The soft clinking of champagne glasses chimed above the low hum of polite conversation. The townhouse was warm with the scent of jasmine candles and fine wine, laughter echoing between the marble fireplace and glass decanters. Claire moved effortlessly between the guests, her smile easy, her posture perfect. She poured, passed, complimented. Always the gracious hostess.

She was used to this. She was good at this. It was a skill she'd honed over the years, charming others while carefully hiding the tremble beneath her skin. A laugh here. A brush of the hand there. She knew how to make people feel welcome even when her own bones felt hollow.

Her gown was a beautiful silky blush that skimmed over her soft curves but felt snug around her waist. She tugged at it more than once when she knew no-one was looking. Her brown hair was curled and pinned just so, blue eyes bright despite the tension that coiled low in her stomach.

Tonight was a celebration for their engagement. A step forward in a couples life goals. And yet, she felt it.

That invisible string pulling taut across the room.

Alaric's gaze.

He stood by the fireplace, tall and composed, dark hair slicked back, his tailored suit sharp as a blade.

He barely moved. Just watched.

His fingers curled around a crystal glass of scotch. It was half full, always half full. He hated to see things run empty. He hated imperfections.

Claire laughed lightly at something one of the guests had said, and across the room, she saw his jaw flex.

The party began to blur around her then, glimpses of smiles, the hum of the jazz he liked from the speaker system, the way the lights from the chandelier danced on the floor like broken stars. But she kept her voice pleasant and her hands steady. Keeping all her nerves off show.

When Rupert, one of Alaric's business partners, made a joke and she laughed, though she had done it politely, nothing more, she felt it again. That flicker of heat. Not from Rupert. But from the other side of the room.

Alaric's silence was louder than any outburst. His presence always took up more space than his body should allow. It swallowed everything.

And moments later, his voice cut clean through the evening.

"We're calling it a night."

Conversations stuttered, faltered, and fell into awkward farewells. No one questioned him. No one ever did.

Claire smiled, thanked the guests, hugged someone she'd only just met, and ushered everyone out with grace. She apologised on Alaric's behalf with a well-practiced smile, brushing it off as an early morning meeting he couldn't miss. Everyone nodded, understanding, pretending they hadn't noticed the building tension.

She shut the door with a soft click. And then, heart thumping, she turned.

Alaric stood in the hallway, drink abandoned, his arms crossed, his eyes dark and unreadable.

"You were enjoying yourself a little too much," he said through gritted teeth.

Claire blinked, confused. "I... what do you mean?"

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, like a predator deciding how best to strike. She backed up instinctively until the hallway table pressed into her lower back. Her heart picked up, thudding louder in her ears.

"You think I didn't see you with Rupert?" His voice was like ice. "Giggling. Touching his arm. Like a slut."

She flinched. "No... I wasn't... Alaric, I was just being polite. That's all."

His hand came fast. The slap snapped her head sideways, and she tasted blood instantly. She staggered back, disoriented, knocking over a crystal dish that shattered on the floor.

"I watched you," he said, his voice rising. "You were practically begging for his attention."

Her heart pounded as she tried to steady herself. "Please," she said quietly. "You're overthinking it."

His fist hit her stomach, and she doubled over with a choked cry.

"I'm overthinking it?" he barked. "Don't you dare talk back to me!"

Another blow, but this time it came to her ribs causing her knees to give out.

Claire's head hit the floor with a crack. A dull throb pulsed through her skull as she lay there, the polished wood beneath her spinning in and out of focus. Her body stung where his knuckles had made contact, and the sharp, metallic tang of blood filled her mouth. For a moment, she tried to convince herself this wasn't real. That this was some nightmare she would soon wake from. But the ache in her ribs and the hot tears streaming down her face reminded her she was wide awake.

"You're a fat, pathetic little tart," he growled. "I should've left you the day I found you fiddling with that bloody camera. Playing artist. Thinking you were someone." He leaned in close and hissed, "You've embarrassed me for the last fucking time."

She said nothing. She didn't move. If she stayed small, he might leave. And he did.

Eventually.

When the front door slammed, it sent a tremor through the floorboards. Claire stayed there, lying in the same place he had left her, trying to breathe through the pain. Her body ached in a dozen places. One eye had already swollen nearly shut. Her fingers twitched, clumsy and slow as she tried to sit up.

The house was too quiet. The kind of quiet that follows violence. The kind that makes the walls feel like they're closing in around you.

She dragged herself to the couch, each step a sharp reminder of what had just happened. Every bruise, every cut, every drop of blood felt like a betrayal. Like evidence of a love she once believed in. She used to tell herself he only lost control once. That it was the alcohol. That he loved her. But tonight, tonight had shown her something she could no longer deny.

There was no excuse for this.

-

The next morning the sunlight filtered through the windows like it had the audacity to pretend nothing had happened.

Claire moved slowly, her body aching in too many places to count. Every movement sent a jolt through her ribs, her swollen cheek, her stiff neck.

Even in tremendous pain, she started cleaning up the remnants of last night.

Not because the mess mattered. But because it gave her something to do. Something to focus on. Something to keep her from crumbling. She washed the dishes she didn't remember dirtying. She wiped down counters that were already spotless.

It was your fault, she told herself, the words looping like a mantra.

You should've known better. Shouldn't have laughed. Shouldn't have smiled. He loves you. He wouldn't have done it if you hadn't provoked him. Maybe you had flirted. Maybe you just didn't realise it.

She was so caught up in her thoughts that she didn't hear the front door open. But she felt the air change.

Then in an instant his breath was on her neck, warm and soft. He kissed her cheek, right where it was bruised forcing her to freeze in place.

"Morning, love," he said, like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't beat her senseless just mere hours ago.

Her stomach clenched at his words. But ignoring her evident fear he held out a bouquet of white lilies, all delicate petals and heavy fragrance.

"I picked these up for you."

Claire hesitated. Then she forced a smile. "They're lovely," she murmured, but as she reached out to take them, he pulled them back.

"Are you not going to thank me?" He asked, his tone dropping.

She blinked. "Thank you."

But it was too late.

His hand flew out, striking the exact same spot on her face as last night, sending her crashing to the floor, cheek throbbing, lip split. And her ears ringing.

"Ungrateful bitch," he hissed, throwing the flowers to the floor. He turned to leave but paused at the door, and turned to look at her with disdain. "Look at the state of you. You've let yourself go, Claire. No man wants a woman who can't take pride in herself. Maybe if you lost a stone or two, you'd be worth looking at. Worth nice things even." He slammed the door behind him.

Claire didn't move for a long time. The lilies lay on the floor, petals crushed, their sweet scent suddenly nauseating. But when she finally stood and passed the mirror in the hallway, she stopped. What she saw wasn't her.

Her reflection was swollen and bruised, skin mottled, eyes hollow. She looked like a ghost.

This wasn't the woman who used to lose herself in golden hour light, barefoot in grass at the local park, chasing the perfect photo. This wasn't the woman who made strangers laugh and took portraits that made people cry. This wasn't the woman she used to be.

And suddenly, something inside her snapped.

Quietly.

Without drama. Like a cord breaking clean through.

She turned and walked to the bedroom and packed a small suitcase, just what she needed. Clothes. Passport. The scarf her mother gave her the Christmas before she died. A toothbrush and a jumper.

She set the bag by the front door. Then she went into Alaric's forbidden study. She knelt in front of his safe, opened it, and took the cash from inside. Thick wads of money. Enough to vanish. She paused for a moment, her hands shaking, before closing the safe. It felt final.

No cards and no trace.

Back in the kitchen, she dropped her phone into the sink full of dishwater. It hissed and sank beneath the bubbles. It was done.

She stood there a moment, looking around the house she'd lived in for years. The house she'd once called home. The walls felt like they were watching her. Waiting for her to come to her senses and change her mind. But she didn't. She turned her back on it without a second thought.

The cab ride was quiet. The driver asked if she was heading somewhere special. She said yes. She didn't elaborate, and he didn't ask again. He had to have known what had happened to her, but like so many others he simply ignored the bruising and turned a blind eye.

At the airport, she paid in the stolen cash and walked to the nearest ticket counter.

"When's the next available flight please," she asked softly.

The woman behind the desk didn't even blink. "Atlanta. Leaves in thirty-five minutes."

"Perfect, I'll take it."

No goodbye. No note. No trail. There was no way Alaric could use his connections to find her if she left England, there would just be too many possibilities.

Once settled in her seat on the plane, Claire stared out the window, watching as clouds swallowed the sky. Somewhere down below was the life she was leaving. And somewhere ahead, something else. Not better. Not yet at least.

But different.

-

The air in Atlanta was warmer and heavier even as winter was setting in. Claire stood at the edge of the arrivals hall with her suitcase, unsure of anything except that she was gone and now safe.

She bought a map from the little shop next to the baggage claim and a bottle of water. Then she bought a cheap second-hand car, paying in cash, and keeping her head down. She kept her voice soft, and her answers vague. Something she no longer knew she was doing. A second nature.

As she sat behind the wheel of the bright yellow beetle, the map open on her lap, her hands beginning to tremble. But it was too late to turn back now. Alaric would know she was missing, he'd know she had been into his study and had stolen his cash. He would be furious and that would be a beating she knew she would never survive.

So as her eyes filled with water, she closed them letting fate decide her next move. She let her finger fall. And when she opened her eyes again, her finger was resting on a single word.

Montana.

A breath left her lips as she whispered, "Alright then Montana it is."

-

The road was long and endless, a ribbon of grey cutting through a sea of white snow and evergreen trees. Claire gripped the steering wheel of the rental car tighter as her eyes scanned the map she'd folded on the passenger seat. For hours, she'd driven through the vast, empty stretches of Montana, the landscape both breathtaking and brutal in its beauty. This place was unlike anywhere she'd ever been.

Mountains rose in the distance like sleeping giants, their peaks draped in snow. The silence was thick out here. There were no sirens. No bustle of city traffic. Just the hum of the tires against the road and the occasional whisper of wind through the cracks in the windows.

She was utterly alone. And yet, for the first time in years, that didn't terrify her. It was peaceful.

Her body still ached. The bruises along her ribs continued to throb with every movement. The deep purple stain on her cheek had begun to turn green and yellow at the edges. Makeup barely concealed it. She hadn't bothered much. No one here knew her. No one expected anything from her. And that felt... nice.