Chapter 3: The Price of Obedience

“What are you smiling at?”

I hadn’t noticed Harrison approach.

He moved like a shadow, silent and sudden. I straightened, schooling my features into something neutral.

I lowered my eyes. “You’ve found someone to save Miss Sutton. I’m happy for her.”

It was the answer he wanted, the one that kept me safe. I hoped he’d let it go.

Harrison always wanted me to be obedient.

That answer should’ve been obedient enough.

But he didn’t seem satisfied.

With a cold laugh, he grabbed my chin, his indifferent gaze sweeping over my face.

His grip was rough, his eyes searching for something I couldn’t name. I held still, refusing to flinch.

“Lila, don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

His voice was low, almost mocking. I bit the inside of my cheek, waiting for the rest.

“Now that Savannah is tied to the Rose Girl prophecy, even if someone takes her place, she’ll have to hide her identity and keep a low profile.”

He sounded bitter, as if the whole thing was a personal affront.

“Which means I won’t be able to marry her for a long time.”

He let the words hang in the air, daring me to react.

His rough fingertips slid across my skin. Harrison’s voice was low—

The touch sent a shiver down my spine. I kept my face blank, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“You’re happy about that, aren’t you?”

He said it like an accusation, but I heard the hurt underneath.

Everyone in Maple Heights said I was infatuated with Harrison Drake.

It was the worst-kept secret in town. I’d heard the whispers, seen the looks. People love a good scandal.

A lowly chorus girl, spoiled for a few years, got delusions of grandeur—dreaming of marrying into the Governor’s family.

They laughed behind my back, but it didn’t matter. I’d learned long ago that dreams were dangerous things.

Harrison probably saw me that way too.

To him, I was just another girl with stars in her eyes, easy to dismiss.

I brushed his hand away and said coolly,

“Marriage is between you and Miss Sutton. It has nothing to do with me.”

My voice was steady, but my hands shook. I hoped he didn’t notice.

“Nothing to do with you?”

He gripped my shoulder.

His fingers dug in, sending a jolt of pain through my arm. I clenched my jaw, refusing to cry out.

“If it’s nothing to you, why do you keep hurting Savannah? Why kneel for two hours with that cold look, refusing to soften and beg me even once?”

He leaned in, his breath hot against my cheek. I stared straight ahead, counting the seconds until it was over.

“Isn’t it because I’m engaged to her, and you’re jealous?”

The accusation stung, but I didn’t rise to the bait. I’d learned to let the words wash over me, like water off a duck’s back.

His hand pressed on an old injury. I gasped in pain, instinctively pushing him away and backing up.

The pain shot through me, sharp and familiar. I stumbled, catching myself on the edge of the desk.

He froze, then grew even angrier.

His eyes flashed, and for a moment, I saw something wild in them.

“What, now you won’t even let me touch you?”

His voice was raw, almost pleading. I looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

Harrison hadn’t always been like this.

There was a time when he was gentle, when I thought he might actually care.

Even when the theater manager drugged me and sent me to his room, he’d only given me warm water and slept, fully clothed, on the sofa.

He’d brought me a blanket, made sure I was comfortable. He never touched me, not even once.

When I woke and asked why he hadn’t gone to another room, he just smiled—

“Because I was afraid.”

His voice was soft, almost shy. I’d never seen him like that before.

“Afraid if I left, people would think I despised you and you’d get bullied for it.”

He cared about appearances, about the way people talked. But I think he cared about me, too—at least a little.

“But if I slept here, I might lose control and do something you didn’t want.”

He’d said it with a wry smile, trying to lighten the mood. It almost worked.

But that was then.

In just two years, all that kindness and respect had vanished.

The man I’d once trusted was gone, replaced by someone I barely recognized. The change was sudden, and it hurt more than I cared to admit.

In a fit of rage, Harrison grabbed me by the throat and pinned me to the chaise embroidered with wild roses.

The fabric scratched my skin, the thorns in the pattern digging in. I struggled, panic rising in my chest.

My clothes were torn.

The sound was loud in the quiet room, echoing off the walls. I clawed at his hands, desperate to break free.

I struggled, staring up at the ceiling, the sound of the theater manager’s cane from my childhood echoing in my ears—

The memory was sharp, slicing through the present. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing it away.

“Remember this—a performer is just a performer, born to serve and please!”

The words rang in my head, cruel and relentless. I bit my lip, refusing to cry.

Not anymore.

Just as Harrison’s lips were about to fall on mine, my hand found the scissors hidden in my sleeve.

My fingers closed around the handle, knuckles white. I held my breath, ready to fight.

But then, someone knocked—three times.

The sound was sharp, cutting through the tension. I froze, heart pounding.

It was Peter’s voice, calling from outside.

He sounded urgent, more serious than usual.

“Get out!”

Harrison’s voice was a snarl, raw with anger. I pressed myself into the cushions, praying he’d listen.

“Harrison…” Peter insisted, “It’s Savannah. Her old injury’s acting up—she’s fainted.”

There was a pause, then footsteps in the hall. I could hear the worry in Peter’s voice, the fear that something was truly wrong.

Sure enough, at the mention of Savannah, Harrison immediately let go of me.

His hands dropped, and for a moment, he looked lost. Then the mask slipped back into place.

He tossed me onto the bed like I was nothing and strode out.

I landed hard, the breath knocked from my lungs. I lay still, listening to the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall.

Peter followed.

His shoes clicked on the tile, quick and precise. He didn’t look back.

Before leaving, he glanced back at me through the glass pane, his gaze blurred.

Our eyes met for a split second. There was pity there, and something else—regret, maybe, or guilt. I couldn’t be sure.

It stuck with me anyway, snagging like a burr.

It lingered with me long after he’d gone, a ghost of a feeling I couldn’t shake.

The night was cold as river water. A shadow slipped along the window…

The moon hung low, silvering the frost on the glass. Outside, the world was silent, holding its breath. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistle sounded, lonely and far away. I pressed my hand to the window, feeling the chill seep into my bones, and wondered if I’d ever feel warm again.