Sunlight stabbed through the tall windows like a cold knife, painting the velvet curtains and bed in sharp gold that mocked my every breath. I woke with a hard resolve in my chest, like steel forging itself deep inside, unbendable and cold.
No more lies, and no more staying. I am not staying in this house any longer.
My wrist ached only a little now, the gel pack's chill doing its work, but the bruises told the full story—dark purple rings circling Kien's fingerprints like ugly tattoos, my scalp still tender where he had yanked my hair with that mad grip. Many of my customers had been violent with me in the past, but at most they would slap me. Could I do anything to them? No, I can't.
People, who hold power and money can do anything they want. That's what our society approves, isn't? No one cares whether the person is right or wrong—if they had either of the two things, their actions would be considered valid.
These marks were not just skin deep; they whispered of everything wrong. This mansion was no sanctuary—Victor and Elena didn't like me. Alexei was behaving creepy towards me. Kien's attack left me shaking even now.
Lily's help in the rain? It felt like a chain I never asked for. I owed her, and that debt burned worse than any bruise. Who knows what she will ask of me in the future?
Books about souls slipping into new worlds always made it look so easy, so bright—always colourful. Power fell into your lap, enemies crumbled with one clever line, love bloomed like flowers in spring.
But my story was different. Just fear chasing fear, loss piling on loss. Hooded men hunted me through wet streets at midnight. Now my own body carried the 'scars.' I was not the old Emily from the novel, all tough edges and mean fire—I was a barista... someone like me were ignored by the society.
I was me—just a girl from behind a coffee counter, scared more often than not, my body small and soft against the big alphas who towered like storms. Maybe I am a faulty alpha. The novel said that Emily was a 'rare' alpha, and I am sure that it's a lie.
My dreams were crushed under all this weight. For now, safety was the only dream left. It's time to leave this place, and run away.
Packing was quiet, fast but careful, like saying goodbye to a life I never chose. I dragged two big black leather suitcases from the walk-in closet, their wheels rolling soft over the thick carpet without a sound.
I flipped them open on the bed, the mattress sinking under their weight. Drawers opened easy, giving up their secrets one by one.
Silk shirts folded neat and smooth, catching light in soft shines. Jeans in dark blues and blacks, the kind that hugged my hips just right. Emerald dresses, sharp and ready for meetings that never came. I put all of my underwear into the suitcase.
Shoes tumbled in—flat ones scratched from that frantic run, heels from parties long forgotten, sneakers worn thin from long shifts at the coffee shop.
My sketchpad went in last, handled gentle. The pages were still a bit damp, crinkled at the edges, but filled with hope—like silk turning liquid, no need for fancy stretch. It was my heart on paper—my dream, which will only remain as a dream.
A small bag for toiletries—jasmine lotion that smelled like home, mascara clumped from all the tears, painkillers swallowed quick to ease the wrist. From the jewellery box, just simple earrings, nothing from the Leonhart name that carried Viktor's dirt.
Passports, bank cards, phone—all tucked safe. Offshore accounts waited, fat with the old Emily's hidden money from deals long buried. Some properties stood quiet in my name, far from 'family' eyes, which help me to build a quiet life for me.
No goodbyes written down.
No notes left behind.
I would slip away like a ghost in daylight.
I dressed plain and simple, clothes that hid more than they showed. White cotton shirt hanging loose over my breasts, sleeves rolled down to cover the bruises like a secret. Green trousers slim through the hips, flaring a bit at the thighs for easy steps.
Mask slipped into my purse, ready to hide my face from anyone who might know the infamous Emily too well. Raven hair pulled into a messy ponytail, strands escaping wild. Emerald eyes stared back from the mirror, still puffy from crying.
Was I not good enough for big dreams? Maybe so. But not safe here? That was sure. What if the other male leads from the story came hunting? What if they hurt me?
The book had them all—dark CEOs with eyes like storms, knights who owned empires and heart. But in this book, every one mad for Lily's soft charm. They would crush 'stalker' Emily under their boots if they caught sight of me.
Kien had already shown what that looked like, his hands leaving marks I could feel with every move. Alexei had long ago shown his dislike of me.
I was not like the strong alphas in the stories—no bursts of pheromones to push back the world, no body built for fights. I got scared easy, my heart racing at shadows.
If they hated me without reason, I would keep far away. I had not hurt any of them. Safety came before big plans as I had already the experience of living small.
The suitcases zipped shut with a heavy sound, full and ready. I pulled them downstairs, the marble steps echoing empty under my flat shoes. The foyer stretched big and cold—the crystal lamp hanging high tinkled in small drafts of air, maids froze with feather dusters in hand to stare, butlers stopped rubbing the stair rails with wide eyes.
Their looks stung my skin—red eyes from all the crying, suitcases rumbling loud—but I kept my gaze straight ahead, chin held high, back straight even as I shook a little inside.
Let them whisper and talk as I was leaving for good. Thankfully, no one saw me——no big fight with Viktor, no cold stare-down with Elena. The big front doors of carved oak stood waiting, sunlight spilling bright from outside like a promise.
The driveway lay empty—no family members lurking to stop me. Good. I grabbed the keys from the hook by the door. My black car waited in the garage, the engine starting smooth and strong when I turned the key.
The GPS screen lit up bright: "Willowbrook Manor." My secret house, put in my name long before the story started, forgotten in the Leonhart family papers.
The tires bit into the gravel hard as I drove away fast. In the mirror, the big mansion grew small and far, like a shiny jail I was finally free from.
The drive took thirty minutes, slow and steady. Busy city streets full of cars and noise gave way to quiet suburbs lined with trees. The roads still shone wet from last night's rain under cloudy skies that hung low.
Leaves rustled in the wind, turning shades of gold like fall was coming step by step. Willowbrook sat up on a hill, reached by a private road with tall gates. Big oak trees stood like guards on both sides of the drive. The iron gates opened with a quick beep from my remote.
The house came into view, nice and simple, nothing too much. Two floors made of warm red brick, with clean white edges all sharp and fresh. Ivy grew soft on one corner, just a little, not taking over. The gray slate roof sloped down easy and smooth. Big bay windows stuck out in front like friendly eyes looking out.
A porch ran all around with old wooden chairs that looked perfect for sitting on quiet days. No bright flashing lights or too much gold everywhere. Just normal and pretty in the old craftsman way that felt right and calm.
Flower beds slept now under the gray sky, but they looked ready for flowers to bloom in spring. The stone walk crunched under my tires as I parked in the curved drive.
I stepped out of the car and pulled the suitcases up the porch steps. The wood creaked soft under their weight, like it was happy to have me. Pot plants with green ferns waved in the light breeze. I took the keys from my purse—heavy brass ones marked with W.M.—and they fit the lock smooth and perfect.
The door opened easy on hinges that did not squeak, letting me into a bright entry hall that felt like home right away. The floors were honey-coloured oak, shining clean and polished from good care.
A strong pine coat rack stood ready for jackets and bags. A small table held a vase with fresh wildflowers that smelled light and sweet, like lilies from a valley. No big open spaces that made you feel lost and small. Just cozy rooms that wrapped around you like a safe hug.
To the left was the living room. A stone fireplace sat right in the middle, ready for logs and a fire on cold nights. A big gray sofa looked soft and deep, the kind you could sink into for hours.
"I need more couches," I whispered.
A coffee table sat in front, scratched a little from old games or books. Bookshelves reached from floor to ceiling, packed full of books—Jane Austen pages worn soft from reading them many times, design books with yellow edges.
The windows showed the woods rolling soft outside, with paths where deer might walk when the sun went down.
The kitchen opened up to the right. Gray granite counters were easy to clean and work on every day. A deep white sink looked like one from an old farm, big enough for pots and dreams.
Steel appliances hummed quiet in the background—no fancy chef kitchen, but an island with high stools perfect for morning coffee alone. The pantry held basic food—cans of soup, dry bags of pasta. The fridge stood mostly empty, just a few bottles of water humming cold.
The upstairs hall was narrow but nice to walk. A rug ran down the middle, Persian style faded just right for soft feet, walls covered in cream paper with small stripes that felt calm. The master bedroom waited at the end—a big bed with a simple oak frame, thick cream blanket puffy and inviting, matching night tables with lamps that gave a warm light like soft milk glass.
The bathroom inside had marble but not too much— an old clawfoot tub perfect for long soaks, a shower with clear glass you could step into easy. The closet was big enough to walk inside: shelves lined with cedar that smelled fresh and good, metal rods shining brass ready for hanging clothes.
Other rooms filled the house just right. A guest room with two small beds and quilts sewn like a grandma would make, colourful patches full of memory. An office with a strong walnut desk waiting for me to draw sketches.
Stairs led down to the basement, covered in carpet: washing machines easy to use side by side, a rack for wine bottles half full of red ones someone forgot long ago.
An attic reached by a pull-down ladder—old boxes with family things from years back, a small window letting in light that made dust dance like tiny stars.
Every corner felt lived in and good. Small marks on the wood trim like from kids playing long ago, windows thick to keep out noise from the woods, heat running steady and warm all the time. It was a safe place—no bad people sneaking in, no lists that stopped money coming in, no chasers following through dark city streets.
The suitcases bumped down in the hall. I took the first one upstairs, the wheels rolling soft on the carpet. The master closet doors slid open easy, empty shelves waiting like friends. I unzipped the bag slow and careful.
"Let's arrange everything, shall we?"