They sent a car for me when I left the hospital. Black. Tinted windows. The driver didn't speak. We drove east for two hours, and the city fell away behind us like a bad dream.

The Wallace estate sat behind iron gates and old trees. White columns. Gravel paths. A stable with copper weather vanes that caught the afternoon light. Beautiful, in the way a cage can be beautiful if you build it expensive enough.

"For your recovery," Phillip's assistant had said on the phone. Her voice was careful, like she was reading a script. "Mr. Wallace insists. The staff will attend to your needs."

I didn't argue. I had forty-seven stitches and nowhere else to go. My apartment lease ended while I was bleeding on Midtown pavement. My bank account had three hundred dollars. I'd already decided to leave the country, but I needed a week to heal enough to sit on a plane.

Seven days. I could survive seven days.

The room they gave me faced the ocean. Cream walls. A four-poster bed. Fresh flowers every morning that I never asked for. A maid knocked twice a day and wouldn't meet my eyes.

I slept fourteen hours at a time. When I was awake, I sat by the window and watched the waves. I didn't think. Thinking was dangerous. I just breathed and counted the stitches pulling with every inhale.

Phillip never came.

On the fifth day, Braelynn arrived.

I heard her voice downstairs, bright and loud. "Where is she? I brought soup!" Footsteps on the marble. Laughter. The staff loved her. Of course they did. She tipped well and remembered birthdays.

I stayed in my room. I locked the door.

At sunset, someone knocked. Soft. Polite.

"Miss Palmer?" A young maid, maybe twenty. "Miss Kennedy requests you join her in the stables. She says the evening air will do you good."

I looked at the girl's face. She believed it. She thought this was kindness.

"Tell her I'm resting," I said.

"She was very insistent, miss."

I went.

The stables smelled like leather and hay and expensive horses. Soft gold light came through the high windows. Braelynn stood in the tack room in white linen, her hair pulled back, her smile wide and warm.

"There you are, sweetheart," she said. "I was worried."

She closed the door behind me. The latch clicked.

My pulse kicked. I stepped back. My spine hit a saddle rack.

"You're healing well," she said. She walked toward me slowly, examining me like a painting. "That's good. I'd hate for anything to scar."

"Braelynn—"

"On your knees."

I stared at her.

"I won't ask twice."

She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. Her hand went to the riding crop hanging on the wall. She lifted it off the hook and tested the weight, bending it between her palms.

I should have run. I should have screamed. But my body was so tired, and some part of me—the part that had held Phillip through a thousand nights—just wanted it to be over.

I knelt.

The floor was cold concrete. Bits of straw stuck to my palms.

"Blouse off."

My hands shook. I unbuttoned it slowly, one by one, and let it fall. The bandage across my chest was still white. The stitches pulled.

Braelynn circled me. Her heels clicked.

"Every mark," she whispered, "is a reminder of your place."

The first strike came across my shoulders.

It didn't hurt at first. Then the burn spread, hot and sharp, and I bit down on my tongue until I tasted copper. The second came lower. The third split skin.

She worked in silence. Methodical. Almost meditative. She wasn't angry. She was teaching.

I pressed my forehead to the concrete and tried to breathe through it. I counted. One. Two. Five. Ten.

Somewhere past fifteen, the door opened.

I lifted my head.

Phillip stood in the doorway. Navy sweater. Dark jeans. His face was carved from stone. His eyes found mine. Then they found the crop in Braelynn's hand. Then the blood on my back.

His knuckles went white on the doorframe.

I waited. I don't know what I waited for. An order. A shout. Anything.

He twisted his ring. Once. Twice.

Then he turned and walked away.

The door swung shut behind him.

Braelynn smiled. "See? He doesn't care, honey. He never did."

She dropped the crop. It clattered on the concrete. She stepped over me, careful not to let her shoes touch the blood, and left.

I knelt there until the light died.

Then I stood. I pulled my blouse back on. The fabric stuck to the cuts. I walked back to the house, up the stairs, into my room. I didn't cry. I didn't shake.

I took nothing.

I called a taxi from the landline in the hall. I walked down the gravel drive in the dark and waited by the gate until headlights came.

"JFK," I said.

The driver looked at my blouse. The back was soaked through, dark and wet.

"You okay, miss?"

"Just drive."

I bought a one-way ticket to London Heathrow with my last four hundred dollars. I boarded at midnight. The seat was narrow and hard. Every time the plane shifted, the cuts on my back screamed.

I didn't sleep. I sat very still and watched the dark Atlantic through the window.

Somewhere over the ocean, I pressed my palm flat against my chest, over the forty-seven stitches, and I felt it.

The thread was gone.

I wasn't his anymore. I wasn't anyone's.

I was free.