Only a few small windows glow, their yellow light weak against the mass of shadow swallowing the rest of the structure. Most of the house is dark, its shape fractured into wings and towers that suggest too many rooms and not enough ways out.
Grant smirks. “This is Elliot’s Manor.”
The doors open. They haul me inside. And the darkness closes around me.
I already know I won't leave here the same.
Chapter 4
Brooke
The men drag me through the front doors, and the inside of the manor is nothing like the outside. Black and white marble gleams beneath my feet, reflecting the chandelier overhead in broken shards of light. Gold trim lines the walls. A sweeping staircase curves up through the center of the foyer, with dark banisters polished to a shine. Everything looks expensive, pristine, carefully placed. It should feel beautiful. Instead it makes my skin crawl.
They haul me deeper inside and into a study. Dark wood shelves climb from floor to ceiling, packed with books in perfect rows. The desk is broad and polished, the leather chair behind it untouched.
They force me into a straight-backed chair facing the desk. The zip ties stay tight around my wrists. One of the men yanks them once more, testing the tension until the plastic bites deeper into my skin, then steps back.
Grant stands near the doorway.
“Outside,” he tells the others.
They all file out without argument, Grant smirks as he follows them out. The door closes with a firm click.
I look around the room.
The desk, a leather blotter, a closed laptop, a heavy glass paperweight. A fountain pen resting in a holder. My eyes lock on it for a second. The metal tip is sharp enough to stab. But not strong enough to cut through industrial plastic.
I scan lower.
No scissors in sight. No letter opener within reach. The drawers are closed tight. Behind the desk, a glass-front cabinet displays nothing but rows of books.
My gaze moves to the corners of the room. A bar cart stands against one wall. Crystal decanter. Glass tumblers. No corkscrew visible from here.
Think Brooke.
The bookshelf to my left has decorative bookends made of solid metal. If I could reach one. If I could get close enough to grind the plastic against an edge.
I keep scanning. Nothing loose. Nothing I can use to escape.
Their voices continue outside, clear through the wood, and I force myself to listen while my eyes keep moving, cataloging every object, every surface, every possibility.
Grant speaks first. “She’s pregnant.”
There's a pause.
Then a voice answers. “And?”
“So John wants you to be careful with her,” Grant replies.
A soft sound follows, almost a breath of amusement.
Grant continues, “John said don’t kill her. No permanent damage. Discipline her if you have to. But don’t kill her.”
“John says?” the voice repeats.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
