Chapter 73 The Unanswered Prayer
The name "Fred" flashed on the screen of her phone, and Annabel's heart skipped a beat.
She snatched the device from the bed, a desperate, childish hope blooming in her chest.
His voice, that steady, familiar sound, cut through the suffocating silence of the room.
"Hello? Annabel?"
"Fred!" The word burst from her, a mixture of relief, excitement, and pent-up misery. "Oh, Fred, thank God."
A short pause followed, a hesitation that felt like an eternity.
"Annabel, is everything okay?" His voice was guarded, a stark contrast to her frantic relief.
"I’ve been calling you," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "I've been calling for an hour. Why weren’t you answering?"
Another moment of silence stretched between them, thick with an unspoken weight. Annabel could hear a faint shuffling sound on his end of the line, as if he were shifting uncomfortably.
"I was at work," he finally said, the words coming out a little too quickly. "I... I had my ringer off."
His explanation felt hollow, but Annabel was too desperate to care. She had been holding on to her pain for so long, and now that a small crack had appeared in the dam, she couldn't stop the flood.
"Fred, I... I don't know what to do." She bit her lip, a fresh wave of tears threatening to overwhelm her. "Everything is... it’s all so much."
"Annabel, what is it?" he asked, his voice softening slightly, but still lacking the genuine warmth she craved. "Did something happen?"
Annabel took a deep, shaky breath, and the words tumbled out, a chaotic jumble of shame, anger, and heartbreak.
She described the dining room scene, the laughter, the sound of the silverware, and Victoria’s cold, sarcastic voice.
She told him about the beautiful blonde woman, the one who had taken Carson's hand and called him “darling.”
She confessed the hot, burning shame that had flooded her when Victoria called her a maid. The word still felt like a brand on her skin.
Fred was quiet on the other end, the only sound a faint, almost imperceptible static.
Annabel continued her confession, her voice rising in a painful crescendo as she spoke about her flight from the dining room, Carson's urgent calls, and the terrible confrontation on the staircase.
"He tried to lie to me, Fred," she sobbed into the phone. "He said she was his mother's friend. Can u imagine that! And he let her call him 'darling.' He just sat there and let his mother humiliate me. He just... just watched."
"Annabel, please calm down," Fred said, the words sounding almost robotic. "It's going to be okay. He's probably telling the truth. It's just a misunderstanding."
His words did not soothe her; they felt like a betrayal.
She had expected him to share her outrage, to validate her pain, but he was offering placid reassurings that seemed to come from a place of detachment.
"You don't understand," she insisted, a new kind of despair seeping into her voice. "And then... and then I hit him." The admission was a whisper, filled with a horrified self-loathing. "I slapped him, Fred. I was so angry, and I just... I just slapped him."
The static on the line intensified for a moment, then went quiet again. Annabel could feel her heart pounding in her chest, waiting for his reaction.
"Annabel," he said, his voice flat. "Why would you do that?"
The question cut her more deeply than any accusation. It wasn't a question of genuine concern, but one of distant judgment. The hope that had blossomed inside her began to wilt.
"I don't know," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I don't know. I just... I don't belong here, Fred. I'm a fake. A mistake. Everyone here knows it. They look at me, and they see a poor girl who doesn't belong in their class."
"That's not true," he said, the words still sounding rehearsed. "You're a good person, Annabel. And you are strong. You've always been strong."
His voice was a lifeline, however thin it was. It was enough to keep her from sinking completely.
"I'm not," she said, her voice cracking. "I'm not strong, Fred. I feel like I'm drowning. I feel like I'm in a cage."
"You're not in a cage," he insisted, his voice gaining a slight tremor of urgency. "You're living your dream, Annabel. This is what you wanted, isn't it? A comfortable life, a good man."
His words struck a chord of painful truth within her. This was what she had desired. But the reality was so different from the fantasy. She had traded one kind of struggle for another.
"I thought it was what I wanted," she confessed, her voice barely a whisper. "But I didn't know it would be like this. I feel like I’m losing myself."
"You're not losing yourself," he said, and for the first time, a hint of his old warmth returned to his voice. "This is just a rough patch, Annabel. You can get through this. You're strong enough."
"I don't know if I am," she said, the tears finally flowing freely. "I don't think I am."
"Yes, you are," he insisted, his voice now full of a gentle, earnest conviction. "You are. Just talk to him, Annabel. Talk to Carson. And try to be happy. You deserve to be happy."
His words, while a far cry from the fiery solidarity she had hoped for, gave her a small measure of comfort.
It was not the escape she had craved, but it was a quiet, steady encouragement. She was not entirely alone.
"Thank you, Fred," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for listening."
"Anytime, Annabel," he said. "Anytime."
His response was quick, almost too quick, but Annabel was too emotionally exhausted to notice.
He was a familiar voice in a world of strangers, a small, flickering light in the darkness.
She felt a sliver of hope. Maybe he was right. Maybe she could fix this. Maybe she was strong enough