Chapter 20
Chapter 20:
“Let go!” she screamed. The sound carried over the water and echoed off the distant hills.
Anson didn’t let go. Instead, he pulled her into an embrace — suffocating, violent, crushing her against his chest and burying his face in her hair.
“I can forgive you,” he whispered into her ear, his breath hot and close. “Just say you made a mistake. Just say you want to come home p>
The smell of his cologne — once the scent of safety — now sent bile rising in her throat. He was gaslighting her, trying to rewrite reality, trying to convince her that his cage had always been a sanctuary.
Eliza felt a surge of adrenaline, raw and primal. She lifted her foot and brought her heel down, hard, onto the bridge of Anson’s muddy shoe.
She felt the impact shudder up her leg.
𝖢h𝘪ոe𝘀𝖾 ոo𝗏e𝗹𝘀 tr𝖺𝗇𝘀𝗅𝘢te𝖽 оn
Anson yelped. “You ungrateful little p>
He loosened his grip, stumbling backward, but his hand still clutched her forearm. His other hand rose, palm open, as if to strike.
Then a brilliant white light bleached the scene, pinning Anson in its beam. Blinding. Coming from above.
A low mechanical hum filled the air and grew rapidly louder — like a swarm of angry hornets. Eliza looked up. Hovering twenty feet above the water, its black casing sleek and menacing against the twilight sky, was a security drone. A synthesized voice, devoid of all emotion, boomed from its speaker.
“You are trespassing on private property. Cease contact with the resident immediately. Authorities have been alerted p>
Anson was breathing hard, his eyes wild. “He doesn’t love you!” he shouted, spittle flying from his lips. “He’s a machine! A cold, heartless machine p>
“And you are a liar!” Eliza shouted back.
She wrenched her arm free, balled her hand into a fist, and braced herself — prepared to fight for her life if it came to that.
Snap.
A twig broke. Louder this time. Closer.
Anson went still. He turned slowly toward the shore.
A figure stood at the base of the pier, silhouetted against the warm lights of the house. He wasn’t running. He was walking — but with a slow, deliberate stride that promised violence.
Anson turned his head slightly at the noise.
It was the only opening Eliza needed. She didn’t use her fist. She twisted her body, channeling every ounce of fear, every year of humiliation, every silent dinner where she had been treated like a ghost, into her right arm.
She swung.
CRACK.
The sound of her palm connecting with Anson’s cheek echoed across the lake like a gunshot — sharp, clean, and deeply satisfying.
Anson’s head whipped to the side. A bright red handprint bloomed instantly on his pale skin. He stumbled backward, his heel catching the edge of the pier, his arms wheeling to keep himself from toppling into the water.
“Get off my land,” Eliza said. The voice didn’t sound like hers. It was deeper. Steadier. It sounded like Dallas.