Too Late, Mr. William, She's Free

t heavy and cold in my palm. It used to be a comfort, a symbol of his pr

r Franklin, a relic of a time when I thought he cared. I hated it. I hated what it represented. With a grunt, I hurled

graph of us, a small, leather-bound journal filled with naive hopes, a silk scarf he' d once draped over my shoulders. Each item was a s

Franklin' s signature bold and unmistakable. "Guardianship Agreement," the title read. I scanned the fine print, my eyes darting across the legalese until a single phrase leaped

nal e

re a

property. A possession. My father' s daughter, yes, but only as something to be managed, owned. The humili

isp paper. I tore it, once, twice, a primal scream trapped in my chest. Shreds of the hatef

he scent of her expensive perfume, the rustle of her silk robes, and the constant, low hum of her voice from

in the grand living room, impeccably dressed, a predatory gleam in her eyes. "

ith her barely concealed malice. Franklin was there too, standing

arance tonight. And we thought it would be... delightful... for you to join us." She held out a

et with large, fake emeralds. It was cheap. Horribly, overtly cheap, utterly out of place in this opulent pent

. His gaze was fixed on the roaring fire, his fac

d, my voice tight. My t

ngs, some people, are simply... disposable. Don't you agree?" Her words were a veiled threat, a pub

, the shame burning hotter than any

long fingers reaching for the clasp. I flinched, but she was too quick. The cold, heavy metal touc

, a triumphant smirk on her face. Franklin finally turned, his gaze sweeping over me, then lingering on the

e rash spreading, an angry red line, itching, stinging. Every movement was agony. But I kept my head high. I would not give them the s