The church was suffocating with heat, the thick, stale air pressing down like an invisible weight. Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting muted hues of red, blue and green onto the rows of wooden pews. Violet sat near the back, her fingers absently tracing the coarse fabric of her skirt. The father Ashcroft's voice droned on, smooth and monotonous, each word thick with self-righteous conviction.

  "And the Lord said, 'Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord,'" his voice rose and fell, the rhythm practiced and empty, like a song played out on a worn-out record. Violet had heard it a thousand times before. She didn't care. She hadn't cared for years.

  Her gaze wandered over the congregation—eyes downcast in reverence, lips parted in whispered prayers. Edith, her mother, sat rigid beside her, hands folded in her lap, lips moving in sync with the preacher's words. Violet's eyes flicked up to the pulpit, but the preacher's face was a blur. She'd long stopped paying attention to him. Instead, her fingers found their way to the locks of her hair, twirling a strand between them absentmindedly.

  Her fiery red hair.

  Her mother hated it. It had always been too bright, too... bold. Too much. And when the townsfolk started calling her names—witch or scarlet devil, she knew it was only a matter of time before Edith would make her pay for it. Violet remembered the morning she was forced to sit still as her mother poured the dye into her hair, turning it from a flame to something forgettable, dull. Brown. She'd cried then, as Edith slapped the brush through her hair, muttering something about how it was for her own good, how the world would never accept her if she didn't make herself invisible.

  "Better to blend in, Violet," her mother had said, voice thick with authority. "Better to be plain, to not bring shame upon this family."

  Violet's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the preacher's voice rising again, louder this time. "For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church," he bellowed, the words dripping with the weight of centuries-old oppression.

  Violet couldn't help herself. She muttered the word without thinking, a low whisper that barely escaped her lips, but it felt good to say it. "Bullshit."

  The words hung in the air for a second, too loud in the silence of the church. Her mother's sharp intake of breath was the only response, but it was enough. She felt Edith's cold gaze on her like a slap. The pastor's sermon didn't falter, his eyes never leaving the congregation, but something in his smile tightened. Violet felt it, though—an unsettling shift in the air.

  Her mind drifted again, now to her grandfather. Walter Coolidge. He'd been the only one who understood. The only one who didn't look at her with judgment when the townsfolk whispered behind her back. When Edith locked Violet in her room for hours without food, or worse—when the unforgiving bite of the cane struck her skin, blooming purple bruises on her buttocks, as well as her pride, it was the words of her grandfather that offered the comfort when no one else would. "You're stronger than you know, Violet. This world won't break you, not if you don't let it. Keep your head up and endure, for the night is the darkest just before the dawn." he had told her, so endure she did.

  Grandpa Walter was different. He would pull her close when Edith wasn't looking, smoothing her hair, whispering things that didn't make sense to Violet then, but she held onto them like they were some kind of secret treasure. "You're strong, Violet," he would say, and it always felt like truth. Like she wasn't just someone to be controlled or punished, but someone who could carve out her own space in the world. And when her mother wasn't watching, he'd hold her tightly, his rough calloused hands wiping her tears away, his gruff voice soothing her, telling her that one day, things would be different.

  And then there was her father, Abelard McKinley. The man who never intervened. Always passive. Always too afraid of Edith to stand up for his daughter, who would sit quietly while his wife disciplined Violet, his eyes cast downward, his lips pressed together in some wordless apology he couldn't bring himself to say. Every time he looked at her, Violet saw the guilt in his eyes—the guilt of a man who loved his daughter but was too weak to protect her from the woman he had chosen.

  "For the husband is the head of the wife," the preacher's voice cut through her thoughts again, but Violet's mind had already turned elsewhere, her thoughts darkening with memories too painful to forget.

  She was pulled back to the present as the preacher finished his sermon, his words trailing off into the silence of the congregation. The town's people began to shuffle in their seats, preparing to leave the church. She could hear Edith's soft murmurs of approval, her eyes practically glowing as she shook hands with the men around her, the preacher's words still fresh on her lips. As always, Edith would be proud — proud of herself for being a good wife. But Violet? She didn't feel proud. Not anymore.

  As they filed out of the pews, the preacher's gaze caught her once more, lingering on her just a little too long, like a snake sensing prey. She felt it—his eyes on her back, the weight of his stare. And before her mother could pull her along, Violet froze. She knew what would come next. She knew the preacher's smile, that unsettling grin that made her skin crawl, would come with his hand extended for a handshake. But this time, she wasn't going to play the game.

  The father Ashcroft's smile was the kind that never quite reached his eyes, a thin, practiced thing stretched across his face like old leather. He clasped Abelard's shoulder in what might have passed for camaraderie, though there was something just a little too firm about the grip, a silent expectation woven beneath the gesture. "Brother Abelard, Sister Edith," he said smoothly, his voice carrying the same steady cadence he used in the pulpit. "Always a blessing to see your family in the Lord's house."

  Abelard, ever the passive fixture at Edith's side, gave a small, stiff nod. "Pastor." His voice was quiet, almost an afterthought.

  Edith, on the other hand, beamed. "A powerful sermon today, Pastor. The word of God rings true as ever." There was an almost feverish reverence in her tone, the kind of eager devotion that made Violet's stomach turn.

  The preacher let out a low chuckle, his gaze flicking between them before settling, finally, on Violet. His smile didn't waver, but there was something knowing in it, something that sent a slow, crawling unease through her ribs. "The Lord's truth is eternal, Sister Edith," he said, his voice honey-smooth. "And I do believe young Violet is blessed to be raised in such a righteous home. Proper guidance is a gift not all children receive." His eyes lingered on her, waiting. Expecting.

  The vicar's smile didn't waver. If anything, it stretched wider, his teeth gleaming beneath the dimming afternoon light. He tilted his head slightly, like a man amused by the antics of a misbehaving child.

  "A cage, you say?" he mused, his voice dripping with an almost saccharine kindness. "My dear, the bars are only there for those who refuse to walk the righteous path. To the obedient, they're nothing but guiding hands."

  Violet opened her mouth, anger boiling in her throat, but before she could speak, Edith's fingers clamped down on her wrist, nails digging into her skin.

  "That's enough," her mother hissed through clenched teeth. She turned to the pastor with an apologetic smile, her voice laced with desperate reverence. "Forgive her, Reverend. The Lord knows we still have work to do with this one. She will be dealt with accordingly."

  Violet's pulse pounded, her throat tightening with unspoken fury. The vicar only chuckled, giving Edith a slow, knowing nod.

  "Discipline is the foundation of virtue, Mrs. McKinley. I'm sure you'll see to it."

  And with that, he turned away, already offering pleasantries to another family, as if the exchange had never happened.

  Violet's father muttered something under his breath, but it was too quiet to hear. Edith was already busy smoothing down her dress, her face flushed with the effort of pretending she wasn't furious, but Violet wasn't looking anymore. She was already walking away, feeling the hot sun burn her skin as she walked, too angry to care, too lost in her thoughts to acknowledge anything else.

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  "Don't walk away, Violet," Edith's voice broke through the noise, and for a moment, Violet stopped.

  Her mother was staring at her with that look. The one that demanded respect, that commanded obedience. The one that Violet had spent years learning to avoid. She could feel it, the pressure building up like a storm on the horizon. This time, though, she wasn't afraid. She didn't need her mother's approval. Not anymore.

  The preacher's words echoed in her mind. "Wives, submit yourselves." She couldn't suppress the anger that rose in her chest, couldn't keep the fire from burning behind her eyes. What did it mean to be submissive, anyway? To bend and break, to exist only to serve? She refused to be that. She refused to be one of the women trapped in that invisible cage.

  And in that moment, she knew this wasn't just about the preacher. It was about her entire life—her mother's expectations, her father's silence, the town's narrow views. Everything that had ever pushed her down, telling her she wasn't good enough. She would fight it all, one way or another. She would burn that cage down.

  but for now, she had bigger fish to fry. The air outside the church was thick with murmurs, the whispers of judgment clinging to Violet like a second skin. Edith's grip was iron-tight around her wrist, her nails biting into flesh as she all but dragged her daughter down the dusty path toward home. Abelard trailed behind, his face tight with unease, glancing between them as if debating whether to speak. He did not.

  The house loomed in the distance, its familiar silhouette offering no comfort. The moment they crossed the threshold, Edith shoved Violet forward, sending her stumbling. "Go to the parlor," she commanded, her voice low, simmering with restrained fury. "Now."

  Violet hesitated, her chest rising and falling with measured breaths, but Edith's stare cut through her like a blade. She walked.

  The parlor was suffocating in its stillness. Heavy curtains muted the afternoon light, casting long, ghostly shadows. An old leather sofa stood in the back of the room, rigid and unyielding. Against the sideboard, the cane waited, Above it, hanging on the wall in an ornate frame, was Abelard and Edith's wedding picture. The sepia-toned image was stiff with formality—Edith, youthful and unsmiling, her veil perfectly arranged, Abelard standing beside her, hands clasped in front of him. His face was softer then, less burdened. There had once been hope in his eyes. Now, the picture was a relic, an artifact from a time when Edith had not yet become the woman she was now, when Abelard had still possessed the courage to speak. Violet swallowed hard, but she refused to tremble. Not in front of her.

  Edith entered, shutting the door with deliberate slowness. Abelard lingered in the corner, having silently followed his wife inside, his knuckles white where they gripped the frame. "Edith—" he started, voice unsure, but she silenced him with a look.

  "kneel, and take off your shirt" Edith ordered Violet.

  Violet obeyed.

  Edith took the cane in her hands, testing its weight, tapping it once against the floor. "You humiliated your family today," she said, her voice taut with controlled rage. "You humiliated me."

  Violet said nothing. Her mother stepped closer, the cane trembling slightly in her grip before she steadied it. Then it rose.

  The first strike landed across Violet's back, searing fire spreading through her skin. Her shoulders jolted, but she clenched her jaw, refusing to cry out.

  "Say it," Edith commanded.

  Violet knew what she wanted. She pressed her lips together, defiantly silent.

  The cane whistled through the air and struck again, harder. Violet gasped, pain clawing up her spine. "Say it."

  Her breath hitched as she forced the words through gritted teeth. "Obey the Lord your God and follow his commands."

  Another strike, another explosion of pain laced across her spine. "Again."

  "Obey the Lord your God and follow his comm—" The words cracked as another blow came down, cutting her breath short.

  Edith continued, the strikes landing in a cruel rhythm, each one punctuated by a sermon of her own. "You act like a harlot—" crack "—you shame me—" crack "—you shame this family—" crack "—you will march back to that church and beg for forgiveness."

  The pain blurred together, waves crashing, stealing her breath. Violet's body shuddered, her skin raw, her breaths ragged. But she wouldn't sob. She wouldn't give Edith the satisfaction.

  Abelard stepped forward, his hands trembling. "Edith, that's enough—"

  She turned on him with fire in her eyes. "No. It is not enough Abelard. She needs to learn. This is for her soul, for her own good. If I don't do this, who will?"

  Violet braced for the next blow, but it never came.

  "Enough" boomed a gruff voice from the doorway. The cane hung frozen in the air, trembling.

  Walter Coolidge stood in the doorway, his posture unyielding, his gaze locked on Edith. His expression was carved from stone, unreadable yet filled with something far heavier than anger.

  "That's enough," he said, his voice quiet, final.

  For the first time, Edith faltered.

  The moment Walter spoke, it was as if the weight of the world had shifted. Violet felt her muscles loosen, her breath coming easier, as if the air itself had thickened just enough to give her space to exhale. His words didn't just stop the impending strike—they unraveled the tension in her bones, soothing the knots of fear and anger that had coiled around her heart. There was no anger in his voice, no harsh reprimand. Just a quiet finality, the kind that told her this would end.

  Walter's eyes were steel as he stood before Edith, his gaze unwavering. His hands clenched at his sides, but his voice was calm, almost cold. "You've gone too far this time, Edith. This isn't discipline. This is abuse."

  Edith's face twisted with indignation, but the sharpness in her eyes faltered under Walter's steady glare. "You don't understand, Walter. She needs to be taught. If I don't—"

  "Enough," Walter interrupted, his voice carrying the weight of years of frustration. "What could she have possibly done to deserve this, Edith?"

  Edith's eyes flashed with anger, but she didn't immediately respond. She opened her mouth, only to falter when she saw the cold finality in Walter's expression. His eyes weren't just angry—they were disappointed, disgusted even.

  "Tell me," Walter pressed, his tone sharp. "What could she have done to make you think this was acceptable?"

  Edith took a breath, her hands shaking at her sides. "She's disobedient. She doesn't listen. She needs to learn discipline."

  "Discipline?" Walter spat, his voice rising slightly. "What she needs is love and protection. Not fear. You've broken her, Edith. Look at her." He turned briefly to Violet, still trembling in the corner, before his gaze returned to Edith. "How much more do you think a child can take before she cracks?"

  Edith sneered, her face contorted with frustration. "She doesn't listen! She's reckless, and you're too soft on her, Walter. Someone has to teach her to respect authority!"

  "Respect? Is this respect to you?" Walter shot back, his voice growing more forceful. "Is teaching her that the people who are supposed to care for her will hurt her the way you just did? How is that teaching her respect? All you've done is teach her to fear you."

  "You don't understand!" Edith cried, her hands flailing in frustration. "She's difficult! She pushes every boundary, and if I don't teach her now, she'll grow up to be a spoiled, worthless woman!"

  "Is that what you really think of her?" Walter's voice dropped to a dangerous calm. "That she's worthless? That this is how you mold a strong woman? By breaking her spirit?"

  Edith went silent, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her eyes darted to the floor, guilt creeping in despite the defensive anger still boiling inside her. She muttered, "She needs to learn... the world's not going to coddle her."

  Walter's kept his steely cold gaze on Edith. "The world doesn't need to break her down, Edith. You've already done it, without needing any help." He paused, glancing at Abelard, who was still in the same corner, his voice quieter now but still firm. "I've watched her suffer under your hands for too long. I won't let you do this anymore."

  Edith recoiled slightly, but Walter didn't give her a chance to respond. He turned to Violet, who was still standing there, barely holding herself together. He walked toward her, kneeling down to her level. "Violet," he said softly, holding out his arms. "Come here, child."

  Edith opened her mouth to argue, but Walter silenced her with a single, piercing look. He turned his attention to Violet, still standing silently in the corner, her face pale, her body tense. He walked over to her without a word, crouching down to her level.

  "Violet," he said gently, his voice softening. "Come here, child."

  Violet hesitated, her legs unsteady from the emotional toll, but she moved toward him instinctively. Walter reached down, lifting her effortlessly into his arms. The moment she was in his embrace, she relaxed, feeling the weight of the world leave her shoulders. The exhaustion from the ordeal—the stress, the pain—settled in, and She let herself collapse against him, her body shaking with exhaustion as she nuzzled her face into his broad chest. The deep, earthy scent of him wrapped around her like a blanket—rich, woody, with a hint of leather and fresh tobacco. It was a scent that spoke of long days spent working with his hands, of quiet strength and old memories. There was something timeless about it, something unspoken and solid, and it seeped into her, grounding her in a way she hadn't felt in a long time. The scent clung to her, lingering even after she pulled away, a quiet reminder that she was safe for the first time in what felt like forever.

  Walter stood slowly, holding her with a steady strength, his arm securely around her. "I'm taking you home," he said, his tone firm but kind. "You need rest."

  Edith watched, her expression unreadable, as Walter walked toward the door. No further words passed between them. The tension in the air was thick with unspoken feelings, but Walter didn't acknowledge her again. He was focused entirely on Violet, who seemed to sink further into his arms as they stepped outside.

  The cool evening air hit Violet's face as Walter carried her to his home, his steps steady, unwavering. She was so tired—more than she could ever remember—and her body began to betray her. Her eyelids grew heavy, and the soft rhythm of Walter's heartbeat beneath her ear was like a lullaby.

  By the time they reached the house, Violet was asleep in his arms, her small body relaxed against his chest, her breathing even. Walter paused at the door, glancing down at her for a moment before pushing it open. He gently carried her inside, making his way to the couch and settling her there.

  He stood over her for a moment, his gaze softening as he looked at her, before he turned to the kitchen to prepare something warm. Violet was safe now—he had made sure of that.