Chapter 36
Elara
Anna stumbled backward, her shoulder hitting the doorframe. For a moment, something like fear flashed across her face—real fear, not the performative shock she'd worn earlier.
Then she turned and fled, her footsteps echoing down the hallway.
I closed the door and leaned against it, my hands shaking.
Behind me, Mamá had stopped crying. When I turned, she was staring at me with an expression I couldn't read—half horror, half something that might have been pride.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
I didn't have an answer.
It took another hour to finish packing. Most of my clothes stayed behind—the dresses and blouses the Vanes had bought me over the years, expensive fabrics that felt like costumes now. I took only what I'd brought originally, plus a few practical items.
My SAT prep books. My portfolio sketches. The acceptance letters I'd received last week from three art schools—Columbia, RISD, Parsons. All conditional on maintaining my GPA and submitting a final portfolio by December.
One month from now.
I could do it. I had to.
Mamá had retreated to her own room to pack. I could hear her moving around, opening drawers, closing them again. The sounds were slow, defeated.
When my suitcase was finally full, I sat on the bed one last time, looking around at the room that had been my prison for three years.
The walls were cream-colored, expensive but sterile. The curtains were silk, the carpet plush. Everything was beautiful and cold, like sleeping inside a jewelry box.
I'd hated this room.
And I'd been so desperate to stay.
The irony wasn't lost on me.
---
At seven, I wheeled my suitcase into the main hallway. Mamá was already there, standing beside her own battered luggage, her eyes red and swollen.
The butler, an older man who'd always been kind to me, helped carry our bags to the entrance. His face was carefully neutral, but his hands were gentle as he lifted my suitcase.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
He nodded without meeting my eyes.
The front door loomed ahead—massive oak panels with brass fittings, the entrance to Blackwood Estate that I'd walked through countless times. As a child, holding my father's hand. As a teenager, trying not to cry after Victoria's latest cruelty. As a lovesick fool, hoping Julian might notice I'd worn the color he liked.
Now, for the last time.
I reached for the handle.
"Wait."
Julian's voice.
I froze, my hand on the cool brass.
He appeared from the corridor leading to his wing of the house, still dressed in the suit he'd worn earlier. His expression was unreadable, his eyes shadowed.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
I didn't turn around. "You know where."
"Elara—"
"Mr. Vane." I kept my voice flat. "Your grandfather made his decision. I'm respecting it."
He moved closer—I could feel him behind me, could smell his cologne mixing with something sharper. Anger, maybe. Or stress.
"You can't just leave."
"I can." I finally turned to face him. "And I am."
His jaw tightened. "This is ridiculous. The investigation isn't complete. You're still under—"
"Under what?" I interrupted. "Your protection? Your supervision? Your control?"
The words hung between us, sharp and undeniable.
Julian's eyes narrowed. "Don't twist this into something it's not."
"Then what is it?" I asked. "Tell me, Julian. What exactly am I to you?"
He didn't answer.
"That's what I thought." I turned back toward the door. "Goodbye."
"The watch." His voice stopped me. "Your father's watch."
My heart stopped.
"I'll have it repaired," he continued. "There's a watchmaker in Switzerland who specializes in antique pieces. He can—"
"No." I spun around. "Absolutely not."
"It's broken," he said, as if I didn't know. "Let me fix it. That's all I'm offering."
"That's all?" I laughed bitterly. "You think I don't know what you're doing? It's the same thing you always do—find something I care about and use it to control me."
"I'm trying to help—"
"You're trying to keep me on a leash!" My voice rose despite my efforts to stay calm. "Even when I'm leaving, even when your grandfather has thrown me out, you still need to have something to pull me back. The watch is just another rope."
Julian's expression darkened. "You're being paranoid."
"Am I?" I pulled the tape-wrapped watch from my pocket, holding it between us like evidence. "This is the last thing I have of my father. The last proof that he existed, that he loved me. And you want me to just hand it over? To trust you'll give it back?"
"Of course I'll give it back—"
"Like you gave back my dignity?" The words burst out before I could stop them. "Like you gave back my reputation after you let everyone think I drugged you in Boston? Like you gave back my voice when you chose Sloane over the truth?"
His face went pale.
"Keep your repairs," I said quietly. "Keep your help. I don't need anything from you anymore."
I tried to step around him, but he moved to block my path, reaching for the watch. His fingers closed around it before I could pull back.
"Julian—"
"I'm fixing it." His voice was hard now, final. "When you come back for it, we'll talk properly."
"I'm never coming back."
"We'll see."
He pocketed the watch and stepped aside.
I stood there, my hand still outstretched, feeling the absence of its weight like a physical wound. Behind me, Mamá made a small, frightened sound.
"You have no right," I whispered.
"I have every right." Julian's eyes met mine. "Your father saved my grandfather's life. That watch is a family heirloom, technically. I'm preserving it properly."
The logic was airtight. The cruelty was breathtaking.
I could fight. Could demand it back. Could make a scene.
But what was the point? Mr. Vane Senior had already made his ruling. The security guards James had mentioned earlier were probably watching from the next room, ready to escort me out if I caused trouble.
I was beaten.
Again.
"Fine." I picked up my suitcase handle. "Fix it. Display it in your study. I don't care anymore."
I pushed past him and opened the door myself.
Cold October air rushed in, carrying the smell of dying leaves and distant rain. Beyond the marble steps, I could see the long driveway leading away from Blackwood Estate, lined with ancient oaks whose branches seemed to reach for each other like grasping hands.
Somewhere out there was the real world. Buses and subway cars and people who didn't know my name. Rosa's garage apartment with its rust stains and mechanical smell. Freedom.
I stepped over the threshold.
"Elara."
Julian's voice again, softer now. Almost uncertain.
I didn't turn around. "What?"
A long pause. Then: "Be careful."
I closed my eyes. Took a breath. Opened them again.
"Goodbye, Julian."