PRESENT
That very evening, I had driven out of Crestmont - the city that had been my home for a very long time - without a backward glance. The Glass District shimmered with its reflective towers, but in my rearview mirror, the city looked less like home and more like a gilded cage. A perfect, suffocating reminder of everything I'd endured within its walls.
My marriage to Adrian hadn't always been hostile, but at the same time, it hadn't been tender either. It was an arrangement dressed as a union, which had already been sealed before I even wrote my last exam at WHU. And as my father would always say: "Lancaster girl always knew her worth", this scene was clearly what it meant.
From an early stage, you're taught to be nothing short of perfect, the perfect posture, the perfect stance, the perfect walk, the perfect smile. You must stand out at every auction, every event, and all this, just to seal off for more income stream to the Lancaster name. You weren't a daughter. You were currency.
When I first saw my -ex-husband, Adrian Grant, I let myself believe in the illusion. I was instantly smitten, He had the looks, the height, the commanding posture, the sharp lines of a man who command respect with just his appearance, he was someone worthy of standing beside me, given the standard I had raised for myself, and to top it all, he runs his own Law firm - polished, successful, and hungry in the way Crestmont adored.
It was everything a Lancaster was taught to prize.
And so, the exchange was struck. He married the perfect queen. In return, he gained direct access to Lancaster gold and jewels. A perfect transaction disguised as matrimony.
At first, it was tolerable. I played my role, and he played his. But as time passed, the polish wore thin. The smiles became sharp edges. The silence between us grew hostile, heavy enough to crush the illusion we'd both agreed to live in.
Now, with Crestmont receding in my mirror, I finally admitted what I had known all along: my life there had never been about me. It had been about the Lancaster name. And Adrian was just another piece in their game.
My daughter slept soundly in her car seat behind me, her tiny fists curled as though even in dreams she was prepared to fight. I envied her innocence, the way sleep protected her from the truths I couldn't shield her from anymore.
The roads through Uptown Crest glowed with their usual arrogance - neon signs buzzing above polished cafes, sidewalks gleaming as if they had been built for display to impress outsiders rather than serve residents. Couples walked arm in arm, laughter spilling across the street like rehearsed lines from a play. Their world was so far removed from mine that it almost looked fictional. My grip on the steering wheel as I sped down the road.
This wasn't my stage anymore.
At the boundary post, a tall green sign arched above the road:
GOODBYE FROM CRESTMONT. WELCOME TO ASHBURY.
The words struck me deeper than I'd expected. Goodbye. For the first time, it felt permanent, heavier than the boxes in my trunk or the years I'd left behind. My chest tightened, but I pressed my foot on the gas pedal anyway.
Ashbury unfolded with a quieter rhythm, sprawling neighborhoods softened with trimmed hedges and tree-lined streets. It had its glamour, yes, but in a subtler way—less like a crown jewel on display, more like something you could actually live in. It welcomed me with a fresh gust of wind, one quite different from the wind that blew in Crestmont. Though the state was glamorous, it was still of a lesser level than Crestmont.
During my final days at WHU, I had planned on fleeing here, starting up a new life on my own. It fit the standard required, one I had always set for myself and would've never changed for anyone. The plan had been simple: graduate with flying colors, get a place in South Ville - a neighborhood refined enough to suit my upbringing - and move everything quietly, without anyone knowing.
It would have been perfect.
A quiet plan.
A plan that died the moment I met Adrian.
The air in Ashbury carried less frenzy. As I drove further in, the frantic buzz of Crestmont faded behind me. Just past the border, Ashville High came into view, its red-brick façade standing proud, rooted in history. I slowed as students poured out of the gates, their laughter ringing out, unguarded and free.
Free - the kind of free I had never been allowed to be.
As I drove on, the road curved upward past the glowing lights of the Ashbury Cold-Rink. Cars spilled across the parking lot, parents shepherding children with helmets too big for their heads. Some were there for evening lessons, others for the simple joy of circling ice until their cheeks turned red. The rink's white roof gleamed under the setting sun, a reminder of the kind of normalcy that seemed unreachable to me—families building memories, while I carved an escape in silence.
The bridge just beyond stretched like a silver ribbon across the river. My tires hummed against its metal grooves, steady as a heartbeat. On the other side, a sign loomed, stark and unflinching:
GOODBYE FROM ASHBURY. WELCOME TO STONEHAVEN.
Stonehaven was the industrial heart of Silvercrest, and it wasted no time reminding me. The air thickened, heavy with oil, steel, and the salty tang of the seaport. Factories towered like sentinels, chimneys slicing the skyline, their smoke blurring out the last of the daylight. The city felt harder, louder, as though survival here was measured by grit alone.
My daughter stirred at the sudden rumble of passing trucks, whimpering until I reached back to jiggle her toy. Her tiny fist curled around it, calming her again. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, a soundless thank you that she didn't cry harder, that no one turned curious eyes toward my car.
Haven Arena flashed by on my right, its massive dome glowing blue against the night. A hockey banner rippled across its side, bold in orange and black. A pang cut through me, the stormhawks chants, the rhythm of stomping feet, and the echo of Aiden's sharp words in practice halls. I gripped the wheel tighter, shaking it off before memory could sink its claws too deep.
The train station rose next, alive and relentless. Commuters dragged suitcases across polished floors, steam curling from engines, voices layering into a chaotic chorus. For a fleeting moment, I envied them. They had destinations. Tickets. Plans. My journey felt murkier, a road drawn only by desperation and the faint outline of hope.
At a dim gas station, I refueled. The clerk barely looked up as I swiped my card, eyes fixed on the muted TV above him. I bought water, a pack of crackers, and formula for the baby. Outside, the air pressed against me like a weight, as though Stonehaven itself was warning me not to linger.
Night deepened, swallowing the highway. The neon sign of a roadside inn flickered "VACANCY," half its letters dead, but the room was clean enough. Twice my daughter woke up crying. Twice I gathered her close, whispering promises into the curve of her soft ear. Promises I wasn't sure I could keep.
We're almost there. Just hold on.
By morning, we pushed northward, cutting through the industrial sprawl until buildings fell away. Uptown Stonehaven gleamed newer, shinier, its ice rink catching the sunlight, but I didn't stop. My eyes stayed fixed on the dark line of trees ahead, the promise of somewhere untouched.
The road narrowed, winding into forest. Branches arched overhead like a tunnel, shadows flickering across the windshield. At its heart, a weather-worn sign stood sentinel:
SAFE TRIP FROM STONEHAVEN. WELCOME TO MAPLEWOOD.
Relief hit me sharp and sudden.
Maplewood greeted us not with noise but with quiet grace. The trees gave way to outskirt houses, porches dressed with flower pots, bicycles leaning against fences. Life here was slower, softer. I rolled the window down, breathing in air that smelled of pine instead of smoke.
By mid-afternoon, we passed Cornerstone Café, a brick building with striped awnings. People lingered outside with steaming mugs, laughter spilling into the street. I made a silent note to return one day, when I was brave enough to sit among strangers without the weight of a name I was trying to bury.
At last, Elm Street Park opened before me, its modest bed-and-breakfast standing at the corner. Its wooden sign swayed in the breeze, inviting, unpretentious. I parked, unbuckled my daughter, and held her close. Her tiny face pressed into my shoulder, warm, safe, alive.
"We made it," I whispered, though disbelief still clung to the words.
Two days. One night in Stonehaven, another push through forest roads, and now here. Each mile had stripped something from me but left something else in return.
In Crestmont, I had been a Lancaster first.
Then, a Grant.
But here in Maplewood, maybe, just maybe, I could be Brielle.
Not a wife. Not a prisoner. Just me.