Chapter 6: Drifting Toward Freedom

Savannah asked gently, "Did something happen to Mrs. Linwood? Why not go see her first? I’m fine."

She sat on the edge of the hospital bed, hands folded in her lap, voice soft and soothing. Harrison barely looked at her.

Harrison rubbed his brow irritably. "Ignore her."

He sounded tired, but also determined. He wasn’t going to let Mariah manipulate him—not this time.

Savannah bit her lip, speaking softly: "Mrs. Linwood must be really scared right now. She just wants to see you once. You’re married—there’s no conflict you can’t work through..."

She reached for his hand, her touch gentle. Harrison pulled away, shaking his head.

The more she pleaded, the colder Harrison’s face became.

He turned away, eyes hard. He’d made up his mind.

"Savannah, don’t worry," he said. "I won’t let her off just because she’s my wife. I’ll get justice for you."

His voice was steely, every word a promise. Savannah sniffled, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

Savannah’s tears trembled on her lashes. "Mr. Linwood, you’re so kind."

She looked up at him, admiration shining in her gaze. Harrison just sighed, exhausted.

...

"Mr. Linwood, to Maple Heights Medical Center?" the driver asked.

The driver’s voice crackled through the intercom. Harrison barely glanced up.

Maple Heights Medical Center is a private hospital co-owned by the Linwood and Torres families.

It was the obvious choice, but Harrison hesitated, his jaw set.

Harrison said coldly, "No. To the city hospital."

His tone brooked no argument. The driver nodded, changing course.

Savannah saw that Harrison was deliberately avoiding Mariah. Mariah was at Maple Heights Medical, but Harrison would rather go elsewhere than see her. She lowered her head and smiled quietly.

The smile was small, almost secret—a victory won without a word.

...

Harrison took Savannah to the city hospital. After checking her over, the doctor said she had only minor injuries, nothing serious. But she seemed deeply shaken, waking up crying after short naps.

Savannah, in tears, told Harrison: "Mr. Linwood, go ahead, don’t worry about me."

She squeezed his hand, her voice barely above a whisper. Harrison hesitated, but stayed by her side.

Originally, Harrison was wavering about whether to see Mariah, but seeing Savannah so pitiful, he decided to stay.

He couldn’t bring himself to leave. Guilt and anger warred inside him.

Savannah’s condition stabilized two days later. When Harrison left the hospital, he finally turned on his private phone.

He scrolled through his messages, expecting the usual barrage of missed calls and frantic texts.

He thought there would be dozens of messages and missed calls from Mariah. But this time, there was nothing—no messages, no calls.

His stomach twisted. He’d never known her to stay silent this long.

Harrison felt a strange emptiness for no reason. He’d never felt this before.

He tried to rationalize it—maybe she was just playing another game. But the silence gnawed at him.

He tried to calm himself, but after sitting in his office for a long time, he couldn’t help but call me.

He paced his office, phone pressed to his ear, tension radiating from every line of his body.

"Where’s Mariah?" Harrison asked coldly. "Let her answer the phone."

His voice was sharp, but underneath, I heard something else—fear.

I was silent for a long, long time.

I stared at the phone, heart pounding. This was it—the final act.

"I know you’re Mariah’s friend," Harrison grew impatient. "Tell Mariah to come see me right now..."

He was losing patience, his tone verging on desperate.

"Mariah’s dead," I said softly.

The words tasted like ash. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself not to cry.

There was a long silence on the other end. After a while, I heard Harrison give a cold laugh.

The sound was hollow, brittle. I could picture him, alone in his office, disbelief warring with denial.

"Stop playing games."

His voice trembled, just a little. He wasn’t ready to believe me.

His voice turned serious. "Tell her, I’ve already sorted things out with Savannah. Savannah promised not to call the cops or tell anyone. Mariah doesn’t need to hide anymore—tell her to come see me!"

He was pleading now, the mask slipping. I felt a pang of guilt, but there was no turning back.

I said nothing more, just slowly gave him an address.

I read it off a scrap of paper, voice steady. The funeral home was quiet at night, the chapel lit by a single lamp.

"If you want to see her so badly, come find her here."

I hung up before he could answer, my hands shaking.

---

It was 11 p.m. when Harrison found me in the funeral home’s chapel.

The chapel was dim, the air heavy with the scent of lilies and wax. I sat alone in the front pew, the urn cradled in my lap, the cold marble beneath me grounding me in the moment.

I sat there, dazed. Hearing Harrison’s footsteps, I turned my head slowly.

His shadow loomed in the doorway, suit jacket wrinkled, eyes wild. I barely recognized him.

"You’re here."

My voice was flat, emotionless. I didn’t trust myself to say more.

Harrison said nothing. He looked down at what I was holding—it was an urn.

His eyes went wide, hands trembling. For a second, he looked like he might collapse.

"This is..."

He reached for the urn, but I pulled it closer.

I lowered my head, stroking the urn. "Didn’t I tell you? She had a car accident." My face was blank, but my eyes were swollen and red. "If you’d come right after I called, you could have seen her one last time. Now, it’s all too late."

My voice broke on the last word. The silence was suffocating. Harrison’s fists clenched at his sides.

Harrison’s hands trembled. "I just..."

He looked lost, for the first time since I’d met him. I almost felt sorry for him.

I cut him off: "I know, you thought she kidnapped Savannah. It doesn’t matter, investigate all you want. Whatever you find, it has nothing to do with Mariah anymore."

I stood, my grip on the urn tightening. I wouldn’t let him rewrite the story—not this time.

I picked up the urn and brushed past Harrison.

He reached for me, but I sidestepped him, refusing to meet his eyes.

He called after me: "Wait. She’s my wife, she..."

His voice cracked, desperation bleeding through. I paused, but didn’t turn around.

I stopped. "You want her ashes, right?"

I laughed, tears streaming down my face. "No way. Harrison, when Mariah was alive, her love for you trapped her in the Linwood family. Now she’s dead, she can finally stop loving you. I’m taking her away, giving her freedom."

The words tumbled out, raw and honest. I didn’t care if I sounded cruel.

I looked at Harrison’s face, unable to hide my anger. "Please don’t call her your wife anymore. You never deserved to be her husband."

I turned and walked away, the chapel doors swinging shut behind me, the flicker of candlelight casting long shadows on the marble floor.

---

I left with the urn.

The night air was cool, the city lights reflecting off the river. I hugged the urn to my chest, heart pounding, the distant hum of traffic grounding me in the present.

There’s no way I’d give it to Harrison. Because inside, Mariah had just scooped up some face powder from her makeup bag. I even had to google it and tell her that ashes aren’t powder, so she hurriedly added some leftover chicken bones.

We’d laughed about it in her kitchen, the absurdity of it all making us giddy. "If anyone opens it, they’ll think I died with perfect skin and a craving for fried chicken," she’d joked, waving a drumstick for emphasis.

I walked to the river and scattered the powder and bones into the water.

The wind whipped my hair around my face. I watched the powder swirl, the bones sinking out of sight. It felt like saying goodbye to a part of myself, the water carrying away our old lives.

"Mariah, you’re free now."

My voice cracked. I wiped my eyes, letting the tears fall. For the first time in years, I felt light.

I choked up.

The grief was real, even if the death was fake. I whispered a silent promise to Mariah—we’d start over, somewhere no one knew our names.

I knew Harrison was watching my back. After scattering the ashes, I drove away without looking back.

His car idled across the street, headlights off. I didn’t acknowledge him. Some things were better left unsaid.

By my calculations, Victor should be looking for me soon. He punished me for three days, and now the time was almost up.

I checked my burner phone every hour, half-expecting to see his name. But the screen stayed dark.

But Victor didn’t come for me.

I waited, nerves frayed, but the mansion stayed silent. No calls, no messages, nothing.

I knew it was because Savannah had gone to him. Because of Mariah’s death, Harrison was now ignoring Savannah. With her style, she’d immediately move on to her next target. She would go to Victor and reunite with him.

Savannah never wasted time. If one man turned cold, she’d find another to warm her hands. I almost admired her audacity.

The girl outside the rose garden had finally been found—how could Victor still care about a fake like me?

I pictured them together in his rose garden, my white dress still hanging in the closet.

I drove to the bridge over the river.

The city was quiet, streetlights flickering. I parked at the edge, staring at the water below, the cool breeze making my skin prickle.

In Maple Heights, the big shots have carved up the city. The place where I scattered the ashes belonged to Victor. Now, I was on Harrison’s turf.

It was poetic, in a twisted way—each man ruling his own patch of darkness.

Sitting by the river, I reviewed what I’d left at the mansion.

I pulled out my list, double-checking every detail. There was no room for mistakes.

A silver rose pin—the last gift I gave Victor.

A suicide note—to tell Victor I loved him.

A depression diagnosis (forged)—to explain my cause of death.

I’d spent hours perfecting the handwriting, making sure the note sounded just desperate enough. The diagnosis was a PDF I’d doctored on Mariah’s laptop.

After checking, I called Victor.

My hands shook as I dialed. The phone rang twice before he picked up.

He answered, sounding a little drunk: "Hello."

His voice was rough, slurred. I heard music in the background, glasses clinking, laughter echoing through the line.

A girl’s annoyed voice came from beside him: "Victor, who is it?"

It was Savannah.

I could picture her—long hair, red lips, draped across his lap. I swallowed my jealousy, forcing myself to stay calm.

Ignoring her, I calmly began my performance:

I cleared my throat, making my voice as steady as possible. "Victor, don’t worry, I’m not calling to pester you. I just wanted to say thank you. When I first came to this city, I had nothing. You gave me a place to stay, protected me, and gave me... the illusion of being loved."

I let the words hang, hoping he’d hear the gratitude—and the goodbye.

Victor’s tone changed a bit. He said, "Lila, where are you?"

There was a note of panic in his voice. I almost caved, almost told him everything. But I couldn’t.

I said calmly, "I’m glad someone else will love you for me from now on. Remember to drink less, get your old knee checked out..."

I tried to sound breezy, like this was just another casual chat. My heart was breaking.

"Lila! Where are you, I’ll come find you..."

It was the first time I’d heard Victor lose control.

His voice was frantic, the mask slipping. I closed my eyes, savoring the moment.

I laughed, the wind rushing in.

The sound was wild, desperate. I wanted him to remember it, to know I’d left on my own terms.

"Victor. Goodbye."

I threw my phone into the river and jumped.

The world tilted, the wind roaring in my ears. For a moment, I was weightless.

---

The river surged into my throat.

The shock of cold water jolted me awake. I kicked hard, fighting the current, the taste of river water sharp and metallic.

The next second, the flotation layer in my clothes activated. My back surfaced, mouth biting the oxygen tube of a special mini scuba device, drifting along with the current.

I’d ordered the gear online, hidden it under my bed for weeks. Mariah had insisted on a test run in her pool. Now, adrenaline kept me afloat, my heart pounding in my ears.

After about an hour, I bumped into a kayak.

The moon was high, silver on the water. The kayak rocked as I grabbed the side, coughing, my fingers numb from the cold.

Looking up, I saw Mariah sitting in it, paddling hard.

She wore a rain poncho and a determined scowl, hair plastered to her forehead, but her eyes sparkled with victory and relief.

"You finally made it!" Mariah panted. "Get up here and help, or do you want me to die of exhaustion?"

I hauled myself up, shivering, and we both burst out laughing. For the first time in forever, we were free—and the river carried us toward our next adventure.