Chapter 2: The Escape

We pull into the long, quiet driveway of our sprawling home, the silence between us deafening. Not a single word has been exchanged during the long drive. I can feel the weight of his cold gaze searing through the air, but I don't dare acknowledge it. The car finally stops, and I take my time, unwilling to rush. I step out, heel to ground, then make my way toward the front door with deliberate slowness. I kick off my heels, the sound of them landing against the stone echoing in the dead stillness. I start up one side of the grand double staircase, leaving him to storm up the other side, his eyes fixed on me with something that could only be described as hate.

We meet at the top, where our bodies are aligned but our souls are worlds apart.

I try to pass him, to simply slip past this man who has come to represent everything I no longer want. "Excuse me," I murmur, barely loud enough for him to hear.

Without warning, he seizes my shoulder with a brutal force, spinning me to face him. His voice erupts in fury. "What was that, Annalise?"

I meet his glare, my own anger rising. "What was what?" My defiance is all I have left.

His eyes narrow as he spits his next words. "I’ve told you time and time again about your egregious behavior at my events."

His words are sharp, venomous, but it’s the slap that follows—so sudden and violent—that sends me crashing to the floor. The sting of my cheek is instant, but it’s the humiliation that follows that hurts the most.

I bow my head, unable to stop myself. Shame, a feeling that has slowly but surely become my constant companion, wraps itself around me like a suffocating blanket. How had I let myself fall into this nightmare? How had I married this sorry excuse for a man?

The marble floor is cold against my skin, as if it too knows the depth of my suffering. I have become all too familiar with this ground, with his fists, his insults, his anger—his total disregard for my body, my dignity, my humanity.

But the physical pain is the least of it. It’s the mind games, the emotional torment. The psychological damage that leaves scars no one can see. Tom doesn’t care. Not one bit. And worse, I can’t even pity myself because, in his twisted narrative, he is always the victim, and I am always the villain.

Tears sting my eyes as I reach for the edge of the bed. My fingers find the soft cotton duvet, and I pull myself up. The hot pain in my left cheek pulses with every movement, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in my chest. How had I let this man—the man I once loved—become my worst enemy? How had I become so small, so invisible in my own life, that I couldn’t even see a way out?

I reach for the phone buried in my drawer, fingers trembling as I fish around. The familiar weight of it feels like a lifeline, a thin thread connecting me to the world beyond these walls. Sylvia. Her name is the only one that still exists in my phone since Tom wiped out everything else in one of his fits. She’s my only hope.

With a shaky breath, I dial her number. It rings three times before she picks up.

"Hey, Annalise?" Her voice is rough, sleep-riddled, but there’s a sharpness to it. "What’s wrong?"

I don’t have time for pleasantries. "I need a hospital. Now. Can you come?"

The urgency in my voice shakes me to the core. "I can’t explain right now, but please, don’t ring the doorbell when you get here. Just—just get here."

"Okay, okay. I’m on my way. Are you safe?"

"For now," I manage to say. "But hurry."

The seconds stretch like hours as I prepare myself. The first task is to stow away the phone, quieting it so Tom won’t hear. I lock the door behind me, then move the chest in front of it, creating a barricade. Every movement is careful, precise. I can’t afford to make a sound.

I finish getting dressed, trying to cover the swelling and the blood, trying to act as if nothing has happened. But even as I stare at my reflection, I can’t hide the truth. The handprint on my cheek is a stark reminder that I am, for all intents and purposes, a prisoner in my own home.

Time ticks on, mercilessly. At 12:10, my phone vibrates again. It’s Sylvia, calling to let me know she’s near.

"I’m at the entrance," she says. "Where do I go?"

"Park a few houses down," I direct. "Near 1402. You won’t be seen."

I hang up and wait, heart racing in my chest. Every creak, every shuffle of movement could be him. I hold my breath, listening for his footsteps, his presence in the house. The sound of him walking is ingrained in me—so familiar, so frightening.

"One... two... three," Sylvia counts softly over the phone. "I’m at the third window. Are you there?"

I reach for the window, praying that it won’t betray me now. The pane resists at first, but with a final, desperate push, I break through. I can hear Sylvia’s voice outside, her presence the only thing tethering me to sanity.

But the door rattles. Tom’s footsteps are louder now, more erratic. I have to move quickly.

"Annalise!" His voice is thunderous. "You’d better open this door now, or so help me—"

I can’t hear the rest. I’m already slipping out the window, Sylvia’s hands guiding me to safety.

Once we’re outside, the night air is both a balm and a razor to my raw, exposed nerves. We rush to Sylvia’s car, and in an instant, we’re speeding away from the house, from everything I’ve known, from everything that’s held me captive.

I glance back at the house, now a dark silhouette in the distance. Tom stands in the middle of the street, his figure unmistakable, his fist clenched around something cold and metallic. The flash of the gun in his hand makes my blood run cold.

He raises it toward the sky and fires.

I flinch, my heart pounding, but I don’t look away. I won’t. Not now. Not ever again.

The gunshot rings in the air, a warning. A message. But it’s not just for me. It’s for everyone who’s ever let someone like him into their lives and then thought they could walk away.

My life—whatever’s left of it—is mine to reclaim.

And I won’t let anyone, least of all Tom, take it from me.