Chapter 122

CHAPTER 9

Isla’s hands were raw and aching, her pale skin rubbed nearly to blisters as she scrubbed the heavy stack of dishes in ice-cold tap water. The chill bit at her fingers, but she didn’t dare pause. Mrs. Anne, the woman who ran the Magnolia Ridge Bed and Breakfast, was a strict and frugal taskmaster, and any sign of slacking off would draw a sharp reprimand. Complaining wasn’t an option either; Isla already knew it wouldn’t make a difference. Mrs. Anne cut corners wherever she could, whether it was underpaying her staff or ignoring basic decency.

Beside her, a young girl named Avery swept the wooden floors of the dining room. Avery was around Isla’s age, perhaps a little younger, with a quiet demeanor that suggested she’d learned to keep her head down and do as she was told. The two worked in silence, neither daring to say much. Outside, the sun had just set, casting a soft orange glow through the windows. Most of the guests were still out exploring the town, but they would return soon, and dinner had to be ready. The clock ticked on, a relentless reminder of the evening rush to come.

Despite the busyness of her hands, Isla’s mind drifted, as it always did, back to home. Thornfield Manor. Its sprawling grounds, warm fireplaces, and the comfort of her father’s steady presence. A month ago, she had everything: a roof over her head, a father who loved her, and the quiet confidence that life would continue in familiar security.

Now, it all felt like a distant dream.

Her father was gone. Her home was gone. Every ounce of stability and safety she’d ever known had been stripped away in a matter of weeks. Two weeks ago, grief and anger had clouded her judgment, leading her to flee in the dead of night, packing her things and leaving Willow Creek without telling a soul. She thought she was taking control, but now she could see it for what it was: a rash, foolish decision driven by ego and pain.

A lone tear slid down her cheek as she plunged her hands back into the freezing water, fishing for another bowl. The memory of that night in Willow Creek haunted her. She could see herself rushing to pack her bag, driven by a storm of emotions she barely understood. Pride and anger had told her she couldn’t stay, that she didn’t need anyone. She’d wanted to prove she could survive on her own.

But now? Now she knew better.

The realization came harshly on her fourth night in Magnolia Ridge. By then, she was already well aware that the guest house she’d chosen to stay in was far from safe. The owner, a greasy, leering man with a predatory gaze, had made her skin crawl from the moment she arrived. Worse still, she knew someone had rifled through her belongings the first day she’d left the room, likely the owner or one of his staff. She’d found her carefully folded clothes in disarray and her few possessions disturbed, though her hidden stash of money had thankfully gone unnoticed.

Even knowing all this, she’d stayed. Perhaps out of desperation or the naive hope that things wouldn’t get worse. But on her fourth night, her hope shattered.

It was well past midnight when she awoke, her body stiff from the uncomfortable bed and the unfamiliar sense of the old building settling around her. At first, she thought it was a dream—a bunch of shadows moving around blending into her restless sleep. But then she froze, her eyes catching a distinct shadow, a silhouette of a man inside the room.

Her breath hitched. Panic washed over her in a cold, suffocating wave as she sat up in the dark, her heart pounding violently against her ribs. The room was pitch black, but the faint outline of a shadow moved near the doorway, where the dim moonlight barely spilled in through the thin curtains.

Someone was inside.

Isla’s trembling hand scrambled along the cold, peeling wall, desperately searching for the light switch in the suffocating darkness. Her breath came in shallow, panicked gasps, but the switch was nowhere to be found. Instead, her wide eyes caught movement—shadows. Three of them. There were three men in the room.

Her heart plummeted into a free fall.

The realization hit her like a tidal wave, and before she could think or act, the fear erupted from her throat in a blood-curdling scream. The sound tore through the silence, raw and unfiltered, but it only lasted a moment before one of the intruders lunged forward. His hand clamped over her mouth, smothering the scream before it could fully escape. Another man closed in, his shadow looming over the bed, his intentions clear in the predatory gleam of his eyes.

Every instinct screamed at her to fight, to run, to survive. Despite the paralyzing terror that made her limbs feel like lead, something primal surged within her—a desperate, almost inhuman strength fueled by sheer will to live. Isla bit down on the hand covering her mouth with every ounce of force she could muster, her teeth sinking into flesh until she tasted blood. The man howled in pain, yanking his hand back reflexively.

She didn’t stop.

Kicking wildly, Isla lashed out with her legs, her bare feet colliding with knees and shins as she writhed and screamed. Her voice was hoarse, raw, but she couldn’t hear it. She didn’t realize she was still screaming because her world was a cacophony of silence—broken only by the rapid pounding of her heart in her ears.

A third pair of hands lunged for her, but she twisted, her elbow slamming into one of the men’s ribs. With a surge of adrenaline, she broke free, bolting toward the door. Her body was a blur of movement, acting on instinct alone. She tore the door open and ran out into the night, the cold air biting at her skin as she fled, barefoot and clad only in her thin pajamas.

Her screams echoed through the quiet streets of Magnolia Ridge, piercing the stillness and rousing the sleepy neighborhood. But Isla didn’t notice the growing number of faces peeking out from windows and doorways. She couldn’t hear their voices or their questions; her fear was a deafening roar in her mind, drowning out everything else.

Her feet slapped against the pavement, the sharp edges of gravel and small stones biting into her soles, but she didn’t stop. The streetlights cast an eerie glow over her wild figure—a young woman running barefoot in the dead of night, her face streaked with tears and terror.

It wasn’t until several neighbors emerged from their homes that her frantic sprint slowed. A few kind souls cautiously approached her, their concern evident in their furrowed brows and hesitant gestures. Someone touched her shoulder, their soothing words lost on her as her chest heaved with shallow, rapid breaths. Isla’s hands flew to her ears, shaking her head as though trying to make sense of the silent chaos around her.

It took several agonizing minutes and gentle coaxing from the neighbors before Isla began to calm down. Her body still trembled uncontrollably, but her screams faded into quiet, gasping sobs. Someone draped a blanket over her shoulders, the weight of it grounding her slightly as she sat on the curb, her knees drawn to her chest.

When the police arrived, Isla was barely coherent, but she managed to explain what had happened. Two officers crouched in front of her, their faces serious but compassionate as they asked questions. She recounted the terror of waking to find strangers in her room, their hands on her, her desperate escape into the night. Her voice cracked with emotion, but she forced the words out, determined to make them understand.

The officers moved quickly, entering the guest house to investigate. Isla sat huddled on the curb, her bare feet raw and dirty, clutching the blanket tightly around her shoulders. Her gaze was distant, her mind replaying the nightmare over and over.

When the officers returned, their expressions were grim. They had spoken with the owner of the guest house, who adamantly denied that any break-in had occurred. He claimed there were no signs of forced entry and dismissed Isla’s account, suggesting it was a misunderstanding or, worse, an overreaction.

The officers noted the disarray in her room—clothes and belongings strewn across the floor—but the owner shrugged it off as Isla’s own messiness. "She's just making a fuss," he said dismissively. "There was no one else here."

The question hung in the cold night air, piercing Isla’s already fragile composure.

"Are you sure it wasn’t just a bad dream?" one of the officers asked, his tone laced with disbelief. Isla stared at him, stunned, the words hitting her like a slap.

A bad dream?

She opened her mouth to argue, but before she could speak, the other officer added, “The owner said he already warned you to leave because you hadn’t paid him last week’s rent. Are you sure you’re not just trying to stir up trouble?”

Her throat tightened, frustration and humiliation burning behind her eyes. Tears welled up, choking her words before they could form. They didn’t believe her. Not the officers, not the neighbors—no one. The realization made her want to scream, but all she could do was stand there, silent and defeated.

Isla didn’t dare step foot inside that guest house again. The officers, with obvious irritation, went upstairs to retrieve her belongings. Moments later, they handed her suitcase off to her on the side of the road. "Here," one of them muttered before the two of them disappeared into their patrol car, their flashing lights fading into the darkness.

And just like that, she was left standing alone on the deserted road at 2 a.m., barefoot and homeless.

Her fingers shook as she unzipped the hidden slit in her suitcase, the place where she’d kept her emergency cash. But her worst fears were confirmed—the money was gone. She didn’t even have to count; she knew it had been stolen. She had nothing left.

Isla dragged her suitcase behind her, the small wheels bumping over the uneven pavement as she wandered aimlessly through the silent streets of Magnolia Ridge. Her breath fogged in the chilly night air, her thin pajamas offering little protection against the cold. She wished for a miracle, prayed for it, but none came.

By the time she found herself at a small park, her legs were trembling with exhaustion. She sank onto a weathered wooden bench, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around herself for warmth. Tears streamed silently down her cheeks as she stared into the distance, too numb to wipe them away. She didn’t sleep that night. She sat on that bench, awake and terrified, feeling the sharp sting of rock bottom.

This was the lowest point of her life.

As the first light of dawn broke over the town, Isla stumbled into a public restroom. She washed her face, changed into her only other set of clothes, and stepped out onto the street with no plan, no money, and no hope. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, but she ignored it as she walked the neighborhood, stopping at every store and restaurant she could find, begging for work.

"No vacancies," they all said, some more politely than others.

But at one café, a kind worker pointed her toward Ms. Anne’s Bed and Breakfast. “She’s looking for help,” the woman said with a sympathetic smile.

Clutching her suitcase, Isla made her way there.

Ms. Anne was a no-nonsense woman with sharp eyes and an air of authority that brooked no argument. She barely glanced at Isla before laying out the terms.

“The pay is $25 a day,” Ms. Anne said curtly. “You’ll cook, clean, make the beds, scrub the bathrooms, and greet customers politely. I’ve already got another girl, Avery, who sleeps in the basement. You’ll share with her, but I’ll charge you $100 a month for rent. You’ll also need to provide your own food. If a single morsel goes missing from my kitchen, you’re out. Understand?”

Isla nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A basement was better than sleeping on the streets.

The work was grueling, far beyond anything Isla had ever done before. She cooked meals for up to a dozen guests daily, often twice or three times a day, and spent hours cleaning their rooms afterward. The toilets were the worst. Isla, who had never so much as picked up a cleaning rag back at Thornfield Manor, found herself kneeling in front of filthy bathroom fixtures, scrubbing until her arms ached and the acrid smell of bleach burned her nostrils.

Every moment was a reminder of how far she had fallen.

By the end of each day, her body felt broken. Her hands were red and raw from dishwashing, her back throbbed from bending over beds and floors, and her stomach growled with hunger because she couldn’t afford more than a piece of bread or a bowl of soup each day.

Late one night, as she washed dishes in the dimly lit kitchen, Isla sighed heavily, her thoughts drifting back to Thornfield Manor. She had taken so much for granted—the safety, the comfort, the warmth. She had left with nothing but her pride and a suitcase, and that pride had landed her here, in this hellish existence.

It was ego, she realized. Ego had driven her to leave without a plan. Ego had made her believe she could survive on her own without any help. And now, she was paying the price.

Surely Graham would have eventually asked her to leave Thornfield Manor, but he wouldn’t have let her end up like this. He wasn’t a heartless man. If she swallowed her pride and went back, maybe he would help her—offer her a loan or let her use the trust fund to get some training and build a new life for herself.

The thought lingered in her mind as she dried the last plate and set it on the rack. She couldn’t keep living like this. As soon as she got her first month’s pay, she would hitch a ride back to Thornfield.

She would beg Graham if she had to. She didn’t care about her pride anymore. She just wanted a chance to start over.

Isla turned at the soft tap on her shoulder, startled from her thoughts. Avery stood behind her, holding a damp dishcloth in one hand.

“Someone’s at the door,” Avery said, her voice low but firm. “I think the guests are starting to return. You go greet them. I’ll finish up the dishes.”

Isla hesitated, her hands still submerged in the cold, soapy water. Greeting the guests was usually her least favorite task. Forcing a smile and making polite conversation when she felt like her world was crumbling was exhausting. But Avery was already taking over at the sink, giving her no choice.

With a quiet nod, Isla dried her hands on the apron tied around her waist and headed toward the door. She pulled it open, fully expecting to see the family of four currently staying in the guesthouse. But when her eyes met the figure standing on the porch, her breath caught in her throat.

It wasn’t the family.

It was Graham Lancaster.

His towering frame filled the doorway, and the dim light from the porch lamp cast sharp shadows across his face, accentuating every line of his clenched jaw. His dark eyes blazed with an intensity that made her step back instinctively, the anger radiating off him almost palpable.

He was furious.

Devastatingly furious.