Page 2 of Fallen Heir
I stare into the mirror, my hand frozen at my chest, fingers still resting on the charm.
And the truth hits me hard. This broken woman is me.
If I don’t escape... He will kill me.
Chapter 1
A loud knock at the door startled me. Even though I knew it was Millicent Pierman—she was the only person in the world who knew where I lived—I still jumped every time. My hand trembled on the metal, heart skipping the way it always did when the silence broke too suddenly. Safety was still something I didn’t trust.
It was Friday, our regular girls' night in. We’d watch movies, drink wine, and pretend the world outside didn’t exist for a few hours, or at least I would.
I unlocked the deadbolts before moving down to the door lock. The sound of the click excited me, though that excitement quickly faded when I opened the door to see Millie standing there. Her six-foot-tall, tanned, long-legged body was draped in a scrap of fabric that barely covered her ass.
I frowned, not wanting to hear that she was standing me up or had some hot date she couldn’t get out of. In the two months I’d known Millie, she hadn’t once missed our girls’ night. I was grateful for her constant presence. She was the only steady thing in my life since fleeing to New York. Her presence brought calm to my chaos.
She knew everything about me—my past life, my upbringing, even my parents’ sudden deaths that had left me with more money than I ever imagined. The only thing she didn’t know was the full extent of the horror my husband, Bruce, had put me through. He wasn’t just the man I escaped from; he was the man I couldn’t divorce because I was too terrified to face him again.
After a few weeks in NYC, I found a condo on Murray Street, which was far more luxurious than what most people on the run could afford. The marble countertops and skyline views felt more like a stranger’s life than my own. I didn’t belong here—not really.
Not when my nightmares came from behind crystal chandeliers and curated smiles. From the kind of home that lookedperfect on the outside— but was built on silence, secrets, and bruises no one talked about.
The first few weeks in TriBeCa were spent letting my body heal from the damage he had inflicted on me—not that I trusted anyone else to help. I never went to a doctor. Never stepped foot into an ER. I couldn’t risk the questions, the forms, the bruises that couldn’t be explained away.
So I did what I’d always done. I stitched what I could. Wrapped gauze around the rest. Took shallow breaths to avoid the pain in my ribs and whispered to myself that I’d be okay.
The truth was—I wasn’t healing. I was hiding. Surviving in silence because it was the only way I knew how to stay alive.
But even then, I never slept through the night.
Working with women who had been through abuse, I knew the truth behind their circumstances. I hated it when someone told them to just leave, as if it were that simple. The truth is that leaving isn’t the hard part. Surviving once you escape is. Surviving the silence, the fear, the financial strain. After that, you can add the burden that you weren’t good enough.
I took a deep breath and turned to Millie. She had a look on her face I couldn’t quite decipher. Something told me this wasn’t going to be the normal night I’d expected.
"Why the pout?" she asked with a mischievous grin.
"I’m wallowing in self-pity. Don’t mind me," I muttered, sulking as I walked to the sofa.
She leaned in over me on the sofa, eyes narrowed. I looked up at her. "Hit me with whatever it is, Millie. You forgot about tonight, or you have big plans with some guy?"
She laughed, and I could tell whatever she had planned was already in motion. "Tonight is my friend’s grand opening at Club 42. I told you we were going."
My stomach dropped. A club. People. Loud noise. All things I wasn’t ready for, especially when the fear of being found still gripped me. Social situations hadn’t been an option since I arrived. Panic attacks were a regular occurrence, and the thought of being surrounded by strangers felt suffocating.
"I just…" I trailed off, not wanting to explain too much. "I don’t like club life. And you mentioned it, but I never agreed."
"This isn’t your typical club. VIP section, bottle service. You’ll be fine. One night." Millie wasn’t taking no for an answer. Her voice was now soft, reassuring, and a little more convincing.
I paused, the weight of the decision pressing down on me. I guessed I could go if we just stayed in the designated section. If it was secluded, I could sit back with a drink or two while Millie mingled and supported her friend.
Truth was, I loved dancing and listening to music. Music was a lifeline—hard rock songs reaching depths of me and making me feel alive. If anything, I could keep an eye on Millie and make sure she stayed out of trouble. I got the feeling Millicent Pierman was the "go hard or go home" type.
Plus, I chose New York for a reason. A slight name change, a city halfway across the country, and a population of over eight million gave me something I desperately needed—space to disappear.
Bruce would come looking. I was sure of that.
But here? He’d have to search every street, every borough, every shadow. I figured I had time—at least a little—before I’d need to run again.
"What’s in the bag?" I groaned, pretending to resist.
