The gates were open.
Not wide.
Not welcoming.
Merely unlocked — as though departure required no permission, only decision.
Mist clung low across the gravel drive, blurring distance and swallowing sound. The estate lay behind her in cold, patient silence, its stone façade pale beneath the dim wash of security lights.
Elara tightened her grip on the suitcase handle.
The night air bit through her coat.
"Fine," she murmured. "Let's end this."
Her footsteps sounded too loud against the gravel.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
No guard stopped her.
No voice called her back.
No alarm sounded.
Freedom, then.
Or the performance of it.
She kept walking.
The iron gates stood twenty yards ahead — black ribs against the faint glow of the road beyond.
Beyond them:
uncertainty, anonymity, danger… choice.
Behind them:
control, protection, ownership… him.
Her chest tightened.
Uff.
"Ridiculous," she whispered. "You're not property."
The wind stirred the trees.
