Chapter Fifty Two - Welcome To Camp Redemption

Harper stepped over the threshold of the Baldwin estate, the heavy oak door creaking shut behind her like a warning bell echoing in her chest. Her heart pounded—not with fear, but with sharpened resolve. The air was still, thick with gardenias and wealth, polished wood and preserved silence, but tonight she wasn't here to play the perfect daughter. She was here to tell the truth—for Josie, for herself, no more hiding.

Her boots thudded softly against the marble floors as she moved toward the living room, pulse thrumming in her ears, rehearsing every word in her mind. Then, suddenly, the sharp, powdery perfume hit her—Cece. A voice sliced through the quiet like a blade: "Harper." 

She froze. Cece's voice was silk hiding steel, sweet but meant to wound.

Harper's muscles tensed instinctively as the living room came into view, and there she was—Cece—perched like a queen on her throne, a glass of sherry cradled in hand, posture flawless.

"You weren't supposed to be here." Harper said quietly, voice trembling but trying to stay calm.

"Where are mom and dad?"

"Your parents are at work. Obviously." Cece replied smoothly, "So, I'm here. We need to talk."

Harper's fists clenched at her sides, swallowing the dread rising in her throat. "I don't want to talk to you."

"You've been keeping secrets, Harper." Cece said low and dripping with disdain. "I hear whispers you can't hide."

Harper's breath hitched. Her face paled even more. "What are you talking about?" she managed.

"You know exactly what.." Cece said, eyes narrowing. "You're confused. Lost. But don't worry, I'm going to help you."

"I'm not confused!" Harper snapped, anger igniting in her belly. "I'm done pretending—for you, for anyone. I'm not broken. I don't need fixing."

Cece rose with a grace that belied menace, eyes locking onto Harper's like a hawk's on prey.

"You're living a lie. If you think we'll let you ruin everything we've built—this family, this legacy—you're wrong. I gave you two choices: go to camp and learn to be respectable, or you're out. Out of the family, the will, this house. Alone. A nobody. Is that what you want?"

Her voice was ice and power, no warmth. Harper barely breathed.

"You're not serious.." she whispered.

But Cece already gestured toward the doorway where two tall men in black suits stepped inside, moving with deliberate slow steps. Harper's panic rose.

"Wait—no, don't touch me!" she screamed.

Too late. One grabbed her arm firmly; her body writhed with panic.

"Aura!" she yelled. "Jackson!"

Aura burst from the living room, pale with horror. "Harper! No! Let her go!" One man shoved Aura back, who stumbled but tried again, eyes wild with desperation.

Jackson appeared, tearing into the hallway. His hangover immediately disappearing from the shock. "What the hell is happening?! You can't do this!"

"Stay out of it" Cece snapped. "This is what's best for her."

"You're insane, grandma!" Jackson growled.

Cece's fury twisted her face. "I am saving her."

The front door yawned open as Harper was dragged outside; the cold night air bit her skin sharp and cruel. The sky was dull, bruised gray, stars hidden by thick clouds. She was shoved into the backseat of a sleek black car; the door slammed behind her like a prison gate. She sat frozen, pulse pounding like a war drum. Every part of her screamed to run, to fight, but the moment was gone.

Cece slid in beside her, calm and composed, victorious.

"You'll thank me someday, Harper." she said clinically, gaze fixed out the window.

Harper turned away, fists trembling. "You're fucking insane."

Cece said nothing.

The car rolled forward, headlights slicing darkness as the Baldwin mansion faded into shadow. The drive felt endless, trees growing denser, road narrower, the world outside fading into forest. A rusted sign appeared through mist: Camp Redemption: For Girls in Crisis. The words looked handwritten, like a warning carved by trembling hands.

The fence was tall, topped with rusted barbed wire, twisted metal gleaming menacingly. Beyond, bleak concrete buildings rose like tombstones—cold and uninviting. The place seemed abandoned by hope, swallowed by shadows and silence.

Stepping out, Harper felt the cold press down like a weight; silence was deafening except for the harsh clank of the metal gate sliding shut behind her like a final sentence. Distant howls echoed through trees, adding an eerie soundtrack. The cracked, uneven ground snapped sharply underfoot; a biting wind rattled broken windowpanes and hanging chains, jangling like sinister bells.

Inside, sterile hallways stretched endlessly, walls peeling sickly gray, flickering fluorescent lights buzzing relentlessly overhead. The air smelled of bleach mixed with something metallic—like blood or rust—and a faint hint of decay. Posters with twisted slogans lined the walls.

"Obedience Is Strength." "Your Desires Are Your Chains." "Truth Is Submission."

Voices echoed from closed doors—soft sobbing, frantic whispers, hollow laughter that ended abruptly—sounds that seeped from walls, reminders of broken spirits trapped inside.

Mrs. Winters appeared, smile brittle like cracked porcelain, eyes sharp and unyielding beneath her pristine white uniform buttoned to the throat, suffocating in rigidity. She led Harper down a narrow corridor where every door was metal with small barred windows too high to see through. At Room 19, Mrs. Winters unlocked the door with a key that rattled like a death knell.

Inside was a cell—bare concrete walls stained dark, a single narrow cot with a threadbare blanket folded surgically, and a metal desk bolted to the floor. No mirror, no decoration, no warmth—only the humming drone of a barred vent above whispering isolation. Cold seeped into Harper's bones, making her shiver. A tiny barred window near the ceiling let in a sliver of gray light, but beyond lay twisted branches and oppressive gloom.

Mrs. Winters' voice was flat. "This will be your space. Cleanliness mandatory. Inspections daily. Infractions punished with reflection hours—alone."

Harper's trembling fingers touched cold steel of the desk, reality sinking in—the cold metal unyielding like the place itself.

"Your belongings will be taken." Mrs. Winters continued. "No personal items. No distractions. You will wear the uniform. You will obey. You will be broken down to be built back up."

The words hung like a curse.

As the door slammed behind her, metallic clang reverberated, sealing Harper's isolation. She sank onto the cot, mattress groaning beneath her weight—too loud in suffocating silence. Shadows in the corners twitched, alive with unspoken threats. Outside, footsteps echoed steady and unrelenting like the camp's heartbeat—cold, merciless, inescapable. Harper's nameplate glinted under flickering light, cruel reminder that this was no refuge—it was a prison.

Her prison.