Chapter 8

The door closed with a dull thud, and the room felt suffocatingly silent once more. Ayra sat still on the edge of the bed, her hands resting limply in her lap. 

Her aunt's words replayed in her mind, looping endlessly like a haunting melody. 

Perhaps her aunt's offer should have sparked something in her - a flicker of hope, a glimmer of possibility. 

But instead, it only left her feeling heavier, like another impossible choice had been laid at her feet. She didn't feel brave. 

She didn't feel clever. Because she knew that compared to either Lisbeth or their father, she fell far short. 

The thought of escape was a tantalizing fantasy, but every time she tried to imagine it, the walls of her reality closed tighter. 

Even if Eleanor could provide a way out, Ayra doubted her own ability to take it. She was constantly watched, her every move scrutinized by Lucians guards or her fathers spies. 

There was no privacy, no freedom, not even a single moment to breathe without feeling the weight of someone's eyes on her.

The weight of her aunt's offer pressed down on her chest like a stone. Sure, she certainly wanted to flee - it wasn't like it was the first time the thought had crossed her mind - but hearing it spoken aloud, offered as a tangible possibility, made it all the more unbearable. 

For every glimmer of hope, there was a shadow of doubt, a reminder of the risks.

Her gaze flicked to the barred window. The sunlight streaming through it felt mocking, taunting her with the world she couldn't touch.

Ayra leaned back against the headboard, her head tilting up to stare at the ceiling. 

Her chest ached with the weight of everything - the... betrayal, the isolation, the sheer, crushing inevitability of her situation. 

What was the point of hope when the chains around her were so tight she couldn't even breathe? 

The Cyrus family ruled Scostch, and Lucian was its king. Any 'loophole' in the contract would only remain so as long as Lucian allowed it. 

As long as Lucian did not deign to come after her, truth be told. The contract might as well be just paper and ink to him. 

Lucian could very easily tear it up and enforce what he believed was the true deal. 

Now that she had sat back and had the time to think for hours on end, she realised she had been grasping at straws. 

And yet she still wanted to escape. Damn it. She really was a bloody conundrum. 

And then there was Lucian. The more she thought about Lucian, the more he loomed in her imagination as a shadow - dark and foreboding. 

What kind of man could force such terror and compliance from everyone around him? 

Ayra's stomach turned at the thought of him, the quiet but intense confidence she had seen in his eyes. 

Lucian was a predator, and she was the prey, plain and simple - she had no delusions about that. 

She did not want to love someone like that. 

She actually could not see herself falling in love with him no matter how many years they remain together. No matter how well she is treated. 

Her mind wandered back to Lisbeth, her sisters mocking words still fresh in her ears. 

Lisbeth thrived on reminding her of her supposed inadequacies, on mocking her practically every chance she got. 

And the worst part was, Ayra couldn't entirely disagree with some of her statements. 

Her mind churned, caught in a relentless cycle of doubt and anger. Even aunt Eleanor's proposal seemed a bit too good to be true. 

Trust was a currency she couldn't afford, not with her family, not even with Irene. 

Her aunts' offer lingered, tempting and dangerous. But what guarantee did she have that Eleanor wasn't another player in this elaborate game? 

Ayra knew for a fact that even kind aunt Eleanor was cunning and calculating. In the end, she wanted to escape Lucian's clutches - and she had to admit, Lisbeth was right. 

She did not quite care about what would become of the family and what not if she disappears. They would manage somehow. 

Also, to escape, outmaneuver Lucian, Lisbeth, and her father, she would need to deceive them all. 

And by God she would deceive Eleanor too if she's given the chance. 

Ayra buried her face in a pillow, a whispered name escaping her lips as she forced herself to sleep. 

....

The faint clinking of metal against porcelain filled the oppressive silence of Ayra’s room.

She sat at the small round table in the corner, her eyes fixed on the food laid out before her.

A plate of roast chicken, golden-brown and positively glistening. A bowl of inviting creamy soup, and a selection of baked pastries made up her lunch. It was not what she ordinarily ate.

Since she was confined in all but name, her meals had consistently been a selection of her favorite food. It felt like an attempt to placate her by her father. Or to reduce his guilt. Either way, Ayra didn't like it. 

The maid who brought it was a quiet woman - or maybe her desire to get out of the room was too strong. 

Ayra barely looked at her as the food was placed on the table with. She did note, however, how the maid’s hands trembled ever so slightly as she poured the soup into a bowl.

For a moment, Ayra wondered if fear permeated everyone in this house. 

Was Lucian's people truly threatening everyone who came near her? 

Or maybe Lisbeth was making things hard for the servants again. 

Call it personal bias but Ayra thought it was Lisbeth. 

“Will there be anything else, miss?” the maid asked, her voice soft. Ayra didn't miss the subtle undertone in her voice that begged to just be let go of. 

She shook her head without meeting the woman’s eyes. She wasn’t interested in conversation, not when her thoughts churned with frustration and worry.

The maid left quickly, the door clicking softly shut behind her. 

Ayra sighed and leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table as she stared at the food. 

She wasn’t hungry, not really. Her appetite had dwindled to non-existence, and each meal might as well have been sandpaper to her. 

But she forced herself to eat - she would need the energy when an opportunity presented itself. 

The soup was rich and smooth, its warmth spreading through her chest. She worked through it mechanically, taking slow, measured sips. 

Her mind drifted to Eleanor's visit that morning, the veiled promise her aunt had made. 

In truth, she had suspected the maid who delivered lunch was the contact her aunt had spoken of and had almost done something foolish. 

Her gaze moved to the plate of baked goods—flaky pastries and buttery rolls that practically begged to be devoured. 

She reached for a small, round bun, its golden crust still warm to the touch. Pulling it apart, Ayra froze.

There, nestled inside the hollow center of the pastry, was a piece of paper. She blinked rapidly in surprise and glanced at the door, half-expecting someone to burst in. 

But the room remained silent, save for the faint chirping of birds coming from beyond the window.

What? Fortune cookies weren't enough? They had fortune buns too?

Ayra chuckled, laughing at her little joke, and unfolded the paper. 'If you’re ready, give this to the maid at dinner,' it read.

That was all it said—simple, direct, and... Well, undeniably risky. She reread the words carefully, her mind racing. This had to be her aunt. Who else could it be? 

Ayra quickly refolded the note and slipped it into her pocket, her movements deliberate and cautious. 

She glanced at the door again, biting her lips. Aunt Eleanor really was serious. 

Well. Now what little peace of mind she'd managed to get was gone. But it didn't matter. She had a chance to get her life back in her hands.