I sank onto the edge of my bed, trembling, heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst through my chest. Dad's words echoed in my head, sharp and unrelenting: "Then you're no daughter of mine."
I wasn't crying—not anymore. Tears had run their course, leaving something harder behind: fire. Defiance. Something I hadn't known I could feel so clearly.
I hugged my knees to my chest, staring at the wall as if it could answer me. The room felt smaller than usual, suffocating, like the walls themselves were conspiring with him to crush me. Every shadow seemed alive, every sound outside my window amplified. My hands were shaking, and my chest ached—not just from fear, but from the anger bubbling inside.
Beneath all that panic, beneath the fear, a single thought burned brighter than anything else: Mitchell.
I needed him.
The house was silent now. Dad's heavy steps had retreated somewhere else in the mansion, leaving me alone with my thoughts—and my phone. I picked it up, staring at the black screen like a lifeline. My thumb hovered over his number. I knew I wasn't supposed to reach out, that every instinct drilled into me from childhood screamed obedience. But obedience felt like chains tonight.
I tapped his name.
Nothing.
I tried again. Silence.
I bit my lip, frustrated. Dad had probably confiscated his number or worse, made sure I couldn't talk to him without his supervision. But I wasn't about to give up. Not now.
I pulled open my drawer, rifling through papers, notebooks, anything with pen marks or scribbles. Somewhere in the bottom, I found my secret stash: a tiny notebook filled with numbers I had memorized but never saved on my phone—Mitchell's ways to reach me. Old methods, old tricks. He'd always loved the clandestine, the sneaky. And tonight, I would need every ounce of that.
I grabbed my laptop, pretending to do homework as Dad walked past my door. His shadow loomed for a moment in the hallway, and I froze. My hands shook, fingers hovering over the keys.
He can't know.
I cracked the screen open, quickly logging into a burner chat account Mitchell and I had set up months ago for emergencies. The one place Dad would never think to look. My fingers hovered over the keyboard as if typing might somehow keep me invisible.
What do I even say? I thought, biting my lip. I wanted to tell him everything—how trapped I felt, how angry I was, how I hated that Dad thought he could control me—but words seemed so fragile, so inadequate.
Finally, I typed:
"Meet me. Anywhere. Tonight. I can't stay here. I won't."
I stared at the screen, breath shaky. Seconds ticked by like hours. Then, the three little dots appeared.
He was typing.
"I'm on my way. Don't do anything stupid, Faith."
A small, unsteady smile tugged at my lips. His words were grounding, familiar. The world narrowed to just this—the danger, the secrecy, the thrill.
I closed the laptop and slipped into the shadows of my room, listening. The house was silent except for the ticking clock. Every creak of the floorboards made my heart jump. Dad could be back any second.
I checked the window. It wasn't far to the side gate—the one Mitchell had said he could climb if needed. But it would be risky. If Dad caught me, it wouldn't just be a lecture. It would be war.
I didn't care.
I took a deep breath, pushed the hair from my face, and inched toward the window. Fingers trembling, I unlocked it and slid the frame open just wide enough to slip through. My feet hit the grass softly. The night was alive with the hum of distant traffic and the whisper of leaves in the wind.
I paused, my heart hammering, listening. The night was quiet, but every shadow felt like a threat. I thought of Dad—his towering figure, his eyes burning with rage—and my stomach twisted.
He's going to be furious, I whispered to myself.
But even as fear clutched me, a defiant spark lit inside. I would not let him control me. Not anymore.
And then I saw him.
Mitchell. Standing under the old oak tree at the edge of the yard, shadows hiding most of his face, but I could see that sharp intensity in his eyes, the same intensity that had kept me awake all day, the same that made me forget to breathe when he was near.
I ran.
We met in the middle, his arms immediately wrapping around me. Warmth, safety, everything that had been denied to me moments ago flooded back. I buried my face in his chest.
"Faith," he whispered, voice low and urgent. "Are you insane?"
"I have to," I said, my voice trembling but fierce. "I can't stay there. Not tonight. Not with him thinking he can control me."
He nodded, pulling back slightly to look at me, eyes scanning the house. "We have to be careful. One wrong move—"
"I know," I interrupted. "I don't care. I'm done waiting. Done hiding."
He gave me that crooked half-smile that always made my heart skip. "Alright. Then let's get you somewhere safe. Anywhere but here."
I grabbed his hand, squeezing it. That connection—the electricity, the certainty—reminded me why I was willing to risk everything.
And just as we started moving toward the gate, a shadow moved on the porch.
I froze.
Dad.
He was there, silent, watching. Eyes like daggers, expression unreadable. My stomach dropped, adrenaline spiking through my veins.
Mitchell tensed beside me. "He saw us."
I swallowed hard, trying to steady my racing heart. But deep down, a tiny, rebellious part of me couldn't stop smiling.
"Let him see," I whispered. "I'm not afraid of him."
Mitchell's eyes flicked to mine, searching, cautious. "Faith…"
"I'm not leaving. Not for him. Not for anyone."
He gave a long, slow nod, respect mingling with worry in his gaze. Together, we moved silently, crouching low, hugging the shadows, avoiding the garden lights that glared like spotlights on us. Every step was dangerous. Every breath could be our undoing.
My mind flashed to the last words I had said to him—Mitchell, not Dad. The way my heart had ached to touch him, to tell him I loved him. Now, here I was, risking everything for that love, and it felt… right.
The world outside the mansion felt alive, dangerous, but exhilarating. My heart raced with every step, every sound amplified in the night. I felt free, more alive than I had ever been, even if just for these stolen moments.
And then we were at the side gate. Mitchell's hands were steady as he helped me over. I paused for a heartbeat, looking back at the mansion—at Dad's dark silhouette in the porch light—and something inside me hardened.
He cannot control me.
I swung down to the ground on the other side. The grass was wet, sticking to my jeans, but I didn't care. We were out.
Mitchell grabbed my hand again, and this time, we ran. The night was ours. Dangerous, yes—but ours.
Because some fires, once lit, could never be put out.