Mark looked down at me. He didn’t reach for his phone. He didn’t drop to his knees to comfort me. He checked his watch again, a deep frown creasing his forehead.
“I can’t deal with this right now, Elena,” Mark commanded, his voice utterly callous and devoid of any human empathy. “Just take an aspirin or something to delay the birth. I have to go to the city to calm Chloe down and make sure the transfer cleared. Call a cab if you really need to go to the hospital.”
He turned his back on me.
“Mark, please!” I screamed, reaching a trembling, wet hand out toward him.
He didn’t look back. He walked down the hallway, the sound of his expensive leather shoes echoing on the hardwood floor. The heavy oak front door opened, and then slammed shut with a sickening, definitive thud.
I was alone. In a pool of amniotic fluid. Going into complicated, high-risk labor.
But as the agonizing pain of a second, brutal contraction tore through my body, forcing me to curl into a tight, shivering ball on the nursery floor, I didn’t reach for a towel. I didn’t succumb to the panic. The terrified, accommodating wife completely, permanently died in that room.
I reached for my phone. I didn’t call 911 immediately. I dialed the one woman Mark had spent the last five years aggressively, methodically isolating me from.
I was entirely unaware that by making that call, I wasn’t just asking for help; I was actively summoning a Category 5 hurricane that was about to permanently obliterate Mark’s entire existence.
Chapter 2: The Tactical Matriarch
The pain was blinding. It felt like a serrated blade twisting deeply in my pelvis. I dragged myself painfully across the slick hardwood floor, my vision graying rapidly at the edges, fighting the overwhelming urge to simply pass out.
With trembling, bloodless fingers, I unlocked my phone. I bypassed my recent contacts and dug deep into my address book. I found the number.
I dialed my mother. Victoria Sterling.
