The slap cracked across my face.
White-hot pain exploded through my cheek, my ears ringing, the taste of copper blooming at the corner of my mouth.
Florence stood off to the side, fanning the flames, her eyes glistening with a perfectly rehearsed look of hurt innocence.
"Chester, don't be angry. Ella's probably just lost her mind from panic."
She paused, letting the words land before twisting the knife.
"It's just... your mother is such an elegant woman. How could anyone compare her to Ella's gambling addict of a mother? Ella isn't even worthy of carrying your mother's shoes."
Chester wiped his hand on my clothes with a look of open disgust, as if he'd touched something filthy.
"Hold her down," he ordered the guards. "Since she loves putting on a show so much, let her watch the kidnapper kill her mother in real time."
That was when his executive assistant, Bradley Simms, called in on the emergency line.
"Mr. Henson, the chairwoman's personal phone has been unreachable. We have a serious situation at the office."
"Several cross-border contracts are waiting for her signature. The board is in complete disarray."
"Ever heard of time zones?" Chester cut him off, irritation dripping from every syllable. "My mother's in Switzerland. It's the middle of the night there. Her phone being off is perfectly normal."
The assistant tried to continue.
Chester killed the call and tossed the phone onto the coffee table.
"Stop bothering me with this garbage."
He looked down at me, lip curled.
"Ella, you really have sunk to a new low. You'd actually make up a lie like this."
"Passing off your deadbeat gambling addict mother as mine?"
"You think you're worthy?"
Florence slipped her arm through his, her voice soft as silk.
"Chester, let it go. Ella just got confused, that's all. Let's not pay her any attention. Today's supposed to be a celebration."
She glanced at the housekeeper and gave a subtle nod.
Within minutes, an elaborate Western-style dinner spread appeared on the table. Expensive bottles of red wine were uncorked one after another. The two of them settled into the living room, laughing and chatting, clinking glasses.
As if that phone call, the one where a woman screamed for her life, had been nothing more than a passing breeze.
"This is why I love you," Chester murmured, pinching Florence's cheek, his gaze so tender it could melt. "That thirty-million-dollar necklace was made for you."
Florence nestled against his shoulder, all coy sweetness. "As long as you're good to me, Chester, I don't need anything else."
I braced my palms against the floor and slowly dragged myself upright.
My knees had split open against the marble. Beads of blood stuck to the surface, and pulling away tore at the raw skin. The pain was sharp, immediate.
But it was nothing. Not even a fraction of what burned inside my chest.
I didn't look at them again. I turned, walked into the bedroom, and locked the door behind me.
Their laughter seeped through from the other side, each note piercing like a needle.
I pressed my back against the door. My whole body was shaking, and I couldn't stop it.
Not from fear.
From rage.
I pulled open the bottom drawer of the nightstand and lifted out stack after stack of thick papers.
Three years' worth of request forms. Every single one, written by my hand.
A request to buy water.
A request to buy cold medicine.
A request to buy sanitary pads.
A request to buy a coat that cost less than fifty dollars.
Every single one bore his handwritten rejection.
Format does not comply with standards.
Waste of money.
Drink more hot water.
Stop playing the victim.
The stack was so heavy my fingers trembled under its weight.
I unlocked my phone and opened the voice recorder.
There it was. Every word he'd hurled at me. His order to the kidnappers to kill the hostage. His sneering contempt for my mother. Every syllable designed to grind my dignity into dust.
I opened his social media and started taking screenshots.
One post: a photo of the necklace.
The caption read: Thirty million for your smile. Worth every penny.
Another, freshly uploaded just minutes ago.
In the photo, he and Florence touched wine glasses under amber light, their faces close, the mood intimate.
The caption read: With you here, all is right in the world.
All is right in the world.
His mother was fighting for her life.
