The Uber dropped Janelle off at the sprawling Whitaker estate in Long Island just as the sun dipped below the horizon.
She hurried up the grand staircase to her walk-in closet and shoved the brown paper bag of progesterone pills deep into the lining of an old suitcase.
A sharp knock on the door made her jump.
"Madam," the butler's voice called out. "Mr. Whitaker is waiting for you in the dining room."
Janelle pulled a thick cashmere sweater over her head, hoping the loose fabric would hide the rigid tension in her posture.
She walked into the dining room. The mahogany table stretched out like a runway.
Bryant sat at the far end, slicing into a rare steak. Blood pooled on his white porcelain plate.
Janelle sat down. The smell of the seared meat and garlic hit her nose, triggering a violent wave of nausea.
She grabbed her crystal goblet and chugged the ice water, forcing the bile back down her throat.
The only sound in the cavernous room was the scrape of Bryant's silver knife against his plate.
Janelle took a shallow breath. She dug her fingernails into her thighs under the table.
"A girl I went to college with just had a baby," she said, forcing her voice to sound casual.
She watched his face carefully. "What do you think about kids?"
Bryant's knife stopped moving.
The temperature in the room plummeted. The air grew so thick it was hard to breathe.
He slowly lifted his head. His dark eyes locked onto hers, cold and dead as a shark's.
Bryant dropped his knife. He reached for the crystal decanter and poured a glass of red wine, filling it to the brim.
He stood up, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the table, and walked slowly toward her.
He slammed the wine glass down right in front of her. Red liquid sloshed over the rim, staining the white tablecloth.
"Drink it," he commanded.
Janelle stared at the dark red liquid. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"I... I don't want to drink tonight," she stammered.
Bryant scoffed. He leaned down, planting both hands on the armrests of her chair, trapping her completely.
He lowered his face until his lips were inches from her ear. His voice was a lethal whisper.
"The Wheeler family has dirty blood running through its veins," he hissed. "You are not fit to carry a Whitaker."
Janelle stopped breathing.
"If you ever get pregnant," Bryant continued, his words slicing into her like a scalpel, "I will strap you to a table and watch the doctor scrape that bastard out of you myself."
All the color drained from Janelle's face. Her pupils dilated in pure horror.
The last fragile sliver of hope she had been clinging to shattered into dust.
Bryant saw her frozen state. He clicked his tongue in annoyance, grabbed her jaw with one hand, and forced the rim of the wine glass against her lips.
"Drink," he ordered.
Cold wine spilled down her chin. Janelle choked, forced to swallow a mouthful of the bitter alcohol.
The liquid burned her throat. She shoved his chest with both hands and doubled over, coughing violently.
The wine glass slipped from her fingers. It hit the Persian rug with a dull thud, the red stain spreading like fresh blood.
Bryant stood up, adjusting his cuffs with perfect, terrifying calm. He looked down at her pathetic, coughing form with absolute disgust.
He turned on his heel and walked out of the dining room.
A minute later, the roar of his car engine faded down the driveway.
Janelle slid off the chair and collapsed onto the wine-soaked rug. She curled into a tight ball, wrapping both arms around her stomach.
Tears poured down her face, soaking into the wool fibers.
She bit her own lip until it bled, making a silent vow to the life inside her. He will never touch you. I will die first.
