I soften my voice and make my puppy eyes that always got me anything I wanted from Dad.
"Please. One hour. The driver will be with me the entire time."
The internal battle plays out across his face—protective instinct versus the knowledge that he can't keep me locked up forever. Finally, his shoulders drop.
"One hour. You call me if anything feels wrong." He pulls me into a hug that's tighter than usual. "I mean it, Claire. Anything at all."
"I promise. Love you, Dad."
The coffee shop is exactly what I need—warm, crowded, smelling like roasted beans and normal human problems. Chris is already there, having commandeered our usual corner table.
"Finally!" She launches herself at me. "I was starting to think you'd been kidnapped by that hot business partner and were being held captive in some kind of sexy dungeon situation. Which, honestly? Wouldn't blame you."
"No sexy dungeons," I manage, the irony of her joke landing differently than she intended. "Just family stuff. You know how my dad gets."
"Do I ever. The man makes helicopter parents look like free-range farmers." She pulls me toward our table, where two drinks wait. "I ordered your emotional support latte. Extra shot, extra foam, extra everything because you look like you need it."
I take a grateful sip while Chris launches into a dramatic retelling of her week, complete with hand gestures.
"So then my boss—who, by the way, has the emotional intelligence of a soggy crouton—tells me I need to show more 'enthusiasm' during morning meetings. As if anyone is enthusiastic at eight AM about quarterly reports.”
She makes the most exasperated expression. “I'm enthusiastic about exactly two things at eight AM: coffee and the possibility that a meteor might destroy the office before I have to go inside."
"Did you tell him that?"
"I told him I'd work on projecting more positive energy, which is corporate speak for 'I'll smile while mentally composing your murder.' Speaking of disasters—" She pulls out her phone, grinning. "Wait until you see the dating app messages I've received this week. I'm convinced the algorithm specifically finds men who peaked in middle school."
She shows me screenshot after screenshot, and I find myself laughing until my sides hurt. There's a guy whose opening line was a detailed description of his ferret collection. Another who asked if she believed in chemtrails within three messages.
"This one said, and I quote, 'You seem like you'd appreciate a man who knows his way around a spreadsheet.' What does that even mean? Is that supposed to be sexy? Am I supposed to be turned on by Excel proficiency?"
"Maybe he's an accountant and that's his version of dirty talk. 'Oh baby, let me show you my pivot tables.'"
Chris nearly chokes on her iced coffee. "Stop. I can't. I'm going to die, and my tombstone will say 'Death by Spreadsheet Innuendo.'"
For one blessed hour, I forget everything. The mate bond, the almost-kiss, the looming threat of California exile. I'm just Claire, laughing with her best friend over bad coffee shop acoustics and worse dating prospects.
But Chris has known me too long to miss the cracks. During a lull, she fixes me with that look—the one that says she's about to get serious whether I like it or not.
"Okay, spill. What's really going on? You've been MIA for days, you look like you haven't slept in a week, and you're laughing at my jokes slightly too hard, which means you're compensating for something."
"Nothing. Just family stuff, like I said."
"Claire. It's me. I can tell when you're deflecting, and right now you're deflecting so hard you should be wearing a cape and fighting crime." She squeezes my hand. "Is it your dad? Is he being extra overbearing again?"
The partial truth is easier than the full one. "He's sending me to California for college. Already arranged everything—admissions, housing, probably my future career and eventual burial plot. Didn't even ask what I wanted."
"What? That controlling, overprotective—" Chris catches herself. "Okay, first of all, that's insane. Second of all, you don't have to go just because he decided you should. You're an adult. Theoretically. Most of the time."
"I know, right? I'm just feeling smothered. Like everyone's making decisions about my life without consulting me, and I'm supposed to just accept it because they know better."
"Well, California's loss if you do go. And by loss I mean they don't deserve your particular brand of chaos." She grins. "Now, more important question: is the barista cute, or does he just have good bone structure? I've been debating this for twenty minutes."
We spend the rest of our time analyzing the barista's features, debating summer plans, and discussing a concert Chris wants to drag me to next month. Normal things. Safe things.
When we finally hug goodbye outside, I feel lighter than I have in days.
"Text me more," Chris demands, pointing at me. "I mean it. Daily proof of life or I'm staging an intervention."
"I promise. Go project positive energy at your crouton boss."
She laughs, waving over her shoulder as she heads toward her car. I watch her go, not quite ready to return to the estate and its suffocating tension. The afternoon sun is warm on my face.
Then I turn to look for the driver. The car isn't there.
I check my phone—no messages, no missed calls. The spot where he parked an hour ago is empty. Frowning, I scan the street, searching for the familiar black town car.
A different black vehicle pulls up beside me instead. An SUV with tinted windows, close enough that I have to step back onto the curb.
The door slides open and before I can scream, before I can run, hands grab my arms and yank me inside.
A palm with cloth clamps over my mouth, silencing the cry that dies in my throat. The door slams shut, and the SUV speeds away from the sunny street corner where, moments ago, everything was normal.