She was dead. Suffocated by the grease and smoke of this kitchen. Dead from swallowing her pride to prioritize this parasitic family.
Suddenly, I laughed. The sound echoed jaggedly in the dark, depressing kitchen. I didn’t shed a single tear anymore. When the human heart goes completely numb, the only things left are absolute cruelty and freezing cold logic.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. The screen lit up: 9:47 PM. Thank God it was on me. I didn’t dial 911 to beg the police for immediate rescue. I didn’t call my parents to weep. I opened my contacts. My thumb hovered over a name for three seconds before I pressed call.
It was Darcy, my college roommate, my fiercest friend, and currently one of the most ruthless, feared divorce attorneys in Chicago’s River North district.
It rang four times before her crisp, authoritative voice came through, backed by the rustling of legal documents.
“Darcy, it’s Sloan.” My voice was eerily calm. “That offer you mentioned to me a year ago… does it still stand?”
The line went dead silent. Two seconds later, Darcy’s voice dropped an octave, turning deadly serious. “You finally woke up. What happened? Where are you?”
“I’m locked in my kitchen.” I stared at the darkness outside the window. “Vance just dragged me by my hair and locked the deadbolt from the outside. He and his mother are forcing me to cook a sixty-course heritage feast by noon tomorrow. If I miss a single dish, he’s throwing me out on the street.”
Darcy cursed violently, instantly shifting into apex predator mode. “Sloan, listen to me. Are you injured?”
“My scalp is torn. My lower back slammed into the granite island. It hurts to breathe, but nothing is broken.”
“Good. Memorize this. By noon tomorrow, I will have every legal document you need drawn up. The divorce petition, an emergency asset freeze, and an order of protection. Grounds: domestic battery, psychological abuse, financial exploitation, and felony unlawful restraint. But Sloan, I need evidence.”
“I have it.” I opened the voice memo app on my phone. “From the second he walked through the door demanding the food, I hit record. Every word, the sound of him dragging me, the door slamming, the lock turning—it’s all here.” Keeping recordings was a survival habit I had formed over the last year to combat Eleanor’s relentless gaslighting. I never expected it to be the definitive nail in their coffins.
“Brilliant,” Darcy whispered, fierce pride in her tone. “Now, play along. Find an excuse to leave the apartment and come straight to my penthouse. Wait for me.”
I hung up. The despair in my chest had entirely evaporated, replaced by a hardened, bulletproof resolve.
I walked over to the pantry, crouched down, and shoved aside a massive tin of oats. From the gap behind it, I pulled out a rusty vintage tea tin. Inside was a thin, navy-blue debit card.
Over the last five years, I had quietly siphoned off twenty or fifty bucks a paycheck into this hidden account. Eleanor and Vance had no idea it existed. It was my war chest. Six thousand dollars, plus the massive equity I was legally entitled to, was more than enough to restart my life.
I slipped the card inside my bra, feeling its hard plastic edge against my skin. Then, I turned on the water and began washing the greasy dishes, slow and methodical. Tomorrow was Eleanor’s sixtieth Jubilee. Didn’t she want a spectacular gift? Fine. I would deliver a feast they would remember for the rest of their miserable lives.
Will Vance fall for my ruse to escape, or will I have to break the window to get out?
Chapter 2: The Arsenal
By the time I was washing the third plate, heavy footsteps approached. A key slid into the lock and turned.
