Chapter 5: The Return to Caldwell House?

They said dozens of armed men—pirates, really—landed at the coast near Savannah, wielding sharp knives, burning, killing, and looting as they advanced northward. The headlines read like something from a bad TV drama: masked men, boats at dawn, chaos rolling up the coast. The town’s group chats were on fire—everyone feared for their lives.

They were cunning and fierce, and the corrupt officials were powerless to stop them. Neighbors whispered about payoffs and cover-ups, about cops who looked the other way. Even in America, you learned, power could be bought and safety was never guaranteed.

By the time you heard about it, they had already passed through, continuing north. You watched the news from your porch, phone in hand, scanning every update. Relief mingled with dread—the danger had moved on, but what if it circled back?

The neighboring town, being by the sea, suffered terribly. Friends sent photos—houses burned to the ground, cars overturned, windows smashed. It looked like a war zone, unimaginable so close to home.

A peaceful place that hadn’t seen violence in decades became a ghost town overnight. You drove through once, after the all-clear, and saw the devastation yourself. It changed you, made you wary in ways you couldn’t explain.

Blood ran in the streets, bodies everywhere, and every house that could burn was reduced to ashes. You felt the fear settle deep in your bones, a reminder that nothing—not money, not beauty—could shield you from fate.

Neighboring families packed up their valuables and fled inland to seek refuge with relatives. You watched the caravans head west, minivans stuffed with boxes, families clutching dogs and cats. The world felt smaller and scarier than ever.

But you had no one to rely on, nowhere to escape the chaos. You made a list of emergency contacts, realized half the names were dead or missing. You were on your own, and the knowledge was both freeing and terrifying.

Your elegant two-story house was protected only by a thin fence and a wooden door—sufficient for gentlemen, but useless against armed bandits. You stared at the locks, suddenly aware of how fragile your fortress was. The staff looked to you for answers, and you had none.

The maids were terrified, afraid the raiders would return. You gathered them in the kitchen, promised to keep them safe. But your words felt hollow, your hands shaking as you gripped your coffee mug.

The only male worker in the house suggested returning to the Caldwell family. He spoke with urgency, pointing out the obvious—the Caldwells had money, security, connections. It was the practical choice, even if it meant giving up your hard-won freedom.

That family had been prominent for generations; the mansion had been renovated many times, with heavy iron gates, high walls, and plenty of security. You remembered the cameras, the patrols, the feeling of safety inside those walls. It was tempting, but it came at a cost.

More importantly, under the governor’s nose, the raiders would never dare run rampant. The political shield was real—connections mattered, and you knew it.

But you had already escaped the fate of a maid through your own effort and rare luck—how could you go back now? Your pride balked at the idea. You’d fought too hard to become your own person.

With what identity would you return? You imagined standing on the front steps, suitcase in hand, asking for shelter. Would they see you as a guest, a burden, or a stray returning home?

Under the urging and hopeful eyes of the three maids and one worker, you met their eyes, heart pounding, the old Caldwell mansion calling to you like a siren in the dark. Were you really ready to go back?