Page 94 of Brutal Crown
But I do feel like I’ve just handed away the last piece of myself.
25
LIA
Three days. That’s how long the box has been under my mattress in my new room.
I can’t bring myself to touch or even look at it, which was why I kept it hidden and tried to pretend it wasn’t there.
I tell myself I’m being smart. Out of sight, out of mind. Except, it hasn’t been out of my mind. As I go about my daily routine, my mind keeps going back there, to what could be inside, to how my freedom could be sitting under my mattress, gathering dust as each day passes.
I’m scared, but it’s not the box I’m afraid of. It’s what it means. It’s what it makes real. Because if I open it, if I let myself believe even for a second that there’s a way out… then I have to act. And trying to run away now will only invite worse monsters.
But with each passing second under this roof, the decision to check what could be inside the box feels less like a choice and more like what I have to do to survive, for many reasons.
Marco’s lingering touch doesn’t feel as loving as it used to. It just feels possessive and claiming. His arm tightening around my waist when we pass Francesco in the hall, his thumb brushing just a little too possessively over my knuckles whenwe’re at the table, his smile when people ask about the baby, sweet but with a sharp edge. Being around him has become a performance.
The aunts are constantly watching me. They no longer act outright rude to me, but I see the acuity in their eyes when they think I’m not looking. I see their judgment. I see their hatred. They don’t think I belong in their home. I don’t think I do either.
The guards are always a few feet behind me. They follow me even when I’m just heading to the garden or taking a walk around the house. I’ve had to tell them to stop following me a few times.
And Francesco. I haven’t seen him since he gave me the box. I know he’s avoiding me on purpose, and I hate how much that affects me. He’s always in my thoughts, in my head, and in my heart. Thinking about him means thinking about the box, what exactly is inside, and why he gave it to me. Did he feel guilty? Was his plan to spark my hope that I could leave this place? Whatever his reason was, all his actions have done is leave a gaping void in my chest.
Eventually, I decide to start acting.
I start learning the rhythms of the estate, paying attention to things I never glanced at twice before. When the guards rotate shifts, who comes into and leaves the estate, and late at night, I look for more hidden paths around the house. I discover that there’s more than one cellar in the estate, and there is an old servants’ tunnel that even the guards seem to have forgotten exists. Even infrequently used dumbwaiters. I listen to whispers between the maids, drivers, and security, piecing together other things around the house that are hidden in plain sight.
Because I know that if I run, I have to do it right. I can’t afford to hesitate or make mistakes because I’m not just thinking about myself now. There’s a heartbeat inside me that needs to be kept alive.
So on the fourth day, I finally pull the box out again and open it.
It smells like old wood and dust. Inside, everything is exactly how Francesco said. The passports. The silver rosary. A folded piece of paper with bank accounts, codes, and names I don’t recognize. Safehouses in places I’ve never been. My father’s handwriting, faded at the edges.
“You really tried to save me, didn’t you?” I whisper in a broken voice.
Tears well up in my eyes, and I feel my heart squeeze painfully.
I used to blame my father for vanishing, for choosing his job over me, for not being there when I needed him most.
But now… now I know. He died trying to protect me. He died building something bigger than both of us, a plan to give me a future he couldn’t share.
My emotions drift from guilt to gratitude to respect.
In his own twisted and messy way, my father tried all he could to give me a good life. He was never a perfect man, but a flawed one who made desperate, broken choices out of love. When I was younger, I thought he didn’t love me. Now, staring at the dusty box in my hands, it is undeniable that he loved me more than anything.
He didn’t abandon me. He died trying to save me. His sacrifice drives me now, giving me the strength to fight for myself and my child, because in this brutal world,tryingwas the greatest love he could give.
And I’m not going to waste that.
A week passesby so fast. The Society luncheon is fast approaching, and the house is in chaos. Florists and artisans come and go. The aunts bark instructions at the maids. Lucia Moretti, who has taken it upon herself to be the event planner, has a meltdown because the tablecloth isn’t “the right shade of white.”
I’m helping check the table arrangements when I start to feel a bit dizzy. I glance around me. Everyone is distracted, including the guards. No one would notice if I slipped away.
So I do.
I wander down a quieter wing of the estate. My feet ache in my heels. My head pounds from the scent of citrus polish. I just need some peace and quiet.
There’s a hallway behind the conservatory that no one really uses anymore. The chandeliers above are coated in years of dust. My quiet footsteps seem to echo in the almost eerie silence. My curiosity leads me further down, and that’s when I hear something.
