The house hadn’t changed.
Neatly trimmed hedges, white shutters, roses blooming in careful, curated rows. It still smelled the same, too—freshly cut grass and her mother’s lavender perfume lingering in the air. The scent of a home that had never truly been one.
Livvy stood at the front door, fingers curling into her palms.
She hadn’t set foot here in years. Not since the day her father had led her down the aisle with a stiff, rehearsed smile. Not since her mother had adjusted her veil with trembling hands and whispered, Be good for him, Olivia. Be everything he needs you to be.
She had been a bargaining chip. A transaction. A deal signed in blood and wedding vows.
And yet, here she was, standing at their doorstep again, pretending that maybe—just maybe—this time would be different.
Because Michael was missing.
And she had no other choice.
She inhaled sharply and knocked.
The door opened within seconds. The maid barely looked surprised to see her, as if she had been expected. That should have been her first warning.
Instead, Livvy stepped inside.
The house swallowed her whole, drowning her in its suffocating familiarity.
The maid led her through the foyer, down the hall lined with family portraits, past the dining room where she had once sat obediently, hands folded in her lap, nodding in all the right places while her future was decided for her.
Her pulse skittered as they entered the living room.
And then she saw them.
Her mother, all soft pearls and artificial smiles, rose from the couch in a practiced display of warmth. “Olivia,” she cooed, reaching for her as if nothing had ever happened. As if years of silence, of abandonment, of betrayal could be erased with a kiss to the cheek.
Livvy stood still, letting her lips brush air.
“We were so worried,” her mother continued, eyes flitting over her, assessing. Searching for cracks in the porcelain.
Her father remained seated, his expression unreadable. Cold. The way it always had been. But his gaze lingered—just for a second—on the bruises peeking out from the collar of her dress.
“Running off was reckless,” he said, his voice sharp. “Stanley’s been worried sick.”
The blood in her veins turned to ice. A shadow moved in her periphery. Her stomach twisted, lungs caving in. She didn’t have to look. She didn’t want to look.
But she did. And there he was. Sitting in the armchair by the window, legs crossed, posture relaxed, like he belonged there.
Stanley.
His suit was perfectly pressed, his tie knotted with precision, his hair slicked back like he hadn’t spent the past few days tearing the city apart looking for her.
He looked untouched. Unbothered. And yet, his eyes—dark and slow-moving—devoured her whole. Livvy’s breath hitched.
Stanley smiled.
“Hello, sweetheart.”
The sound of his voice wrapped around her like silk. Like a noose.
“Did you really think you could run?”