Chapter 1 - The Staircase Trap
|
She did not just kick me. That would have been far too clumsy, far too obvious for a woman who had spent her entire life practicing the art of delicate innocence.
We were standing near the top of the grand marble staircase at St. Catherine’s Medical Center in Dallas. I was eight months pregnant, my hand resting instinctively over my swollen belly, wearing a faded blue maternity dress. My husband, Preston Hartwell, stood two steps below me. His charcoal tailored suit absorbed the sterile hospital light, making him look like a statue carved from dark stone.
His mistress, Savannah Reed, leaned in close to me. Her glossy blonde hair brushed my shoulder, smelling of expensive jasmine perfume.
“You are nothing but an incubator, Emily,” Savannah whispered, her voice laced with venomous satisfaction. “And your time is up.”
Then, she subtly shifted her weight. Her sharp red-soled heel caught my left ankle in a deliberate, violent twist.
The world tilted instantly. The cold marble floor rushed up to meet my face.
I did not scream. I twisted my body sideways, throwing all my weight into the fall to protect my unborn baby. My shoulder slammed hard into the heavy brass railing with a bone-shattering thud. The impact sent a wave of agonizing pain shooting down my spine, but I refused to let go. I gasped, suspended awkwardly over the steep drop of the stairs, my knuckles turning white as I gripped the metal.
Savannah gasped loudly, putting her hands over her mouth in a dramatic display of horror.
“Oh my god, Emily! You’re so clumsy! Someone help her!”
I pulled myself upright, my chest heaving as I looked up at Preston. He was a billionaire who controlled half the commercial real estate in Texas, a man who managed his life with cold, calculating precision. He stood perfectly still. He did not reach for me. He did not even blink.
“She tripped,” Preston announced loudly, ensuring the nurses at the nearby station heard every word. “She’s been completely unstable all week.”
May you like
Before I could speak, the heavy double doors at the end of the corridor slammed open. Two private medics pushing a transport stretcher rushed toward us. Their badges bore the emblem of Hartwell Medical Group—Preston’s private healthcare network.
“My wife is experiencing a severe psychiatric episode,” Preston told them smoothly. “Transfer her to my private facility immediately.”
