The Escape

The applause was a wall of sound, pinning Elena against the railing of the terrace. Flashbulbs detonated in her face like miniature grenades. She smiled, because that’s what the role required, but her eyes were scanning the perimeter, calculating jump distances and drop heights.

The terrace was twelve feet above the rose garden. Survivable, but messy in heels.

Constance’s grip on her shoulder tightened, her fingers digging into the muscle. "Don't even think about it," she hissed through her teeth, while waving at a city councilman. "There are security guards at every exit. You'll be tackled before your feet hit the grass."

Elena looked at the crowd. They were clapping, oblivious. To them, she was the golden girl of the Hawthorne legacy. To Constance, she was a liability that needed to be contained.

"I need water," Elena said. "My migraine."

"You can have water in the kitchen," Constance said. "After we finish the photos."

"I'm going to be sick," Elena said, pitching her voice slightly louder. She put a hand to her forehead, swaying theatrically.

A few guests near the front looked concerned.

Constance’s smile faltered for a microsecond. She couldn't have a scene. Not here. Not now.

"Go," she whispered. "Seraphina will escort you."

Seraphina materialized from the crowd, grabbing Elena’s other arm. "Let's get you inside, dear."

They walked back into the library, away from the noise and the lights. The moment the glass doors closed, Seraphina’s grip turned brutal. She shoved Elena toward the hallway.

"The doctor is waiting," Seraphina said.

"I'm not going to the doctor," Elena said, stumbling in her heels.

"You don't have a choice. You're hysterical. You're hallucinating. You need to be sedated."

They reached the foyer. The front door was guarded by two large men in suits. The kitchen door was to the left. The doctor was in there, waiting with his needles and his forms.

Elena stopped. She looked at the coat closet. It was a small, walk-in space under the stairs.

"I think I'm going to faint," she gasped.

She let her knees buckle.

Seraphina cursed and tried to catch her, but Elena was dead weight. They both went down in a tangle of silk and limbs.

Elena scrambled. She wasn't fainting. She was moving.

She kicked off her heels and crawled into the closet, slamming the door and twisting the lock from the inside.

"Elena!" Seraphina pounded on the wood. "Open this door immediately!"

Elena didn't answer. She scrambled to the back of the closet, burying herself behind the heavy winter coats. It smelled of cedar and old wool. It smelled like hiding.

She pulled her phone from her pocket—not the burner, the real one. It was buzzing.

A text from Seraphina.

*Open the door or we break it down.*

Elena ignored it. She needed to record this. She needed proof of the threat.

She opened the voice memo app.

Outside, Seraphina’s voice was muffled but audible. She was on the phone.

"She's in the closet. No, she's locked herself in. It's perfect, actually. It proves the breakdown."

A pause.

"Yes, the doctor is prepping the sedative. We'll drag her out the back way. No one will see."

Another pause. Seraphina laughed.

"She took the bait, Mother. The bank has the photo of her on stage now. Holding the flowers. Smiling. She just accepted liability for the entire fund."

Elena stopped breathing.

The photo. The public acknowledgment. By accepting the praise, she had accepted the role. She had publicly confirmed she was the administrator.

She wasn't just framed. She had framed herself.

Seraphina’s voice dropped lower.

"Execute the default notice tomorrow morning. As soon as the transfer clears, we foreclose on her father's house."