By the time I reached the porch, my breath was ragged. I set the bags down with shaking hands, my fingers numb, my wrists screaming. I straightened slowly, dizziness washing over me.
I turned back toward the driveway.
And from above, Victoria watched—silent now, smiling softly—as the rain kept falling and the cold continued its slow, deliberate work.
“Hurry up,” Victoria said, glancing at her watch. “The ice cream will melt. Daniel hates melted ice cream.”
The second trip was worse. My hips screamed. My baby kicked sharply against my ribs, a sudden, painful jab that made my breath hitch.
I’m sorry, I thought desperately. I’m trying.
I lifted the final two bags, the heaviest ones, milk and wine sloshing dangerously, and turned back toward the house.
That’s when everything went wrong.
It wasn’t dramatic at first. Just a fraction of lost traction. My boot landed on a patch of slick, black leaves soaked in oil residue from delivery trucks.
My foot slid forward.
Time didn’t slow. It accelerated.
I tried to twist, instinct screaming not to land on my stomach. I threw the bags aside, glass exploding on asphalt, and took the impact on my hip and shoulder.
The sound of my body hitting the driveway was sickening.
The air was knocked from my lungs. Pain detonated through my spine.
But none of that mattered.
I rolled instantly, clutching my stomach, rain flooding my mouth as I gasped.
“My baby,” I choked. “Please… my baby…”
Victoria hadn’t moved.
She hadn’t spilled her wine.
She simply looked down at me, her expression curious, detached, like a scientist observing a failed experiment.
“Careless,” she said lightly. “Clean that mess up before Daniel—”
She never finished.
Because the night exploded.
Chapter Two: When Power Arrives Unannounced
Light flooded the driveway, blinding, white-hot LED beams slicing through the rain.
The roar of engines swallowed everything else.
Not one vehicle.
Three.
Black SUVs surged through the iron gates at reckless speed, tires screaming on wet pavement as they fishtailed around the fountain, water spraying into the air like shrapnel.
The lead vehicle skidded sideways and stopped less than five feet from me.
The door flew open.
“CLAIRE!”
The sound that came out of my husband’s throat didn’t sound human.
Daniel Halstead ran toward me in a tailored suit he clearly hadn’t bothered to remove after a board meeting, his shoes ruined, his expression stripped of all corporate polish, raw fear etched across his face.
He dropped to his knees beside me, hands shaking as he touched my face, my shoulders, hovering over my stomach.
“Look at me,” he begged. “Talk to me. Where does it hurt?”
“I fell,” I sobbed, clutching his jacket. “I slipped. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said fiercely.
Then his gaze moved.
From me.
To the driveway.
To the shattered groceries.
And finally, to the porch.
Victoria’s wine glass shattered as it slipped from her fingers.
Daniel stood.
Slowly.
Dangerously.
“Ethan,” he said quietly.
The head of security stepped forward.
“Get my wife to St. Mary’s. Trauma bay. Now.”
“What about you?” I cried.
Continue reading…
