The door clicked shut, sealing her in.
Silence.
It was a thick, heavy thing, pressed against her eardrums after the echoing slam and the furious voices still rising from downstairs. Eva stood with her back against the wood, her palm flat on its cool, painted surface, as if she could physically hold the world at bay.
Her heart wasn't hammering anymore. It was kicking. A frantic, animal rhythm against her ribs that made her feel lightheaded. The cold, clarifying rage that had propelled her out of the dining room was gone, evaporated the second the lock had turned, leaving behind a chemical burn of pure, undiluted fear.
What did you just do?
The old Eva, the people-pleaser, the ghost in her own mind, whimpered the question. That girl was already calculating the cost, tallying the apologies, rehearsing the ways to make herself small and forgivable again.
A glass shattered downstairs, followed by the unmistakable, venomous hiss of Tyler's voice, though the words were muffled. They were down there, the two of them, plotting her end. She knew it. Her punishment would be calculated, brutal, and designed to break her completely. They'd sell her car, freeze her accounts, lock her in this gilded cage until she was nothing but the pretty, vacant doll they wanted to parade in front of Alexander Cruz.
A sound escaped her a sharp, punched-out breath that was too harsh to be a laugh. Let them try. The girl they were planning to break had already died in a future they couldn't imagine. What was left of her was harder to kill.
But the bravado was thin, a sheet of ice over a bottomless lake of terror. Okay. She'd made her stand. It felt incredible. It also felt like stepping off a cliff. Now what? She was eighteen. She had the life skills of a mayfly. And she was so profoundly alone.
No.
The thought was a flare in the dark. A single, stubborn ember.
Not alone.
There was one person. The only one who had ever looked past the pretty face and seen the person drowning inside.
Her fingers, trembling now with a fine, uncontrollable shake, fumbled in her pocket for her phone. She misdialed the number twice, her thumb slipping on the screen, before she finally heard the ring.
One ring. Two.
Pick up. Please, please pick
"Eva? Sweetheart? It's early. Is everything okay?" Her aunt's voice was sleep-rough, warm, and instantly concerned. It was the sound of safety. It was a lifeline.
The simple, unconditional care in that voice shattered her. A sob, raw and ugly, tore from her throat. She slid down the length of the door, collapsing into a heap on the floor, the phone pressed hard against her ear.
"Maria," she choked out, the word barely recognizable.
"Eva. Breathe. I'm here. Talk to me." Maria's voice was awake now, sharp with focus.
"I… I lost it," Eva gasped, the words tumbling out in a wet, broken rush. "At breakfast. Mom and Tyler… they were talking about the gala… about Alexander Cruz… like I was a prize pig to be sold…"
She spilled it all. The cold eggs. The "united front." Tyler's "pretty prize" comment. The way the memory of a future pain had lanced through her. The plate. The greasy stain on the priceless rug.
"I called Mom a… I called her a name. I walked out. They're down there… God, Maria, they're so mad…"
"Good," Maria said, and the word was so firm, so absolute, it stopped Eva's tears mid-sob. "It's about damn time. That 'pretty prize' has a knockout punch, I see. I'm proud of you."
Proud. No one had ever said that to her after a tantrum. This wasn't a tantrum. This was a mutiny. And Maria was her first and only ally.
"What do I do?" Eva whispered, the plea laid bare. "I'm locked in my room. I can't stay here."
"You listen to me," Maria said, her voice dropping into a calm, commanding rhythm. "You are not staying there. I am two hours away. I am getting in my car right now. You pack one bag. Just the essentials. Things they won't immediately notice are gone. When I'm ten minutes out, I'll text you. You walk out that front door and you do not look back. You understand me?"
The plan was insane. Audacious. It was everything. A wild, reckless hope flared in her chest, so bright it burned away the last of the panic.
"Where will I go?"
"You'll come to my home. It's your home too. Then," Maria paused, and Eva could hear the jingle of car keys, the grim smile in her voice, "then we figure out how to make sure they're the ones who get burned. We don't just run from the fire, kid. We become the fire."
A heavy fist slammed against the door, making the wood vibrate against her back. "Eva! Open this door! Now!" Her father's voice, a rare and terrifying boom.
"Eva? Are you still with me?" Maria's voice was a steady anchor in the sudden storm.
"Yeah," Eva breathed, her eyes fixed on the door, her father's shadow blocking the light from the crack underneath.
"One bag. See you soon."
The line went dead.
The pounding came again. "Eva! I won't ask again!"
Eva pushed herself up from the floor. Her legs held. She looked at the door, at the shadow of the man on the other side, and felt nothing but a cold, steady calm.
She walked to her closet and pulled down a duffel bag from the top shelf.
She had a bag to pack.