"Don't tell anyone."
Rowan said it without looking at me. He pressed his finger to the split skin on his knee and spoke in a low voice. Blood flowed out, making the pale skin look bright.
"I won't," I said, crouching down next to him. "But you need to stop moving."
He chuckled softly. "You sound like my mom."
"I know your mother," I said. "She doesn't sound like me."
He said, "That's because you're braver," as if it were a fact.
We were hiding behind the tool shed at the far end of the estate, where the hedges grew wild and the gardeners didn't go very often. We both knew it was our place, but we had never given it a name. The walls smelled like oil and old wood. Secrets slipped through the cracks in the sunlight.
Without thinking, I ripped a piece off the hem of my dress. The fabric tore too easily.
Rowan saw. "Your mom will yell at you."
"She'll scold me if she finds out," I said, tying the cloth carefully around his knee. "She won't."
He looked at my hands like they were doing magic. "You shouldn't do that."
"Do what?"
"Messing up your clothes for me."
I shrugged. "They were already broken. I play too much.
That made me smile. "Okay. I do too.
We stopped talking. In the distance, the estate was alive with activity—people giving orders, doors opening and closing, and the steady rhythm of work going on as usual. It was strange that the world could go on as if nothing had happened, even after the shouting, the broken glass, and the fear that had crept into my chest the day before and wouldn't leave.
"Are you scared?" Suddenly, Rowan asked.
I tied the knot too tightly. "Of what?"
He thought about it. "Of my father."
My hands stopped moving. I slowly looked up at him. His eyes weren't sharp or proud anymore. They were dark with something that looked like worry.
I told the truth when I said, "Everyone is afraid of your dad."
He frowned. "You shouldn't be."
"I don't fear for myself," I said. "I'm afraid for the people he looks at like he looked at my dad."
Rowan's jaw got tight. "My dad doesn't hurt nice people."
I didn't say anything. I thought about how my father had his fists clenched. The way his voice shook a little when he said he was innocent.
I stood up and brushed the dirt off my knees. "You need to go back before someone sees you're gone."
Rowan held my wrist. "Wait."
I stopped. He didn't have a strong grip, but he was desperate.
"Stay for a while," he said. "Only until it stops sounding loud in my head."
I sat back down.
That was the start.
We learned how to leave together.
Rowan began to sneak away from his lessons, tutors, and the high expectations that were placed on him. I began to get out of chores, like helping my mom, carrying water, and folding sheets. We met by the old fountain that didn't work anymore, behind the tool shed, and under the mango tree.
We talked about a lot of things and not a lot of things.
He told me that even when he didn't do anything wrong, his father would still correct him. I told him that my mom sang softly when she thought no one was around to hear her. He said that the chefs never asked him what he liked, so the meals were always boring. I told him about the stews my dad loved, which were full of pepper and laughter.
He would sometimes bring books. I sometimes stole fruit from the kitchen and brought it. We passed them around like drugs.
Rowan said one afternoon, while eating a mango and getting all over himself, "You know, if people saw us like this, they'd faint."
"Why?" I asked.
He said, "Because heirs aren't supposed to sit on the ground." "And the daughters of servants aren't supposed to correct them."
I cleaned the mango juice off my fingers. "Then stop doing things wrong."
He laughed so hard that he almost choked.
I once asked him why he never called me by my last name.
He said, "Elara Grey," with a thoughtful look on his face. "It sounds heavy."
"Is that bad?"
"No," he said. "It sounds like something people want you to do."
"And what about Elara?"
"That sounds like someone I picked."
The words stuck with me longer than they should have.
But the world has a way of seeing things that it shouldn't.
It all started with looks. Lingering ones. As Rowan walked by, the servants stopped what they were doing. When he came around, my mom pulled me closer to her.
One night, when the sky turned purple and gold, my mother cornered me by the laundry room.
She said quietly, "You've been spending time with the young master."
I nodded. When her eyes were already tired, it felt wrong to lie.
She said, "Elara," and ran her fingers through my hair. "That world is not yours."
I said, "I know." "I don't want his world."
She let out a sigh. "Worlds don't care what you want." They still crash into each other.
Rowan was waiting for me by the fountain the next day, and he was restless.
He said, "My dad asked about you."
My stomach dropped. "What did he say?"
Rowan said, "He asked me why I know your name." "I said you help your parents."
"That's right."
"He told me to stop paying attention to people who work for us."
The word "us" hit me like a slap.
"What did you say?" I asked.
Rowan raised his chin. "I told you that you weren't invisible."
I felt both warmth and fear at the same time. "You shouldn't have."
"Why not?"
"Because your dad doesn't like being challenged."
Rowan smiled slowly and with confidence. "Me neither."
That night, people in the main house started talking again. Anger. Allegations. Fear wrapped itself around the estate like fog.
The next day, soldiers came.
They weren't dressed like the other men. These people were in uniform. They moved with a purpose.
Rowan was by the mango tree, pale and shaking his hands.
"They took your dad," he said.
My heart stopped. "What?"
He whispered, "They said there was proof." "My uncle brought papers." My dad signed them.
"No," I said, stepping back. "No, that's not—"
Rowan tried to grab me, but I was already running.
I ran by the servants, the gardens, and the house that had never been mine. I ran until my lungs hurt and my vision got blurry.
They were closing when I got to the gates.
My father was on the other side, his hands tied and his eyes darting around.
He yelled, "Elara!"
I yelled his name as the gates slammed shut between us.
Rowan's voice cut through the noise behind me.
"Elara, wait!"
I turned, and tears filled my eyes.
Rowan stood still, stuck between the house that owned him and the girl who was ruining it.
And for the first time, I saw fear in his eyes—not of his father, not of the truth—But of what choosing me would cost.