Time to be bold

Evan stands in front of me with a kind of confidence that reminds me of the man I met at the café the other day, Alexander Hayes. There is a small difference though, Evan doesn't act like the world revolves around him, His confidence is rather a way of being seen in a world that treats him invisable.

"How Reckless do you dare to go, princess?"

I step closer to him, proving that I'm not afraid. "I think you'd be surprised," I say as I noticed how close we are standing. Our lips almost touch and I can feel his breath.

He looks at me, up and down, like he's trying to figure me out. 

"Good," he says with the biggest smile I've ever seen. "Why don't you show me how bold you can be, princess?" 

He takes my wrist and pulls me back inside, my protest seems unheard. To my surprise, we don't go back to the sitting room. no, he drags me to the opposite direction, away from it all, to a part of the mansion I haven't been to. 

He stops before a dark oak door and looks at me, something in his eyes is different, it almost looks like concern, maybe?

"Are you certain you want to be 'reckless' as my dad would say?"

The honest answer is no, I have no idea what's about to happen, I have no idea of his plan, and no clue what's behind that door. And yet I nod and put my free hand around his, the one he's holding my wrist with.

"If I don't do this now, will I ever break free of the cage my father has built for me?" My answer makes him tilt his head, but he seems to understand what I'm saying.

"It's not exactly the answer I was looking for, but just this once, I'll make an exception and let the young lady inside my secret layer." There is something playful in the wink he gave me at the end that made me genuinely smile.

Evan chuckles gently as he pushes the door open, revealing a dimly lighted area that feels very different from the rest of the Mayfield estate. Unlike the glossy, overly groomed settings I've seen tonight, this room is raw, personal, and full of character. Books are spread carelessly on shelves and tables, their spines faded from usage. A record player sits in one corner, spinning a vinyl that fills the room with a soulful song I can't quite place. The subtle scent of cedar persists, mixed with the faint smell of paint from an easel nestled into another corner.

"It's not what you were expecting, is it?" Evan inquires, his voice mild but with that ever-present edge of challenge. He observes me, resting nonchalantly against the doorframe, his previous arrogance replaced by something calmer.

I enter carefully, my heels clicking on the hardwood floor. The room feels like an extension of him—chaotic but welcoming, defiant but unquestionably real. I brush my fingertips over the edge of a wooden desk covered in doodles, half-empty mugs, and loose papers.

"This is... unexpected," I acknowledge, looking back at him. "I assumed you'd take me to a hidden wine cellar or billiards area. Not this."

Evan grins, but his face carries hints of vulnerability. "Everyone thinks they understand what they can expect from me. I suppose you included. But this is my space. The one place I don't have to follow their rules."

I lean on the desk, arms crossed, and turn to face him fully. "And you brought me here because...?"

He moves closer, the mocking grin returning, but softer and less performative. "Because neither you nor I belong out there. And I assumed if you wanted to be brave tonight, we'd have to go all out."

The weight of his words falls on me, and for a brief moment, the clamor of the evening—the expectations, the masks, the never-ending pretense—disappear. Out here, in this space that appears unaffected by the Mayfield grandeur, I feel lighter and freer.

I glance toward the easel, where a half-finished painting leans. It's abstract but carries an undeniable intensity, swirls of deep blues and fiery oranges clashing in a way that's both chaotic and captivating. "You paint?" I ask, stepping closer to study it.

Evan shrugs, putting his hands in his pockets. "When I am unable to sleep. Or when I need to clear my mind. It's a mess, just like everything else about me.

I gaze back at him, taken aback by the sincerity in his tone. "It's beautiful," I remark, sincerely.

Evan seemed almost shy for the first time, shifting his attention away before returning to me. "Thanks."

The air between us shifts, the playful banter giving way to something deeper, heavier. I should feel uncomfortable, standing here in this private space with a man I barely know, but I don't. Instead, I feel... seen. In a way that no one—Carter, my father, anyone—has made me feel before.

"You could leave, you know," Evan says suddenly, his voice quiet but firm. "Not just this room, but all of it. The rules, the expectations, the cages they build for us. You don't have to stay in a world that doesn't fit you."

"I'm his only child," I say when I slowly sit on his bed. "Even if I try to escape, he'd find a way to catch me again."

Evan watches me intently, his expression softening at my words. He leans back against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms as if anchoring himself. For a moment, he doesn't say anything, just studies me with that unflinching gaze of his.

"You're not a prisoner, Sophia," he says finally, his voice low but steady. "Not unless you let yourself be."

I shake my head, my fingers twisting together in my lap. "You don't understand. My father... He's not just controlling. He's calculating. Every move I make, he's already five steps ahead. And I'm the only one he has left. His legacy. He won't let me go so easily."

Evan tilts his head, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly. "Maybe not. But that doesn't mean you have to give him the power to decide your entire life. You're more than just his daughter."

His words hang in the air, and I feel a pang of something I can't quite name—longing, maybe, or hope. But hope is dangerous. It's a spark that could burn me alive if I let it grow.

"I've tried," I admit, my voice quieter now. "To push back. To make my own choices. But every time, it's like I hit a wall. And eventually... I just stopped trying. It's easier to play along, to be who he wants me to be."

Evan steps closer, his movements deliberate, until he's standing directly in front of me. He crouches slightly, his hands resting on the edge of the bed, bringing us eye to eye. "Easier doesn't mean better. And it sure as hell doesn't mean right."

His proximity, his intensity—it's almost too much, but I can't look away. His voice softens, losing its edge but not its conviction. "You think he'll catch you if you try to escape? Then don't run alone. Find someone who'll fight with you. Someone who sees you for who you are, not who you're supposed to be."

His words send a jolt through me, a flicker of defiance that feels foreign and exhilarating. For the first time in years, I don't feel entirely trapped. The bars of the cage my father built seem a little less solid, the lock not quite as unbreakable.