I stormed into Thatcher's office without knocking, my grief and rage propelling me forward like a physical force. The receptionist's protests faded behind me as I pushed through the double doors.

Thatcher looked up from his desk, his expression shifting from annoyance to cold calculation when he saw me.

"How dare you," I said, my voice breaking. "How dare you sit there like nothing happened."

He leaned back in his leather chair, studying me with detached interest. "Rose. I'm rather busy at the moment."

"Georgia is dead!" I screamed, sweeping my arm across his desk, sending papers flying. "My sister is dead because of you!"

His eyes narrowed as he watched me, not moving even as his precious documents scattered across the floor.

"Your sister's unfortunate passing is regrettable," he said finally, his tone as impersonal as if discussing a failed business deal. "But perhaps if you hadn't hidden Liberty, this could have been avoided."

I stared at him in disbelief. "You're blaming me? For Georgia's death?"

"I'm blaming you for your interference in my personal affairs," he replied, straightening his tie. "Liberty is still missing, Rose. And until you tell me where she is, there will be consequences."

"There are no consequences left," I whispered, tears streaming down my face. "You've taken everything."

He stood then, walking around his desk to tower over me. "No, I haven't. Not yet."

---

Darkness. Complete and absolute darkness.

I couldn't tell how long I'd been in this windowless room in the basement of our mansion. Time had lost all meaning in this lightless void.

The door opened, flooding the space with harsh light that made me wince and shield my eyes. Thatcher stood in the doorway, his silhouette outlined by the hallway light.

"Have you reconsidered your position?" he asked, his voice echoing slightly in the empty space.

"Please," I whispered, my throat dry from disuse. "I need to see Georgia. I need to arrange her funeral."

"The funeral has been handled," he said flatly. "You have only yourself to blame for missing it."

A small tray appeared at his side—a glass of water and a slice of bread. The same meager offering he'd brought twice daily since my imprisonment began.

"Your defiance has consequences, Rose," he continued, setting the tray on the floor just inside the door. "Perhaps in time, you'll remember that."

The door closed, plunging me back into darkness.

I crawled to the tray, my limbs weak from hunger and inactivity. The water tasted metallic, the bread dry and flavorless.

"You failed her," Thatcher's voice came through the door, making me jump. "You failed your sister just as you failed our marriage."

His words cut deeper than any physical punishment could have.

"I gave you every opportunity to save her," he continued, his voice muffled but still audible. "And you chose your petty jealousy instead."

I pressed my forehead against the cool concrete wall, silent tears streaming down my face. Was he right? Could I have saved Georgia if I'd just told him where Liberty was? But I didn't know—I still didn't know.

---

The door opened again, but this time the light was gentler, filtered through sheer curtains. I blinked, disoriented by the change.

"Get up," Thatcher said, his tone businesslike. "You have a new assignment."

I stumbled to my feet, legs shaky from days of confinement. "What?"

"Liberty is back," he announced, a note of satisfaction in his voice. "And she needs proper care in her condition."

Liberty stood in the hallway behind him, one hand resting protectively over her slightly swollen belly. Her eyes gleamed with triumph as she looked at me.

"Rose will be your personal attendant," Thatcher told her, his hand possessively at the small of her back. "Anything you need, she'll provide it."

"But—" I began.

"That's not all," Thatcher cut me off. "You'll continue to stay here, in the guest quarters. No visitors, no outside contact."

Liberty smiled, a cruel twist of her perfect lips. "I'm so looking forward to our time together, Rose."

As they led me from the basement room, I caught a glimpse of Thatcher's tender expression as he gazed at Liberty's stomach. The same gentle look he'd once reserved for me.

"I want fresh flowers in our bedroom every morning," Liberty was saying, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "And Rose will prepare all my meals exactly as I specify."

Thatcher nodded, kissing her forehead. "Whatever you need, darling."

I followed them silently, a hollow emptiness spreading through my chest. This was my new prison—not just confined to these walls, but forced to witness their happiness while bearing the weight of my sister's death alone.

I'd been Liberty's shadow for three days now, following her every command like a ghost haunting my own home. Today, she wanted fresh flowers for the master bedroom—our bedroom, once. I gathered the vase from the kitchen and slipped into the garden, relishing the brief moment alone among the roses Georgia had loved.

"Make sure they're perfect," Liberty had called after me. "Thatcher notices these things."

As I cut stems and arranged them in the crystal vase, I thought of Georgia. Would she tell me to fight harder? Or would she beg me to save myself?

The sound of tires on gravel made me tense. Thatcher was home early. I hurried back inside, vase in hand, taking the service stairs to avoid him.

The house felt different today—quieter. Liberty must have been resting in the sunroom. I placed the flowers on the dresser in what was once our bedroom, now redecorated to suit her taste. The walls were repainted in soft gold instead of my preferred sage green.

I was about to leave when I noticed the door to Thatcher's study slightly ajar. He never left it unlocked.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I pushed it open wider. The room smelled of him—expensive cologne and leather-bound books. I shouldn't be here, but something pulled me forward.

His mahogany desk was immaculate as always. A folder lay open at the center, marked "Mitchell Divorce Settlement."

Divorce? We'd never finalized the divorce.

I flipped the folder open with trembling fingers. Inside were official-looking documents—our signatures on legal papers dated two weeks ago. But I'd never signed these. The papers he'd given me were different—he'd said they were temporary separation agreements.

"They were real, Rose."

I spun around. James Harrison, Thatcher's business partner, stood in the doorway.

"I don't understand," I whispered, though I was beginning to.

"The papers you signed were legally binding," James said, his expression uncomfortable. "Thatcher had them drawn up while you were... indisposed."

The room seemed to tilt beneath my feet. Another lie. Another manipulation.

"He wanted to make sure you couldn't claim any of his assets after what happened with Georgia," James continued, looking away.

I closed the folder slowly, my mind racing. "Thank you for telling me."

James nodded once and left me alone with the truth.

---

That night, I lay awake in my designated room—a converted maid's quarters near the kitchen, far from the master suite. The window was small but real, unlike the basement room's darkness.

I needed to get out. Now that I knew about the divorce, there was nothing keeping me here except fear and Thatcher's control.

The house was quiet. I slipped from my bed and crept downstairs in my socks, carrying my shoes. The basement had a small window that might be large enough for me to squeeze through.

I found it easily—a dusty pane set high in the wall of the storage room. It was smaller than I'd hoped, but desperation made me try.

The window scraped against my palms as I pushed it open. Cool night air rushed in, carrying the scent of the garden. Freedom.

I dragged a crate beneath the window and stepped onto it, wincing as it creaked under my weight. The opening was narrow—I'd have to wriggle through sideways.

I got my head and shoulders through before my hips caught on the frame. Panic fluttered in my chest as I pushed harder.

"Mrs. Edwards."

The voice froze me in place. I turned my head to see one of Thatcher's security guards standing in the shadows.

"Going somewhere?" he asked, his tone professionally detached.

"I—I needed some air," I stammered.

He approached slowly. "Mr. Edwards anticipated you might try something like this."

Of course he did.

"Please come down from there," the guard said. "Don't make this difficult."

I slid back into the basement, defeat washing over me in cold waves.

The guard escorted me upstairs, not to my room but to a different one—smaller, windowless, with a heavy lock on the outside.

"Mr. Edwards will deal with you in the morning," he said before closing the door.

I sank onto the narrow bed, my escape attempt thwarted. The walls seemed to close in around me.

Hours passed. The door finally opened, revealing Thatcher's silhouette.

"Did you really think I wouldn't notice?" he asked quietly.

I didn't answer.

"You've always been predictable, Rose. Even in your desperation." He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. "You failed Georgia. Now you're failing yourself."

His words cut deeper than any physical punishment could have.

"I've arranged something special for tomorrow," he continued, his voice eerily calm. "A reminder of what happens when you try to leave me."

He left me alone in the darkness, his threat hanging in the air like poison.

What new hell had I unleashed with my failed escape? And how much more could I endure before I broke completely?