Chapter 3 - The Cold Matriarch
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I stumbled forward, my legs feeling like they were made of lead, and made my way into the sprawling living room. The grand, open-concept space was supposed to be the warm heart of our home, but tonight, it felt like a sterile courtroom where I had already been found guilty.
Sitting elegantly on the plush velvet sofa was his mother, Mrs. Eleanor. She had a thick, cashmere throw blanket draped neatly over her lap, her posture perfect, her expression entirely unbothered by the violent, abusive scene that had just unfolded mere feet away in the hallway.
She looked at my bleeding lip, then at my terrified eyes, and offered a thin, cold smile that didn't reach her calculating gaze.
"What are you waiting for?" Mrs. Eleanor snapped, her voice crisp and heavily laced with aristocratic disdain. "A child requires discipline starting in the womb. A lazy mother raises a lazy child. I will not have my grandson turn out like your side of the family."
My baby moved sharply inside me, a sudden, frantic flutter that made me gasp out loud. I pressed both hands to my belly, closing my eyes as I tried desperately to steady my erratic breathing.
The stabbing pains in my lower abdomen had started that morning, easily dismissed as Braxton Hicks contractions. But now, with adrenaline flooding my system and terror gripping my chest, the pain felt distinctly different. It was sharper. Deeper.
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But in this house, my pain was entirely invisible. It was never treated as real unless it belonged to Carter or his demanding mother. If I complained, I was weak. If I cried, I was manipulative.
I swallowed the blood pooling in my mouth, lowered my head to hide my welling tears, and silently walked past them. I stepped into the cold, sterile kitchen, knowing that my nightmare was only just beginning.
