Chapter 8 - The Ashes Of Pride
The thought of begging me for mercy made Carter sick to his stomach,
a physical revulsion that twisted his insides,
but the reality of a long prison sentence was far more terrifying.
He hung up the phone,
leaving his mother weeping on the other side of the glass,
and stumbled back to his cell,
his mind racing,
desperately searching for a way out.
He needed to see me,
to play the repentant husband,
to use the baby as a shield,
believing he could manipulate me one last time.
The following week,
as I grew stronger in the private hospital wing,
my father informed me that Carter's public defender had requested a meeting.
"You do not have to see him,"
my father stated firmly,
standing by the window,
looking out at the city skyline,
his posture rigid.
"I can have him buried so deep in the system,"
he offered,
"that he will never see the light of day again."
I sat up in my bed,
adjusting the pillows,
feeling a strange,
cold resolve settling over me,
replacing the fear that used to paralyze me.
"No,"
I said,
my voice surprisingly steady,
"I want to see him,"
"I need to look him in the eye and show him he didn't break me."
My father turned,
studying my face for a long moment,
assessing the strength in my eyes,
before finally nodding slowly.
"Very well,"
he agreed,
"but you will not go alone,"
"and it will be on our terms."
Two days later,
I was discharged from the hospital,
surrounded by a security detail that looked like the Secret Service,
and driven to the county courthouse.
The meeting was arranged in a secure,
private conference room,
not the dismal visiting area of the jail,
a subtle reminder of my father's immense influence.
I sat at the head of a long mahogany table,
flanked by my father and two of his top corporate lawyers,
wearing a tailored,
elegant dress that hid the lingering bruises.
The heavy wooden door opened,
and Carter was led in by two armed guards,
shackled at the wrists and ankles,
wearing a bright orange jumpsuit that swallowed his former pride.
He looked pathetic,
shrunken,
the vibrant,
cruel man I had married replaced by a trembling,
broken shadow.
He stopped when he saw me,
his eyes widening,
perhaps shocked by my composed appearance,
or perhaps finally realizing the true magnitude of his mistake.
"Sit,"
one of the guards barked,
shoving Carter into a chair across the table,
the chains rattling loudly in the quiet room.
Carter looked up at me,
his eyes filling with tears,
the performance beginning the moment he opened his mouth.
"I am so sorry,"
he wept,
his voice trembling,
"I was under so much stress,"
"I lost control,"
"I never meant to hurt you or our child."
"Please,"
he begged,
clasping his shackled hands together,
"forgive me,"
"do not let them take my life away,"
"I will change, I swear to God."
I stared at him,
feeling absolutely nothing,
no anger,
no sorrow,
just a profound,
chilling emptiness where my love for him used to be.
"You are not sorry you hurt me, Carter,"
I said,
May you like
my voice as cold and hard as a diamond,
"you are only sorry you picked the wrong victim."
