CHAPTER 27: [27] THE DOLL’S SMILE

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Alyssa stared at the closed door for what felt like hours, her silk robe twisted around her trembling frame. Her sanctuary had become a tomb. Every expensive trinket, every piece of fine furniture seemed to mock her with their hollow luxury.

Weak. Pathetic. Cruelty dressed up in a fancy uniform.

She pressed her palms against her ears, but the echo of his voice persisted. That calm, unwavering certainty when he’d spoken about his friend. The way he’d said he would burn the world for her.

A porcelain doll sat on her vanity—one of dozens her father had given her over the years. Gifts, he’d called them, though she’d never asked for any. The doll’s painted smile seemed to leer at her, its glassy eyes reflecting the lamplight like accusation.

"Shut up," she whispered to the empty room. "Just shut up."

But the doll kept smiling, and Red’s words kept echoing, and the walls kept closing in until she couldn’t breathe. Alyssa lunged forward, grabbing the porcelain figure. For a moment, she cradled it against her chest—then hurled it with all her strength against the opposite wall.

Porcelain shards skittered across the hardwood floor. The doll’s head, still smiling, rolled under her bed. The crash echoed, then died.

Silence rushed back in, heavier than before, pressing on her ears. The broken pieces on the floor offered no satisfaction. The screaming in her head hadn’t stopped.

She needed air. She needed to move. She needed to get out of this suffocating room before she went completely mad.

Alyssa crept to her door, pressing her ear against the polished wood. The hallway beyond was quiet—most of the base would be focused on the manhunt for the red-haired intruder. She slipped on a simple dress and soft shoes, then eased the door open just wide enough to slip through.

The corridors were dimly lit, emergency lighting casting long shadows across the white walls. Her bare feet made no sound on the cold marble as she navigated toward her father’s office. She wasn’t sure why she was drawn there—perhaps some desperate hope that seeing him would restore her shattered faith in everything he’d taught her.

The office door was slightly ajar, warm light spilling into the hallway. Her father’s voice drifted out, calm and controlled as always. Alyssa pressed herself against the wall, peering through the crack.

Captain Hardy stood behind his desk, his imposing frame silhouetted against the window. Lieutenant Commander Reynolds sat across from him, a stack of papers spread between them. Both men wore their dress uniforms despite the late hour.

"The statue ceremony is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon," Reynolds was saying, adjusting his spectacles. "The entire town will be in attendance, as ordered."

"Good." Hardy’s fingers drummed against the desk surface. "And the preparations are complete?"

"Yes, sir. The platform has been constructed in the town square. The speech has been prepared and distributed to the local newspapers." Reynolds hesitated. "Sir, about the additional security measures you requested..."

"What about them?"

"Some of the men are questioning the necessity. Three public executions seems... excessive for what amounts to minor infractions."

Executions? She pressed closer to the crack, straining to hear every word.

Hardy’s laugh was devoid of warmth. "Minor infractions? These men questioned my authority. They spread dissent among the civilians. They made the mistake of thinking this island operates under some form of democracy."

"But sir, one of them only refused to surrender his boat. Another complained about taxation. These aren’t capital crimes under Naval law—"

"They are under my law," Hardy cut him off. His voice dropped to that familiar tone that had terrified Alyssa since childhood. "The statue isn’t just a monument, Reynolds. It’s a symbol. But symbols need teeth to be effective."

Reynolds shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Sir?"

"After the unveiling, we’ll give a demonstration of what happens when people forget their place."

The papers rustled as Reynolds gathered them with shaking hands. "The men will... they’ll carry out your orders, sir. But some of them have expressed concerns about the optics—"

"The optics are precisely the point." Hardy moved around the desk, his prosthetic leg creating a subtle asymmetry in his gait. "Fear is the most honest emotion, Reynolds. These people need to be reminded that their comfort, their safety, their very lives exist at my discretion."

"Yes, sir."

"The ceremony begins at two o’clock sharp. The executions will follow immediately after my speech. Make sure the gallows are positioned so everyone in the square has a clear view."

Alyssa’s hands flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp. Three men. Three human beings would die tomorrow because her father wanted to make a point. Not because they were dangerous criminals or enemy spies, but because they had dared to question him.

The men who rely on you...

This wasn’t strength. This wasn’t justice. This was exactly what he had called it—cruelty dressed up in a fancy uniform. Her father wasn’t teaching lessons or maintaining order. He was indulging his own sadistic pleasure at the expense of innocent lives.

The conversation continued, but Alyssa could no longer process the words.Her vision swam. The words—executions, clear view, my law

—weren’t just sounds. They were stones, and they were shattering the stained-glass image of her father she’d worshipped her entire life.

Shard by shard, the hero fell away, leaving behind something hollow-eyed and rotten.

He was a monster.

And she had spent nineteen years trying to become just like him.

She stumbled backward from the door, her legs shaking so violently she could barely stand. The walls of the hallway seemed to lean inward, threatening to crush her under their weight. She had to get out. She had to get away from this place, from him, from everything she had been.

Her feet carried her through familiar corridors, past portraits of Naval heroes whose painted eyes now seemed to judge her complicity. Down marble stairs and through security checkpoints where guards snapped to attention at her approach. She barely saw them, her mind focused on a single destination.

Beyond the main facilities, her family’s private dock jutted out into the dark water. Here, away from the main Naval facilities, her father kept his personal vessels. Most were utilitarian—patrol boats and transport craft. But at the far end of the dock, moored beneath a canvas canopy, sat her eighteenth birthday gift.

The Crimson Sparrow was a masterpiece of Naval engineering. Thirty-six feet of sleek hull and aerodynamic rigging, designed for speed rather than cargo capacity. Her father had commissioned it from the finest shipbuilders in the Dawn Sea, sparing no expense. The sloop could outrun anything in these waters, including most Navy pursuit vessels.

Tonight, it would be her salvation.

Alyssa climbed aboard, her hands shaking as she moved through the familiar routines. The Sparrow’s cabin was stocked with emergency supplies—food, water, medical kit, navigation equipment. But she would need more for an extended voyage. Much more.

She sprinted back to the base, taking service corridors to avoid the main thoroughfares. Her room felt different now, tainted by the conversation she’d overheard. But it still contained everything she needed to disappear.

Cori from her personal allowance went into a leather pouch. Charts of the surrounding waters—gifts from various Naval officers seeking her father’s favor—were rolled and secured. Changes of clothing, both practical sailing gear and formal dresses that could be sold if necessary. A jeweled dagger her father had given her for "protection," though she suspected he’d never imagined she might need protection from him.

The base was still alive as she made her way back to the dock. Search parties returning empty-handed. Officers barking orders. The machinery of her father’s authority grinding forward, oblivious to the defection taking place in its very heart.

She loaded her supplies onto the Sparrow, securing everything in the cabin and checking the rigging with hands that gradually steadied as purpose replaced panic. The sloop was ready. She was ready.

Alyssa stood on the deck, looking back at the fortress of white stone and flying banners that had been her entire world. Light spilled from her father’s office window, where he was planning his demonstration of power. He thought strength wasn’t about crushing people beneath your boot.

He was wrong.

She turned her back on the fortress of white stone, on the light in his window, and faced the open, unforgiving sea.

That was strength.