The grand hallway was silent, but Sofia's heart was screaming. She ran back to her room, the silk of her expensive crimson dress rustling against the floor like a cruel reminder of her golden cage. She slammed the door and locked it, collapsing onto the bed in a fit of choked sobs.
"I can't stay here," she whispered into the pillows. "He's not a protector. He's a jailer."
As the sun set and the mansion turned into a silhouette of jagged stone against the moon, Sofia stopped crying. Her grief turned into a desperate, sharp focus. She stripped off the red dress and put on dark, practical clothes. She looked at the massive balcony—it was high, but there was a thick decorative rope used to tie the heavy velvet curtains in her room.
She spent hours knotting the curtain ropes together, her hands shaking. She tied one end to the heavy marble railing of the balcony and looked down. The ground looked a long way off, hidden in the misty shadows of the garden.
It was past midnight. The mansion was deathly still. Sofia stepped onto the balcony, the cold night air biting at her skin. She gripped the rope and began to climb over the edge.
At that exact moment, Alfred was walking down the hallway. He hadn't slept; his anger had turned into a heavy, aching regret. He wanted to apologize, to tell her he only acted out of a terrifying fear of losing her. He reached her door and knocked softly.
"Sofia? Please... let's talk," he said, his voice tired.
There was no answer. A sudden instinct—a dark premonition—shot through him. He didn't wait. He used his master key and pushed the door open. The room was empty, the curtains fluttering wildly in the wind.
"Sofia!" he roared, lunging toward the balcony.
Sofia heard his voice and panicked. She let go of the railing and began to slide down the rope too quickly. She was halfway down when the fabric, strained by her weight and the sharp edge of the stone, suddenly ripped.
"No!" Alfred screamed, reaching over the railing, his fingers brushing the air where she had just been.
Sofia fell. It wasn't a long drop, but she landed awkwardly on the hard stone path of the garden. A sickening crack echoed through the quiet night. A sharp, white-hot pain exploded in her leg, and she let out a strangled cry before collapsing onto the grass.
Alfred didn't use the stairs. He vaulted over the balcony railing, dropping down the levels with the agility of a man trained for war. He reached her in seconds, his face pale with a terror he had never felt in his life.
"Sofia! Stay with me, look at me!" He gathered her into his arms, his hands trembling as he saw her leg twisted at a painful angle.
Sofia looked up at him, her face drenched in sweat and tears, her breath coming in jagged gasps. Even in her agony, she tried to push him away with her weak hands. "Let... let me go..."
"Never," Alfred whispered, his voice cracking as he lifted her gently, holding her against his chest as if she were made of glass. "I am so sorry, Sofia. I am so sorry."
He ran back toward the mansion, shouting for his private doctors. He had kept her there to keep her safe, but in his obsession, he had become the very thing that broke her.
The mansion was no longer a place of quiet mystery; it was filled with the hurried footsteps of medical professionals and the heavy scent of antiseptic. Alfred's private doctor arrived within minutes, his face grave as he examined Sofia's injury. After a tense hour of X-rays and setting the bone, the verdict was clear.
"It's a clean break," the doctor explained, wiping his hands. "But she cannot put any weight on it. It will take at least 45 days to fully recover. She needs constant rest and someone to assist her with everything."
Sofia lay in the center of the massive bed, her leg encased in a heavy white cast. She looked pale and exhausted, the spirit of her escape attempt completely extinguished by the throbbing pain.
Zara arrived shortly after, her eyes red from crying. She rushed to Sofia's side, clutching her hand. When she heard the doctor's report, she turned to the men with fire in her eyes.
"That's it!" Zara declared, her voice trembling. "I'm taking her home. She clearly isn't safe here—she's hurting herself just to get away from this place! I'll set up a bed in my living room and look after her."
Max, who had been standing silently by the door, stepped forward and placed a firm but gentle hand on Zara's shoulder. "Zara, be realistic," he said softly. "You have a full-time job at the firm. We have meetings starting at 8:00 AM and projects that run late into the night. How are you going to carry her, bathe her, and change her bandages while you're at the office?"
Zara shook his hand off. "I'll find a way! I won't leave her here!"
Alfred's Vow
Alfred, who had been sitting in the shadows of the corner, finally stood up. He looked haggard, his shirt stained with Sofia's blood and the dirt from the garden. He walked to the foot of the bed, his gaze never leaving Sofia's tired face.
"She stays," Alfred said. His voice wasn't a roar this time; it was a low, somber vow. "Max is right. You cannot provide the 24-hour medical care she needs. I have a staff of nurses and the best doctors on call. I will personally ensure she has everything."
He looked at Zara, his expression softening slightly. "I give you my word, Zara. I will take care of her every second of these 45 days. I will be her legs until she can walk again. And once she is recovered—once she can stand on her own two feet—you can take her home. I will not stop her then."
Zara looked at Sofia, then back at Max's serious face. She knew they were right, even if she hated it. She couldn't provide the level of care Sofia needed while working a high-pressure job.
Sofia turned her head away, staring out the window at the moon. She was trapped again, not by locks or guards this time, but by her own broken body. She was now completely dependent on the man she had tried so hard to flee.