Jean felt suffocated in the room, so she left the room and went downstairs.
There she saw Martha setting the table.
"Breakfast is ready, Miss Jean. Would you like to eat it here or in your room?" Martha said in a lovely manner.
"Where's my phone?" Jean ignored her question.
"I don't know. Maybe Sir Zane has it, or maybe it's somewhere else I don't know." She said while turning towards her.
"Breakfast?" Martha asked again.
"I don't want to eat," Jean said while looking around like she could find the phone there.
Martha's facial expression changed. A wave of fear hit her.
"Ma'am, please eat something. Sir Zane has given strict orders to make sure you eat and take medicine."
"I already told you I don't want to eat anything, Especially if it's his order." Jean said it in a scoffing tone and turned towards her room.
She checked all the drawers, closets, tables, the sofa, everything even under the bed to find her phone but she couldn't.
At last, she threw herself on the bed. A drop of tear filled her eyes.
Is this how her remaining life is going to be?
Caged. Suffocated.
She hated herself to be in that room or even in that house.
It was not like life was ever kind to her but this was too much.
When she thinks her life couldn't be worse, life shows her it can.
Martha begged her, but she didn't eat Lunch either. Didn't take her medicine.
It was her way of telling Zane that she wouldn't do what he wanted.
Zane's car noise brought her into reality.
She exhaled a deep breath, preparing herself for what was going to happen next.
-----
"Did she eat and take her medicine?" Zane said while going upstairs.
Martha's voice came from something filled with fear. "No, she didn't."
Zane's eyes turned into fire.
"She didn't ate?" He whispered.
"Sir.... I-I asked her many times but she refused to eat."
"Anything else she did or said?"
" She just asked about her phone." Martha said.
Zane didn't asked or said anything else.
He went straight to his room.
Jean sat on the sofa like she was a guest, like she didn't belonged there.
Her body looked thinner. Her eyes more darker.
That broke something in Zane.
"Why didn't you ate anything, Jean?" His voice sounded like he was trying to control himself.
His jaw tightened.
" Because this is my life and I want to do what I like, not what I am forcedto." Jean said calmly.
Zane exhaled a deep breath, trying to control his anger.
He leaned in closer to Jean and looked straight into her eyes.
Jean prepared herself to be strong. But his eyes shook something in her.
And for a moment, there was fear in her eyes but she composed herself.
"Eat now and take your medicine while I'm asking nicely, Jean Thorne." Zane said, his
voice deep and addictive.
Jean's anger fueled at her name being connected with his.
"I won't. Huh, what can you do? Again going to put a gun on that child's head?" She
said with a smirk.
Zane didn't answer. He looked like he was having a war with himself inside.
"Do you think I'm that easy to control? I already told you many times that you forced
me to marry you, I didn't want to be your-"
Jean couldn't speak anymore as Zane pressed his lips into Jean's.
His hand caught the back of her neck before she could turn away, and his mouth
crashed against hers, not soft, not asking, just taking.
Jean's tiny fists were beating against his chest, but he didn't loosen his hold.
Her breath came in sharp, angry bursts against his lips, and still he pressed closer,
deeper, until her resistance faltered, until she was gasping for air and he finally tore his
mouth from hers.
His eyes were dark and unyielding, as if he'd carved the truth into her with that single kiss.
"Would you like to eat now, Jean Thorne, or should we continue?" He asked her teasingly.
Jean was put out of breath. She looked at Zane angrily.
Tears appeared on the edge of her eyes but she didn't let them fall.
"You're a monster." Jean said.
She slammed the bathroom door. The lock clicked loud. Like a gunshot.
She pressed her back against the cold tile. Her breath came fast. Short.
Outside, Zane's shadow showed under the door. Long. Dark.
Her lips hurt. Where he'd kissed her.
Not with love. But like he owned her. Marked.
She stumbled to the sink. Grabbing the porcelain edges. Until her knuckles turned white. The mirror showed a stranger: empty eyes. Messy hair. The ghost of a girl who once drew birds in the rain.
"I'm not yours," she whispered. But the words got lost in the steam. From her own fast breaths.
She turned on the water. Cold water ran over her hands. Freezing. Shocking.
She scrubbed her mouth. Until her lips split. Until blood taste filled her mouth. Metal. Pain was real. Pain was hers.
Her eyes looked up at the mirror. A crack—thin, rough—ran through the glass. Like her. Like everything. "I won't break," she promised herself. Strong. "Not for him. Not ever."
Zane stood still. In the middle of the room. The taste of her blood and anger still on his lips. His phone buzzed—Jared. He answered. Voice rough.
"Talk."
"Sir, Maddox is begging. Wants to make a deal."
"No deals," Zane growled. "Break another finger. Remind him what happens to men who touch what's mine."
He hung up. Put his head on the bathroom door. "Jean… let me in. Let me fix this."
But no sound answered him. Only the sound of her throwing up. Gagging.
Then it hit her—whiskey smell. Strong. Sour. Filling the air.
Rough scrape on her arm—claws not hands. Uncle's voice slid in:
"Little dove… shhh… learn to like it…"
Jean scrambled back. Crack. Her knees hit tile. Hard. Her back hit the tub—teeth rattled. Pain shot through her head. Walls got smaller. Tighter. Like a coffin. Mirror split—crack—wider. Her reflection broke.
Many broken girls screaming without sound.
"No—" Small sound. Rough. "Please don't—"
Door shook. Thump-thump-thump.
Zane's voice—muffled but sharp:
"Jean. Open this door. Now."
She couldn't breathe. Lungs stuck. She couldn't scream.
Past and now—mixed up. Zane's hands. Uncle's hands. Crushing weight. Both monsters.
Tile cut her hands. Cold. Sharp. Whiskey breath burned her nose. Mirror pieces showed two beasts:
One outside the door.
One inside her head.
The lock broke. Zane hit the door with his shoulder once. Twice. Wood cried out. Then broke open. He found her crumpled on the floor. Pale. Shaking. Her eyes wide with fear. She didn't see him.
"Jean." He fell to his knees. Reaching for her.
She jumped back. A raw cry tore from her throat. "Don't touch me! Don't—"
He froze. His hand hung in the air.
The sight of her—broken. Shattered by him—tore something open in his chest. "I'm sorry," he choked out. Voice thick. "God, Jean. I'm so sorry."
Tears ran down her face. Quiet. Endless. She curled up small. Like a hurt animal.
Careful—he put his jacket on her shoulders. Then sat back. Gave her room. His own hands shaking. Easy to see. "I won't hurt you," he promised. "Never again."
But her eyes were empty. Gone. She was already somewhere else.
Zane carried her to bed. His hands very gentle. Like holding glass.
He pulled the covers over her. Brushed the hair from her face.
She didn't move. Didn't blink. He sat beside her.
Watching her chest move up and down. The thin skin on her throat. The weight of his own meanness sat on him like lead. Heavy. "I broke her to save her," he thought. The irony hurt. "And now I'm the monster in her nightmares."
Her breath caught. A small cry came from her lips.
Without thinking—he took her hand. Her fingers were cold.
"I'm here," he whispered. Though he knew she couldn't hear him.
"I'll keep the monsters away."
Even the ones he'd become.
Hours passed into night.
At midnight—Zane slid down the wall. He could hear her shaky breaths. The soft sound of her crying sometimes. "I'm sorry, Bluebird," he whispered. The words lost in the wood. "I didn't want to be the monster you fear."
But no sound answered him. Heavy.
Dawn came in. Pale.
Not kind. Zane finally pulled himself to the armchair. Tiredness showed on his face. His tablet lay next to him. Screen glowing with a note:
BACKGROUND CHECK – JEAN GRAY: PARTIAL RESULTS.
He didn't look at it. Only the girl breaking in his bed mattered.
Jean woke to dim light. The room was dark. Zane's jacket still lay on her like a cover. He was asleep in the chair. Head back.
Tiredness cut into his face. For a second—he looked almost human. Almost weak.
Her eyes went to the tablet. A feeling of wanting to know mixed with fear hit her.
She got out of bed. Her feet made no sound on the carpet. She tapped the screen. Light flashed. Bright. Files filled the screen:
UNCLE: DAVID GRAY. LAST KNOWN PLACE: DETROIT, 2015. WHERE HE IS: UNKNOWN.
CHILDHOOD HURT REPORTS KEPT SECRET BY COURT (ASKING TO SEE THEM).
PEOPLE NEARBY SAID: "Crying at night. Never saw her after age 12."
FATHER'S DEATH PAPER: DRANK TOO MUCH ALCOHOL (2017).
Jean's breath stopped. David Gray. Unknown. Not dead. Not gone. Just… missing.
Her hands shook as she looked more. Almost dropped the tablet.
A police paper:
"Jean Gray (age 12) taken from home after being hurt by uncle, David Gray. Mother dead. Father not fit. Uncle ran away before we could ask. WHERE HE IS: UNKNOWN."
A crying sound came out. Raw. Ugly. He was out there. Somewhere.
And Zane was digging. Digging in her old graves....