Chapter 3 3

Eleanor's eyes narrowed.

"Planning isn't good enough," she hissed. "I need you gone before the gala next week. Julian is being honored, and I won't have you there, moping in a corner, ruining everything."

Her intent was crystal clear. She would force me out.

The gala. It was Julian's big night, a celebration of his latest tech venture.

Eleanor found her moment.

We were in a quiet alcove, away from the main throng.

She "tripped," a theatrical stumble, her champagne flute flying from her hand.

It shattered on the marble floor with a sharp crack.

The sound cut through the music and chatter. Heads turned.

Julian reacted instantly.

He was by her side in a second, his arm around her waist.

"Eleanor, are you alright?"

Concern etched his face.

I stood frozen, watching the scene unfold.

My mind screamed, trap.

This was her plan.

Julian helped Eleanor to a nearby chair.

She leaned against him, feigning weakness.

Then, she looked at me, her eyes wide with mock horror.

"Julian," she gasped, her voice trembling. "Amelia... she pushed me! She said... she said she wouldn't let me marry you!"

The lie was blatant, outrageous.

Eleanor slumped against Julian, her eyes fluttering closed as if she'd fainted.

Julian's face, moments before filled with concern for Eleanor, now turned to me, contorted with fury.

"You!" he roared, his voice echoing in the sudden silence. "How dare you!"

Disbelief and rage warred in his eyes.

"No!" I cried, desperation clawing at my throat. "I didn't! She's lying!"

I had to make him understand. "Julian, I told you, those feelings are gone!"

He wouldn't listen.

He waved a dismissive hand, his face a mask of cold fury.

"I don't want to hear your pathetic excuses," he spat. "You are a poisonous, ungrateful wretch."

He scooped Eleanor into his arms. "You will answer for this."

He carried her away, leaving me alone, the target of a hundred curious, condemning stares.

The pain in my chest was a physical weight, crushing me.

"I don't love him," I whispered to the empty space, the words a broken prayer.

But it didn't matter what I felt.

He believed her.

I knew what was coming.

Punishment.

ClearPath had taught me one thing: resistance was futile. It only made things worse.

I braced myself, a numb resignation settling over me.

He found me back at the mansion, in my storage-room-bedroom.

He didn't speak. He just pointed to the center of the room.

"Kneel." His voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

I obeyed instantly.

My swift compliance seemed to surprise him.

A flicker of something – confusion? – crossed his face.

But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

He went to a locked cabinet in the corner, a relic from his own father, he'd once told me.

He retrieved a riding crop, its leather old and worn.

He tested its weight in his hand.

"You took my kindness for weakness," he said, his voice low and menacing. "You thought you could manipulate me, embarrass me."

His anger was a palpable force in the small room.

The first blow landed across my shoulders.

Sharp, stinging pain.

I didn't make a sound. I bit my lip, tasting blood.

ClearPath had taught me silence.

"Admit what you did," he demanded, his voice tight.

I looked at the floor.

"I admit it," I whispered.

It was easier than fighting.

He scoffed, a harsh, ugly sound.

"You admit it? Just like that?"

The crop whistled through the air again. And again.

"What were you thinking?" he ground out between blows. "That I would choose a delusional child over my fiancée?"

He struck me repeatedly, his anger fueling each blow.

He listed my transgressions.

My "perverse" feelings. My "deception." His "generosity" that I had "abused."

Each word was a fresh lash.

The physical pain was immense, but the weight of his accusations was heavier.

His rage was escalating. He was losing control.

"You thought you could destroy my happiness, just because I-"

He stopped abruptly, his breath catching.

The door creaked open.

Mrs. Gable, the housekeeper, stood there, her face pale.

She was one of the few people in this house who had ever shown me any kindness.

"Mr. Vance, please," she pleaded, her voice trembling. "Stop. You'll kill her."

She rushed forward, pointing to my back. "Look at her! She's bleeding!"

Julian stopped, the crop still raised.

He looked at me, truly looked at me, for the first time since he'd started.

My thin shirt was soaked with blood, clinging to my skin.

But my face was calm. My eyes were dry.

There was no fear, no tears. Just a vast, empty stillness.

He lowered the crop slowly.

"You're not even crying," he said, his voice strange, almost bewildered.

He remembered. He remembered the girl who used to cry at sad movies, who felt things so deeply.

"Don't you feel any pain?"

I met his gaze, my own empty.

"No," I said, my voice quiet but clear. "This is nothing."

Nothing compared to ClearPath.

Nothing compared to the slow, systematic dismantling of my soul.

"May I go now?" I asked.

He stared at me, a dawning horror in his eyes.

Something was terribly wrong.

He reached out, his hand hesitating, then pulled aside the torn, bloodied fabric of my shirt.

He saw my back.

And he recoiled as if struck.