The Billionaire's Doll: Her Secret Escape

The weight of Garrick Head's arm across Ever's chest was heavy enough to crush bone, or at least that was how it felt in the gray light of dawn. It was a tangible reminder of her place in this world-pinned, owned, and breathless. Ever lay still, staring at the ceiling of the Manhattan penthouse. The plaster was intricate, hand-molded by artisans who probably went home to families they loved. Ever just went home to this. A sprawling, cold masterpiece of architecture that felt more like a mausoleum than a living space. Garrick shifted in his sleep. His breathing was deep, rhythmic, the sleep of a man who had never questioned his right to take up space. Ever tried to inch away, moving a fraction of an inch at a time to avoid waking him. The silk sheets rustled, a sound that seemed deafening in the silence. Suddenly, his arm tightened. It was a reflex, a subconscious clamp. He pulled her flush against his back, his face burying into the pillow near her shoulder. "Cathy..." The name was a low growl, vibrating with a dark, simmering resentment. It wasn't a lover's whisper; it was a curse. Ever's breath hitched. She froze, her muscles locking up as a cold wave of nausea washed over her. Cathy. He was dreaming of her again. Not with love, but with the specific, icy hatred he reserved for the woman who had destroyed his family. Or maybe he was dreaming of Imo, his brother's wife, the woman who bore the same face and the same burden of the Head family's tragic history. To him, that name was synonymous with weakness, with the ruin of his brother Esley. Hearing it from his lips was a reminder of why he viewed marriage as a trap and women as liabilities. Ever lay there for a long moment, letting the humiliation settle into her bones. It was a familiar weight, one she carried alongside the diamond necklaces and the couture dresses he insisted she wear. She was the placeholder. The warm body. The distraction from the ghosts that haunted this bloodline. Garrick stirred again. This time, his eyes opened. Ever felt the change in him instantly. The vulnerability of sleep vanished, replaced by the cold, sharp awareness that defined him. He released her and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed without a word. There was no morning kiss. No soft murmur of acknowledgment. Just the immediate, efficient transition from lover to titan of industry. Ever sat up, pulling the silk robe tightly around herself. The air conditioning was always set too low, keeping the apartment in a perpetual state of winter. Her bare feet made no sound on the plush rug, but the moment she stepped onto the marble floor of the hallway, the cold bit into her skin. She went to the kitchen. It was her routine. The one thing she did that felt somewhat domestic, even if it was just another form of service. She ground the beans, the noise harsh and grinding, filling the empty space. Black coffee. No sugar. No cream. Just bitter heat. When she returned to the bedroom, Garrick was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window. He was already dressed in his trousers and a crisp white shirt, his fingers deftly working on his tie. Manhattan sprawled out below him, a grid of steel and ambition, but he looked like he wanted to conquer it all over again. "Coffee," Ever said softly, placing the cup on the lacquered side table. He turned, his gaze sweeping over her with a critical detachment. He took the cup, took a sip, and frowned. He didn't say it was bad, but he didn't have to. The slight crinkle between his brows was enough. Ever stood there, wringing her hands together, feeling the familiar anxiety bubbling up. She needed to ask him. She had rehearsed this in the shower, in front of the mirror, a dozen times. "Garrick?" He hummed a response, setting the cup down. He was reaching for his cufflinks-onyx and gold, severe and expensive. "This week... it's the anniversary," Ever started, her voice trembling slightly. "Of my friend's death. I wanted to go visit the-" "Buy yourself something nice," he interrupted. He didn't even look at her. He walked over to the dresser, picked up his wallet, and pulled out a black card. He tossed it onto the unmade bed. It landed on the silk sheets with a soft slap. "Don't wear that grey thing you had on last week," he added, checking his watch. "It makes you look washed out. Get something vibrant. Don't embarrass me." Ever looked at the card. It was black, heavy, limitless. It was freedom for anyone else, but for her, it was just another shackle. She swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing a smile that felt like it might crack her face. "I just wanted to know if you'd be back tonight," Ever whispered. It was a stupid question. A needy question. Garrick stopped at the door. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. The look he gave her was one reserved for a disobedient pet or a slow employee. "Why?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "Do I need to report to you? Am I your husband, Ever?" The words stripped her bare. Her face burned. She lowered her head, staring at her toes. "No," Ever whispered. "I'm sorry, Mr. Head." The formality seemed to annoy him even more. He scoffed, a sharp sound of dismissal, and walked out. The heavy oak door clicked shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. Ever stood there for a full minute, waiting for her heart rate to slow down. Then, her shoulders slumped. The perfect posture, the attentive gaze-it all melted away, leaving just the exhaustion. She went to the bathroom and turned the shower on as hot as it would go. She stepped in, not waiting for the steam to build. She scrubbed her skin until it turned pink, trying to wash away the scent of his cologne, the feel of his arm, the ghost of the name he had whispered. Stepping out, she wiped the condensation from the mirror. She traced the red birthmark on her collarbone. It was shaped vaguely like a starburst, a unique flaw in an otherwise curated existence. Clarence used to say it was where an angel touched her. Clarence. Clay. She pushed the thought away. She couldn't afford memories. She walked to the toilet and lifted the heavy porcelain lid of the water tank. Inside, taped securely to the side above the water line, was a waterproof, vacuum-sealed bag. She peeled it off, her fingers trembling as she unsealed it to retrieve the cheap, prepaid burner phone. It was the only place safe from his prying eyes and his sensitive nose. Her hands shook as she powered it on. She dialed the number she knew by heart, the only number that mattered. "Ernestine?" Ever whispered, pressing the phone so hard against her ear it hurt. "He's awake," the older woman's voice crackled through the terrible connection. "Hold on." There was a rustling sound, and then, a small, sleepy voice filled her ear. "Mommy?" The tears came instantly. Hot, fast, and silent. She slid down the wall until she was sitting on the cold tile floor, hugging her knees to her chest. "Hi, baby," Ever choked out, forcing her voice to sound bright. "Hi, Leo. Are you being a good boy for Ernestine?" "I drew a tiger," Leo said. He sounded stronger today. "A big one. With teeth." "I bet it's the scariest tiger in the world," Ever said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "When are you coming?" he asked. The question he always asked. The question that broke her every time. "Soon," Ever promised. "Mommy is working very hard so we can go on a big adventure. Remember the adventure?" "To the mountains?" "To the mountains," Ever confirmed. Switzerland. That was the plan. Somewhere cold and clean and far away from Garrick Head. Ernestine took the phone back. Her voice was lowered, urgent. "The preschool tuition is due on Friday, Everly. And the pharmacy called about his asthma medication. The copay went up." "I'll handle it," Ever said, her voice hardening. "I'll get the money. Just don't let him miss a dose." "I won't. Be careful, girl." Ever hung up and powered the phone down immediately. She resealed it in the bag, double-checking the zipper, and taped it back inside the tank. She flushed the toilet to mask any sound of the lid settling. Ever walked back into the bedroom and picked up the laptop Garrick allowed her to use. She opened a hidden, encrypted file labeled Recipes. It wasn't recipes. It was a spreadsheet. A countdown. Days until contract expiration: 145. One hundred and forty-five days. That was how long she had to endure this. That was how long she had to let Garrick Head use her body and ignore her soul until she had enough money to disappear with Leo forever. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a text from Garrick's personal assistant. Car will pick you up at 6 PM. Charity Gala. Wear the blue earrings. Ever typed back: Received. She was about to put the phone down when it buzzed again. Unknown number. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She stared at the screen. I know your secret, Everly. The phone slipped from her sweaty palm and clattered onto the marble floor.