The motel room in Queens smelled of stale cigarette smoke and mildew. Through the paper-thin walls, Eloise could hear a couple screaming at each other.
She sat on the edge of the sagging mattress and pulled out her phone. She dialed the number of her old Hollywood agent.
The phone rang ten times before it was picked up.
"Eloise," the agent said. His voice was stiff, defensive.
"I need to work," Eloise said, cutting to the chase. "Indie films, supporting roles, anything. I need to get back on set."
The agent let out a heavy sigh. "Eloise, I can't. Nobody can. A memo went out an hour ago. You're radioactive. Bronson Ortega has blacklisted you across the entire industry. I'm sorry, but I can't lose my agency over you."
The line went dead.
Eloise slowly lowered the phone. Her fingers dug into the cheap bedspread.
She forced herself to breathe. She opened her old laptop and connected to the motel's unsecured Wi-Fi.
She logged into the portal for her personal trust fund-the money she had earned from acting before she married Bronson. It was her emergency parachute.
The page loaded.
Available Balance: $0.00
Eloise stopped breathing. She clicked on the transaction history. Over the past three years, massive wire transfers had drained her account, funneling the money into a corporate entity called the Ortega-Mendoza Joint Holdings Fund.
A sickening memory flashed in her mind. A year ago, Bronson had brought her a stack of legal documents while she was reading by the pool. Just some tax optimization paperwork, baby. Sign here. She had signed them all without reading a single word.
He hadn't just started controlling her today. He had been systematically dismantling her independence since the day they met. He had turned her into a pet.
A violent wave of nausea hit her. She sprinted into the tiny, filthy bathroom and vomited bile into the stained sink.
She gripped the edges of the sink, looking at her pale, hollow face in the cracked mirror.
She slid her hand down to her stomach.
This baby was Bronson's blood. If he found out she was pregnant, he would unleash his army of lawyers. He would claim she was an unfit, homeless mother. He would take the child, and she would be tied to him, under his absolute control, for the rest of her life.
No. She couldn't let him win. This child would become his ultimate weapon, a new, unbreakable chain forged from flesh and blood. She would be reduced to a breeding vessel, forever trapped in his suffocating shadow. She stared at her trembling hands as a thought, more terrifying than homelessness, slithered into her mind like a venomous snake. The only way to sever this chain... was to destroy it completely. The realization made her blood run cold, sending a violent wave of nausea through her stomach. She had to abort it. It was the only way to sever the tie.
A sob tore out of her throat. She collapsed onto the cold, dirty linoleum floor, curling into a tight ball. She wept until her lungs burned, torn between the primal instinct of a mother and the desperate survival instinct of a prisoner.
Thirty minutes later, the tears stopped. Her eyes were dead, cold, and resolved.
She stood up, grabbed her phone, and dialed Dr. Fletcher.
"Dr. Fletcher," she said, her voice a raspy whisper. "I need to schedule a termination. As soon as possible."
A sharp intake of breath echoed through the speaker. Then, absolute silence.
