Chapter 35
Elara
The corridor was silent except for Mamá's ragged breathing and the distant tick of the grandfather clock in the entrance hall.
I turned to face my mother. Her eyes were wild, her makeup smeared with tears, her cleaning uniform wrinkled from a day's work. She looked smaller than I remembered—fragile, like the slightest wind would blow her away.
"Elara." Her voice cracked. "What have you done?"
I pulled my arm free gently, my throat still burning from Tristan's hands. "What I should have done years ago."
"You've destroyed us!" She grabbed my shoulders, shaking me. "Don't you understand? We have nothing! No money, no place to go, no—"
"We have each other." The words tasted hollow even as I said them.
Mamá let out a bitter laugh that dissolved into a sob. "Each other? You think that's enough? You think we can live on the street and be happy because we have each other?"
I wanted to remind her about those two checks—Mr. Vane Senior's final act of charity. But looking at her face, twisted with fear and anger, I knew it wouldn't matter. No amount of money would make up for the safety she was losing.
The safety of servitude.
"Come on." I took her hand. "Let's go pack."
She followed me up the stairs in silence, her steps heavy with dread.
---
My room looked the same as it had during the day—neat, sparse, impersonal. The bed I'd slept in for years. The desk where I'd done homework. The window that looked out over the gardens where I'd watched Julian walk with Sloane, their heads bent together, laughing.
I pulled my suitcase from the closet. It was the same one I'd brought three years ago—cheap vinyl with a broken wheel.
Mamá stood in the doorway, watching me fold clothes with mechanical precision. "Where will we go?"
"I found a place." I kept my voice steady. "In the Bronx. A garage apartment. The landlady's name is Rosa."
"The Bronx." Mamá's voice was hollow. "We're moving to the Bronx."
"It's affordable. And it's near my school—"
"I don't care about your school!" She exploded suddenly, rushing forward to grab the shirt from my hands. "Don't you see? This isn't about you! This is about survival! This is about—"
She broke off, her hands shaking, and I saw it then—the real terror underneath. Not just fear of losing the job. Fear of losing the dream. The dream that had kept her going all these years, cleaning toilets and scrubbing floors and accepting every humiliation with a smile, because someday, somehow, her daughter would marry into the Vane family and everything would be worth it.
And I'd just burned that dream to ashes.
"Mamá—"
"You're selfish." Her voice was flat now, emotionless. "You've always been selfish. Your father would be ashamed."
The words hit like a slap. I stood there, shirt still in hand, feeling the sting spread across my face.
"My father?" I said quietly. "My father died saving Mr. Vane Senior's life. And this is how they repay us? By letting Victoria hire men to rape me? By covering up her crimes? By throwing us out when I dare to defend myself?"
Mamá flinched but didn't answer.
"If Papa were alive," I continued, my voice shaking, "he'd tell me to run. To get as far away from this family as possible. Because they don't see us as people, Mamá. We're just… tools. And when tools break, you throw them away."
"Stop." She held up her hand, tears streaming down her face. "Just stop."
I turned back to my packing. Three shirts. Two pairs of jeans. Underwear. Socks. My painting supplies—the expensive oils Julian had given me last summer, the brushes from Mr. Vane Senior's birthday gift. I hesitated, then packed them anyway. They were mine now.
My father's pocket watch sat on the nightstand, its glass face held together with transparent tape. I picked it up carefully, wrapping it in a soft scarf before placing it in the suitcase's inner pocket.
Behind me, I heard Mamá sink onto the bed, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I know you're scared. But we'll survive this. I promise."
She didn't respond.
---
Thirty minutes later, there was a knock at the door.
Anna entered without waiting for permission, carrying a white envelope. Her expression was smug, her eyes bright with malicious satisfaction.
"Miss Vance." She practically spat my name. "Mr. Vane Senior asked me to deliver this."
She tossed the envelope onto the bed carelessly. It slid off and landed on the floor.
I bent to pick it up, my neck screaming in protest. Inside was a check—one hundred thousand dollars, made out to Elara Vance.
"Well?" Anna crossed her arms, surveying my half-packed suitcase with barely concealed glee. "Aren't you going to thank him? That's more money than someone like you will see in a year."
I folded the check and slipped it into my pocket without comment.
Anna's smile widened. "You know what I think? I think you got exactly what you deserved. Coming into this house, acting like you belonged here. Chasing after Mr. Julian like some desperate—"
"Anna." My voice was quiet but sharp. "I'd be very careful what you say next."
She blinked, surprised by the interruption.
I stood slowly, letting my full height create distance between us. "You saw what I did to Sloane today. And to Victoria. Do you really want to test whether I'd do the same to you?"
Anna's face went pale. "You wouldn't dare—"
"Wouldn't I?" I took a step closer. "You're just a servant, Anna. Just like my mother. Just like me. The difference is, I have nothing left to lose. Can you say the same?"
Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly.
"If I get thrown out for hitting one more person," I continued, my voice dropping to a near-whisper, "do you think Mr. Vane Senior will care? Do you think Julian will investigate? You're not family. You're not even important. You're just… replaceable."