Chapter 2 - The Arrogance Of The Condemned
Carter stared at the shattered phone,
his brow furrowed in a mixture of confusion,
and sheer disbelief.
He slowly stood up,
tossing the ruined device onto the kitchen island,
where it clattered against the expensive marble.
"Pulling my coordinates?"
Carter repeated,
a forced,
nervous laugh escaping his lips.
"What kind of hillbilly knows how to track a cell phone?"
Eleanor rolled her eyes,
adjusting the blanket over her legs,
looking completely unbothered by the threat.
"He is bluffing, Carter,"
she sneered,
her voice dripping with aristocratic disdain.
"People like that watch too many action movies,"
"they think they can intimidate us,"
"us,"
"the Davis family."
I clutched my stomach,
curling into a tight ball,
trying to protect the tiny life inside me.
The pain was relentless,
a burning,
tearing sensation that made me dizzy with agony.
"You do not understand,"
I gasped,
my vision blurring at the edges,
dark spots dancing in front of my eyes.
"You have no idea who you just threatened,"
I whispered,
my voice barely louder than a breath.
Carter walked over to the liquor cabinet,
pouring himself a generous glass of scotch,
the crystal decanter clinking loudly in the quiet room.
"Shut up,"
he snapped,
taking a long sip,
the amber liquid burning his throat.
"I am a senior partner at my firm,"
he bragged,
"my uncle runs the prosecutor's office,"
"and we play golf with the chief of police."
"If your father so much as steps onto my property,"
Carter threatened,
pointing a finger at my bleeding form,
"I will have him arrested,"
"locked in a cell,"
"and the key thrown away."
I closed my eyes,
letting the darkness wash over me for a moment,
remembering the life I had left behind.
My father,
Arthur Sterling,
did not play golf with local police chiefs,
he dined with heads of state,
and he funded the campaigns of senators.
He was a former four-star general,
a man who built an empire in defense contracting,
commanding a private security force that rivaled small armies.
I had hidden my last name,
desperate for a normal life,
desperate to be loved for my heart,
not my trust fund.
Carter had played the part perfectly,
charming,
attentive,
until the ink was dry on our marriage license,
and the mask finally slipped.
By then,
I was trapped,
and when I got pregnant,
the abuse only escalated.
"He is coming,"
I murmured,
a strange,
peaceful clarity washing over the horrific pain.
Eleanor stood up,
walking over to her son,
patting his shoulder affectionately.
"Let him come, darling,"
she purred,
"it will be amusing to watch the police drag him away in handcuffs."
The clock on the wall ticked loudly,
marking the passage of time,
each second pulling them closer to absolute ruin.
One minute passed,
then two,
and Carter began to relax,
his arrogant smile returning to his face.
"See?"
he mocked,
kicking my shoe with his toe,
"Nothing."
But as the word left his lips,
the crystal glass in his hand began to vibrate,
the liquid inside rippling in concentric circles.
A low,
subsonic hum started to echo through the floorboards,
a sound you could feel in your teeth,
in your bones.
"Carter,"
Eleanor said,
May you like
her voice wavering slightly,
"what is that noise?"
