Chapter 4 4

Carley dragged herself off the floor and crawled into the center of her large bed. The sheets felt cold and foreign. She stared at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.

A soft knock on the door made her jump.

"Carley? Are you awake?" Martha's gentle voice filtered through the wood.

Carley rubbed her eyes, forcing the tears away. "Come in."

The door opened. Martha walked in holding a steaming mug of milk. She sat on the edge of the mattress, the springs groaning softly under her weight. She handed the mug to Carley. The ceramic was hot against Carley's freezing palms.

"Are you still upset about dinner?" Martha asked, reaching out to stroke Carley's hair. "You know how Barron is. He's blunt, but his heart is in the right place. He just cares about the family."

Carley bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted copper. He doesn't care about the family. He just wants to punish me. But she couldn't say that.

Martha sighed, her eyes dropping to her lap. "I know coming back is overwhelming. You left without a word four years ago, and we've been so worried."

Carley's stomach plummeted. The lie she had built around Fernando Evans to escape this house was still alive and breathing in this room, a heavy chain around her neck that she prayed Martha wouldn't pull on.

"These past four years have been so hard without you," Martha continued, her voice trembling slightly. "Your father missed you terribly, even if he doesn't know how to show it. We just want our family whole again."

The guilt hit Carley like a physical blow to the gut. She gripped the hot mug, letting the heat burn her skin to distract from the pain in her chest. She was a fraud. She was the daughter of the woman who killed Elwin Newton, sitting here absorbing Martha's pure, unearned love.

"So please," Martha whispered, squeezing Carley's knee. "Just stay for a while. For us."

Carley looked into Martha's pleading eyes. Her throat tightened. "Okay, Mom. I'll stay."

Martha smiled, kissed Carley's forehead, and left the room.

Carley set the milk on the nightstand. She couldn't drink it. Her stomach was churning violently.

Hours passed. The house fell into a deep, heavy silence. Carley tossed and turned, the sheets tangling around her legs. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Barron's dead, cold stare.

Sometime after midnight, a faint click echoed from the hallway downstairs.

Carley's eyes snapped open. She held her breath. The sound was tiny, but in the massive, silent house, it was distinct. The front door.

She threw off the covers. Her bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor. She crept toward her bedroom door and pressed her ear against the wood. Silence.

Slowly, she turned the lock and pulled the door open just a crack.

The motion-sensor lights in the downstairs hallway flickered on, casting a dim, yellow glow over the foyer.

A tall shadow moved across the marble floor.

Carley's breath caught in her throat. It was Barron.

He had taken off his tie. His collar was open. He walked with silent, predatory grace out of Sterling's study, holding a thick manila folder in his left hand.

He was back. Carley's heart slammed against her ribs. She pressed her face closer to the crack, her fingers gripping the doorframe.

But Barron didn't walk toward the front door. He didn't leave. He turned and walked slowly up the grand staircase, his footsteps silent on the carpet. He was moving toward his old bedroom, the one just down the hall from hers.

Carley let out a shaky breath, her knees suddenly weak, and she scrambled back to her bed. He hadn't just come back for a file. He was staying.

He had come back, prowling the halls of the estate like a predator surveying its territory in the dead of night. The realization hit her with blinding force: he wasn't going to stay away. He was going to use his unpredictable, suffocating presence to keep her constantly on edge.

A cold, hollow feeling spread through her chest. He had publicly humiliated her, forced her to stay in this house, and now he was making sure she knew nowhere was safe.

The next morning, the sun streamed through the windows, but Carley felt frozen.

She walked down to the kitchen. Betty was pouring coffee.

"Morning, Miss Holman," Betty said. "Mr. Barron won't be joining us for breakfast. He left for the office early. But he instructed me to prepare the master suite. He officially moved his things back from his penthouse last night."

Carley stared at the black coffee in the pot. Moving back. The family probably saw it as a sign of unity. They didn't know he was tightening the noose, moving in closer to monitor her every breath.

A sudden, fierce heat ignited in Carley's chest. The sadness burned away, replaced by a sharp, desperate anger.

She wasn't going to sit here and let him torture her. She needed money. She needed a job. If she had her own income, Sterling couldn't force her to stay, and Barron couldn't control her.

Carley turned on her heel and marched back up the stairs. She threw open her closet doors. She bypassed the casual clothes and pulled out a sharp, tailored black blazer.

She had an interview tomorrow. She was going to nail it, and she was going to buy her way out of this cage.