Chapter 2 - The Midnight Escape
I gave it forty minutes until the apartment fell completely silent.
Through the thick wood of the kitchen door, I heard the distant sounds of their night routine—the running of water in the master bathroom, the click of Fiona’s bedroom door closing at the far end of the hall, and finally, the heavy, rhythmic snoring of my husband from his private study. Julian always slept in his study when he was drunk, passing out on his leather sofa with the television humming quietly in the background.
I moved through the pitch-black kitchen with silent, practiced efficiency.
I didn't turn on the lights. Instead, I used the blue glow of my phone screen to guide my hands. I stepped over to the heavy stainless-steel trash can beside the pantry, stepped on the foot pedal, and reached into the bag.
I pulled out three empty glass wine bottles that Julian had finished earlier that evening—a $200 Cabernet I had paid for.
Holding the neck of the first bottle, I brought it close to the lower corner of the solid oak kitchen door. Using the heavy glass base, I struck the wooden frame near the deadbolt latch three times with calculated force.
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.
The sound echoed through the quiet kitchen like splintering bone. I deliberately left deep, jagged gouges in the pristine white paint and splintered the door frame right where the deadbolt caught the strike plate.
Then, I opened my phone camera and took four crisp, high-resolution photographs of the damage, capturing the splintered wood, the locked deadbolt from the inside perspective, and the red welt running across my own wrist.
Next, I stepped over to the gas stove.
I turned on the overhead exhaust fan to high, then reached into the cabinet beneath the sink and pulled out a small, unopened bottle of ammonia solution I used for deep cleaning. I unscrewed the cap and poured half a cup into the drain, letting the sharp, pungent fumes mix with the draft from the terrace door.
I walked back to the locked door, lifted my fist, and hammered on the thick oak panels with frantic, rhythmic desperation.
“Julian!” I screamed, my voice rising in a pitch-perfect performance of terror and panic. “Julian, open the door! Something’s burning! The gas line is leaking! Julian!”
I slammed my body against the door twice, making as much noise as humanly possible.
Within fifteen seconds, I heard heavy, clumsy footsteps scrambling across the hardwood in the hallway. Julian swore loudly, tripping over a rug before his keys rattled frantically against the deadbolt.
“What the hell are you doing?!” Julian yelled through the door.
The lock turned with a sharp clack. The door swung open, revealing my husband standing in the hall in his silk boxers, his hair disheveled, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot from wine and sudden panic.
The moment the door opened, the sharp smell of ammonia and cold air hit him squarely in the face.
I didn't wait for him to process the scene. Before he could react, I shoved past him with all the strength left in my body, knocking his shoulder against the doorframe.
“Are you crazy?!” Julian roared, grabbing for my cardigan. “Get back in there!”
I twisted out of his grip, dropping my phone into my pocket as I sprinted down the long, carpeted foyer toward the front entrance of the penthouse.
“You locked me in a room with a chemical leak!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, ensuring my voice carried across the high ceilings and out into the common hallway. “I can’t breathe in there! I’m going to the 24-hour store to get baking soda and supplies before the whole place smells like a sewer!”
Fiona’s bedroom door swung open. She stepped out into the hall wearing a pink satin robe, her hair wrapped in silk rollers, her face covered in a thick layer of white night cream.
“What is this vulgar noise?!” Fiona hissed, glaring at me with pure venom. “Sloan! Why aren't you cooking? It is almost one in the morning!”
“She’s throwing a hysterical fit!” Julian yelled, chasing me down the hall. “She ruined the kitchen door!”
I reached the massive front door of the penthouse, ripped the latch open, and stepped out onto the marble floor of the elevator lobby.
I turned back to face them, standing in the doorway like a woman on the verge of a total nervous breakdown—a role I executed with brilliant, deliberate perfection.
“I am going to the 24-hour supermarket on 4th Street,” I panted, my hands trembling visibly as I held up my purse. “I need vinegar, baking soda, and forty pounds of fresh meat for your sixty dishes, Fiona! Do you want your Jubilee feast, or do you want me to stand here arguing while the market closes?!”
Fiona stopped in her tracks. Her eyes narrowed as she calculated the stakes. To Fiona, her social standing among her country club peers was more important than human life itself. If the feast failed, her reputation was destroyed.
She glared at Julian, then snapped her fingers at him.
“Let her go,” Fiona ordered coldly. “She has five hours until the morning wholesale markets open anyway. Let her buy the ingredients.”
Fiona turned her piercing gaze toward me, her sharp finger pointing at my chest. “You have until noon, Sloan. Not a minute later. If you are not back here with those sixty dishes fully prepared by twelve o'clock, I will personally ensure Julian files for divorce and throws every piece of your garbage onto the sidewalk.”
I looked at her—this miserable, parasitic woman who hadn't paid a single bill in five years.
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“Don't worry, Fiona,” I said, my voice dropping into a quiet, chilling resonance that made Julian squint in momentary confusion. “You will get exactly what you deserve at noon.”
I stepped backward into the waiting elevator, hit the button for the lobby, and watched the polished brass doors slide shut between us.
