Erica's POV
I folded the last dress with shaking hands.
The room felt smaller than it ever had, like the walls had leaned in overnight to watch me fall apart. My suitcase lay open on the bed, half-filled with pieces of my life, clothes, books, things that suddenly felt meaningless. Nothing I packed felt like it belonged to the version of me that had existed before today.
I heard him before I saw him.
My father stood in the doorway.
Not blocking it. Not rushing in. Just standing there, hands at his sides, shoulders slumped in a way I had never seen before. For the first time, he didn't look like a man who had everything under control.
He looked tired.
"I tried softness once," he said quietly.
I froze, my fingers still pressed into the fabric of my dress.
His voice wasn't sharp. It wasn't commanding. It sounded worn down, like a man who had been carrying the same fear for too long and didn't know how to set it down.
"It didn't work," he continued. "I don't know how to raise a daughter who feels this deeply."
Something tightened in my chest.
"I wasn't always like this," I whispered, though I didn't know who I was trying to convince. him or myself.
"I know," he said. "You're just like your mother."
That was enough to crack me open.
My mother's name was never spoken in our house. She lived in old photographs, in quiet evenings, in the way my father stiffened whenever emotions ran too close to the surface. Loving deeply had cost her everything. Somewhere along the way, my father decided that if he could control my life enough, I wouldn't end the same way.
"I'm scared for you," he admitted, finally looking at me. His eyes were red. "I'm scared you'll give your heart to someone who won't know how to hold it."
"I'm not fragile," I said, even as my voice trembled.
"You are," he replied gently. "And that's not a weakness. It's just… dangerous."
He inhaled slowly, like the next words hurt him too.
"My brother understands discipline better than I do," he said. "He won't hesitate where I hesitate."
The room went cold.
Uncle Raymond.
Just the thought of him twisted my stomach.
I hadn't seen him in years, but I remembered enough. His house was always spotless, silent in a way that made noise feel illegal. Rules taped neatly to the refrigerator. Doors locked at night. Phones taken without explanation. He never raised his voice, but when he spoke, you listened.
People said he was fair.
People said he was respected.
No one talked about how suffocating he was.
As a child, my father had used his name like a threat.
If you don't behave, I'll send you to your uncle.
Now, it wasn't a threat anymore.
"I'll be leaving in the morning," my father said. "Get some rest."
He turned and walked away.
The door stayed open.
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at my packed suitcase, my chest tight with a fear I couldn't properly name. Images flooded my mind without permission, my uncle's stern face, his uniform, his cold eyes that measured people instead of understanding them.
No laughter.
No softness.
No mistakes allowed.
I lay back slowly, staring at the ceiling, my apology letter to Jackson still folded beneath my pillow, burning like a secret I couldn't destroy.
I wasn't being sent away to cool down.
I was being sent away to be reshaped into obedience.
And somewhere deep inside me, beneath the fear, beneath the guilt, beneath everything else…
I knew this was only the beginning.
The drive to my uncle's house was quiet.
Too quiet.
My father focused on the road, hands tight on the steering wheel, like speaking might undo his resolve. I pressed my forehead against the window, watching familiar streets fade into unfamiliar ones. With every mile, it felt like I was being peeled away from myself.
Uncle Raymond's house stood at the end of a perfectly trimmed street, square and imposing. White walls. Dark gates. No warmth. No welcome.
The door opened before we knocked.
Uncle Raymond stood there in his pressed shirt, posture straight, eyes sharp. He looked exactly the same as I remembered, controlled, unreadable, intimidating in his calmness.
"Erica," he said, nodding once. "You're taller."
That was it.
No hug. No smile. No question about how I was feeling.
He turned and walked inside, already expecting us to follow.
The house smelled like polish and order. Everything had a place, and everything stayed there. Shoes aligned perfectly by the door. Clocks ticking in unison. Even the air felt disciplined.
As I moved, I felt his eyes on me, not openly staring, but observing. Measuring. Noting every hesitation, every stiff movement, every flicker of defiance I couldn't hide.
My skin prickled under his silent attention.
Dinner was at exactly seven. No talking unless spoken to. Plates cleared immediately. My phone was collected afterward and placed on a high shelf without discussion.
"No social media," he said calmly. "Limited calls. No leaving the house without permission. School and home only."
I nodded, even though something inside me screamed.
This wasn't protection.
This was containment.
That night, I lay awake in the unfamiliar room, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house breathe in quiet order. I felt smaller here. Watched. Contained. Like any wrong move would be corrected before it even happened.
The next morning, I went to school.
Uncle Raymond dropped me off himself.
I walked through campus with a hollow feeling in my chest, like I was moving through a place that no longer belonged to me. My feet carried me without permission, past familiar buildings, past faces I knew.
And then I saw his door.
Jackson Hale's office.
My heart stuttered.
I stopped without meaning to.
I told myself I just wanted to apologize. Just to say something, anything to close the open wound inside me. My hand lifted before my courage could run away.
I knocked.
The door opened.
And there she was.
Sophie.
Standing inside his office.
Laughing.
The sound hit me like a slap.
I didn't wait. I didn't think. I turned and walked away as fast as I could, my vision blurring, my chest burning like I had swallowed fire.
I didn't stop until I reached the school park.
I sank onto a bench and cried.
Quietly. Ugly. Without understanding why.
Why was I crying?
I didn't own him.
I had crossed lines.
I had been sent away because of my feelings.
So why did it hurt like this?
I pressed my hands to my face, confused by my own tears, by the ache that wouldn't explain itself.
All I knew was that something had broken open inside me.
And no amount of rules, distance, or discipline was going to close it again.