Chapter 3: The Garden Gate
The footsteps shifted away from the aisle, heading toward the laundry exit at the far end of the service wing, giving us the window we desperately needed. I didn't hesitate; I grabbed Leo's small hand and bolted toward the heavy glass-paneled exit door that opened directly into the estate's sprawling rear gardens. The cold night air hit my face like a physical slap, chasing the stifling smell of bleach and panic from my lungs. Outside, the sprawling lawns were bathed in silver moonlight, dotted by manicured boxwood hedges and classical marble statues that cast long, grotesque shadows across the gravel paths. The distant strains of the gala orchestra sounded like a dying music box muffled by the thick expanse of manicured turf. We couldn't take the main drive; security guards patrolled the iron gates in armored black SUVs, ensuring no uninvited press or disgruntled former employees slipped through.
Our only salvation lay in the old maintenance gate tucked away near the abandoned greenhouse at the very edge of the property, a rusted iron portal half-swallowed by overgrown ivy. My blue maid dress fluttered wildly around my knees as we navigated the gravel labyrinth, the tiny stones biting through the thin soles of my work shoes. Leo whimpered, stumbling over a exposed root, and I scooped him back up into my arms without breaking stride, my muscles burning with a fierce, adrenaline-fueled strength. Every rustle of the wind through the oak trees sounded like approaching footsteps, every shadow a guard closing in. We reached the stone wall just as a chorus of loud shouts erupted from the kitchen exit behind us, signaling that our escape route had been discovered.
Pushing through the dense wall of ivy, I grabbed the heavy, cold iron of the maintenance gate. It was usually padlocked, but earlier that afternoon, while doing routine trash disposal, I had noticed the rusted lock had been swapped out for a cheap brass one that hadn't quite been latched properly. With a desperate heave, I threw my weight against the iron bars. The gate groaned loudly in protest, the metal screeching against the stone pillar before giving way with a sudden, violent pop that echoed across the lawn. I pulled Leo through the narrow gap, tumbling onto the dark, unpaved county access road that ran parallel to the estate's perimeter wall. We were out of the cage, but we were standing in the middle of nowhere with no car, no money, and a target painted squarely on our backs.
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Before I could catch my breath, a low rumble of an engine shattered the quiet of the country lane. A dark sedan crept out from a clump of pine trees fifty yards down the road, its headlights cut completely, coasting silently toward us. Panic surged through my veins, and I instinctively pulled Leo behind a thick oak trunk at the edge of the woods, preparing for the worst. But as the car rolled closer, the window lowered an inch, revealing the familiar, lined face of Thomas, the estate’s veteran night groundsman, who had always looked at Victor with quiet disgust whenever Victoria wasn't around. He flicked his gaze toward us, his expression grim and resolute as he popped the passenger-side door open from the inside.
"Get in, girl. Before the hounds catch your scent," Thomas muttered, his voice raspy and steady as a rock. I didn't question the sudden lifeline; pulling Leo close, I scrambled into the backseat of the dusty pickup truck, the smell of damp earth and gasoline instantly washing over us. Thomas slammed the gearshift into drive, and the truck lurched forward, kicking up a cloud of white dust as we accelerated down the winding country lane, leaving the glittering facade of the mansion behind us in the dark. I looked down at the smartphone still clutched tightly in my hand; the screen was still glowing, its battery indicator dropping, but the digital evidence of their betrayal was safely crossing county lines.
