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A knock on the door pulls me from the depths of slumber. My eyes flutter open, heavy with the remnants of sleep and the weight of last night's events. I sit up, smoothing the tangled mess of hair from my face, just as Mrs. Collins enters the room. In her hands, she carries a tray filled with breakfast. The scent of toast, eggs, and freshly brewed coffee wafts through the room, though my stomach curdles at the thought of food.
"Good morning, Mrs. Collins," I manage with a hoarse voice.
"Good morning, Miss Isabella," she replies kindly, setting the tray on the bedside table. I notice the slight tremor in her hands and the thin lines of worry etched across her face.
"Mr. Blackhart has already left for the day," she informs me, her eyes not meeting mine.
"Has he?" I ask, a wave of relief washing over me. A day free from Jackson's presence is a rare and welcomed gift.
"Yes, indeed, and that harlot from last night, she has also left," Mrs. Collins adds, her words careful, her tone gentle as if to buffer me from the harsh reality they depict.
"Thank you, Mrs. Collins," I manage to murmur, staring at my hands, my fingers worrying a wrinkle in the sheets.
"I could have come down to eat," I tell her. "You didn't have to bring this all the way up here."
She waves a hand to dismiss my statement. "Nonsense. It's my job. Now, let me look at you," she says as she inspects my face.
The bruising is slowly fading away but is still noticeable.
She smacks her lips as she steps away. "I'm sorry you have to deal with that monster."
"It's not your fault," I tell her. "Never apologize for that asshole's actions. As soon as I can get away, I'm gone."
As Mrs. Collins leaves the room, I sink back into the pillows, appreciating the solitude. I reach for the remote and flip through the numerous channels before settling on a mindless comedy show. The light-hearted banter fills the echoing silence of the room. In the quiet of the room, my mind inexplicably drifts to Damien.
His fierce gaze and harsh words at the dinner linger in my memory. There's a strength in him that's both intimidating and... oddly compelling. There’s an undeniable attraction. Its unwanted but there, nonetheless. I wonder if things would be different if Damien had been the one I married. I shake my head, frustrated at myself for even thinking about him.
My fingers dance over the screen of my cellphone, initiating a conversation with my only confidante. The bright light of the screen illuminates my face as I send a quick message.
Me: Are you busy? I really need to vent. Jackson, the jackass, is gone for the day.
I smile as her response chimes through almost immediately.
Sera: I’m helping my mom with catering right now. Call me later. Stay strong. We’ll get you out of there soon.
Boredom sets in as the hours pass. This room, my sanctuary, now feels like a gilded cage of its own. The television drones on, the comedy show long replaced by a documentary about some exotic wildlife. I glance around the room, and a flash of defiance sparks within me. If Jackson wants to be an ass to piss me off, he's in for a surprise.
I stride out of the spare bedroom with determined steps and a focused mind. The hushed silence of the mansion echoes around me. I reach Jackson's bedroom with the door looming ominously before me as a symbol of our twisted relationship. Swallowing my apprehension, I push it open and step into the room that was once my prison.
I move to the walk-in closet filled with a sea of designer dresses and high-end attire, all bought by Jackson to mold me into the perfect socialite wife. Ignoring them, I reach for my own clothes. Simple and comfortable, a reflection of the life I once lived before Jackson. My hands tremble as I pull them free from their hangers, each item a silent reminder of the woman I used to be. The woman I am still fighting to reclaim. I grab the suitcases stuffed in the back with more of my belongings that I never took out.
One by one, I carry my things into the spare bedroom. Each trip back and forth feels like a journey, a small victory in the battle against this gilded cage. The bedroom gradually fills with my possessions, pieces of my life seeping into the cold, impersonal space, making it a little more familiar, a little less daunting.
As the day stretches on, the room slowly transforms. My clothes hang neatly in the wardrobe, my favorite books line the bedside table, and family photographs are displayed with careful reverence. The room now radiates a sense of home, of comfort, of me. I stand in the middle of the room with a sense of accomplishment washing over me. This is not just a room anymore. It's a sanctuary, a safe haven through the storm that is my life.
The finishing touches are just in place as Mrs. Collins returns, bearing a tray filled with dinner. Despite the dread that has shadowed me all day, I'm grateful Jackson isn't home yet. Mrs. Collins hesitates at the threshold, her eyes sweeping over the transformation of the room.
"Miss Isabella," she starts, her voice wavering slightly. "Mr. Blackhart... he won't be pleased about this. About you moving rooms."
I lift my chin, meeting her gaze with a hard stare. "Well, Jackson can go fuck himself."
She flinches at my words but doesn't disagree. Instead, she sets the tray on the table and turns to face me, her hands wringing nervously.
"Miss Isabella," she says again, her voice a soft plea. "Wouldn't it be easier if you... if you just did what he wants?"
I freeze as my heart pounds in my chest. My defiance falters, and the reality of my situation crashes down around me.
I swallow hard before forcing the words out. "I can't, Mrs. Collins. I can't stop fighting. If I give in... that means they win. Jackson wins. My life... my life will never be my own. All I've ever wanted is to be on my own, to make my own choices, to be respected, to be loved..."
