Breaking Free from Chains

The rain fell in sheets, drumming against the concrete like a funeral march. I stood at the gates of Millbrook Correctional Facility, clutching a plastic bag containing my few belongings. Six years. Six years of fluorescent lights and metallic trays. Six years of learning to survive.

"Move along, Morgan," the guard called, her voice flat. "You're free."

Free. The word tasted bitter on my tongue. I wasn't free—not really. The weight of what I'd lost pressed against my chest, making it hard to breathe.

I adjusted the ill-fitting jacket that had been issued to me upon release. It hung loose in some places, tight in others, nothing like the designer clothes that once filled my closet. My fingers unconsciously found the small scar on my wrist—a souvenir from a fight I'd tried to avoid. I rubbed it absently, a nervous habit I'd developed inside.

"Mommy?"

I turned to see a small figure hovering near the facility's entrance. Paislee stood there, her dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, her eyes—so like Jaxon's—wide and uncertain. She clutched a worn stuffed rabbit to her chest, its fur matted from too many nights of tears.

"Hi, sweetheart," I said, forcing a smile as I knelt before her. "Ready to go home?"

She nodded, but didn't speak. The social worker had warned me about this—she'd stopped talking after I was taken away. Selective mutism, they called it. Another casualty of our broken world.

I gathered her into my arms, breathing in the scent of institutional soap and something uniquely Paislee. "We're going to be okay," I whispered, more to myself than to her. "We're going to fix this."

The bus ticket to Manhattan cost nearly all the money I had left. As we settled into our seats, Paislee pressed against my side, her small body tense.

"Where's home?" she finally whispered, her voice raspy from disuse.

I squeezed her hand. "The penthouse on Fifth Avenue. Where Daddy lives."

Her eyes widened. "Daddy?"

"Yes, baby. We're going to see him." I swallowed hard, pushing down the bile that rose in my throat at the thought of facing Jaxon again.

---

The Morgan Penthouse gleamed like a knife against the grey sky. I stood before it, Paislee's hand clutched in mine, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Remember," I said, more to myself than to Paislee, "this is our home too."

The doorman's eyes widened when he saw me. "Miss Savannah?"

"Hello, George," I said, straightening my spine. "It's good to see you."

He recovered quickly, ushering us inside with professional efficiency. But I could see the questions in his eyes—the same questions everyone would have. Where had Savannah Morgan been? Why had she disappeared? And why was she returning now?

The elevator ride was silent. Paislee stared at the polished doors, her reflection ghostlike in the metal. I wondered what she saw when she looked at me—a mother? A stranger?

When the doors opened, I stepped into the foyer of what had once been my home. And froze.

Lana Evans sat at the marble island in the kitchen, wearing my mother's pearls and sipping from a cup that had been part of my grandmother's set. She looked up, her perfectly made-up face registering mock surprise.

"Savannah! What a... surprise."

Before I could respond, the front door opened. Jaxon stood there, his tall frame silhouetted against the light. He looked the same—perhaps a bit harder around the edges, but still devastatingly handsome. Still the man I'd given everything for.

His eyes found mine, then narrowed. "What are you doing here?"

"Jaxon," I began, my voice steadier than I felt. "We need to talk."

"There's nothing to talk about." His gaze shifted to Paislee, then back to me. "You're not welcome here."

"I know about the clause," I said quickly. "In the property deed. My father made sure I could return if I needed to."

Something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps, or anger. "Fine," he spat. "You can stay. In the servants' quarters."

---

That night, I lay awake in the small room they'd assigned us. Paislee slept fitfully beside me, her breathing shallow.

A soft knock interrupted the silence. Then came the sound of something being pushed under the door—a tray with two teacups.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Lana's voice dripped with false concern as she "accidentally" tipped the tray. Scalding liquid splashed across Paislee's hand as she reached for the cup.

She screamed—a high, terrified sound that tore through the quiet.

"What's going on here?" Jaxon burst into the room, his eyes wild.

"She attacked me!" Lana cried, her voice breaking perfectly. "I was just bringing them tea!"

Jaxon's gaze fell on me, hard and unforgiving. "Haven't you done enough?" he hissed. "Haven't you taken enough from me?"

"Lana burned Paislee," I said, cradling my sobbing daughter. "Look at her hand!"

"I saw what happened," Jaxon growled. "You're attacking Lana again. Just like before."

His eyes darkened as he stepped closer. "One wrong move, Savannah, and I'll make sure you go right back to where you came from. Do you understand?"

I stared up at him, this man I'd once loved beyond reason, and saw nothing of the person I'd married. In his place stood a stranger—cold, bitter, and utterly convinced of my guilt.

"Yes," I whispered, clutching Paislee tighter. "I understand perfectly."