Lacey's eyes were wild, a calculating madness swimming in them. She looked at Ariel, a sick, triumphant smile twisting her lips.
"She's trying to ruin us, Garrick!" Lacey wailed, her voice trembling with fake fear. "She won't stop until she destroys our baby!"
Garrick, already rattled by the recording, turned his anger back on Ariel, his face twisting in rage.
But before he could speak, Lacey moved.
She lunged toward Ariel, not to attack, but to create chaos. Ariel instinctively sidestepped, her knee knocking hard against the sharp edge of the vanity table in her haste to dodge, and Lacey, as if stumbling, slammed into the side table. The silver pot teetered for a moment before crashing to the floor.
A wave of scalding, dark liquid splashed out, soaking the expensive rug and splattering across Lacey's outstretched forearm.
Lacey let out a piercing, agonizing scream. The skin on her forearm instantly turned an angry, blistering red.
Ariel stood frozen, her eyes wide. She hadn't expected this level of insanity.
Tears streamed down Lacey's face. She pointed a shaking finger at Ariel. "Garrick! She pushed me! She tried to hurt our baby! I tried to get away and she shoved me into the table..."
It was a flawless, sickening performance.
Garrick looked at Lacey's burned arm, then at Ariel. The evidence was right there. The red arm, the spilled coffee, the crying pregnant woman. In his mind, Ariel was the jealous, barren ex-wife. Of course she would snap.
The rage that took over Garrick's face was animalistic. "Ariel Melton!" he roared, lunging forward. "You crazy bitch!"
"I didn't touch her!" Ariel shouted, backing up against the wall. "She did it to herself!"
But Garrick wasn't listening. He was blind with fury, his hand raised, ready to strike her.
Ariel squeezed her eyes shut. In three years of marriage, he had never hit her. But now, for this woman, he was going to. She braced for the impact, her body tensing.
The slap never came.
Instead, the room echoed with a sickening thud and a sharp gasp of pain.
Ariel opened her eyes.
A man in a black suit stood between her and Garrick. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and completely silent. He hadn't appeared out of nowhere. The sound of the scream had been his signal. Hearing it from the bottom of the stairs, he had ascended in seconds, moving through the unlatched front door and up the staircase with silent, lethal efficiency.
His hand-large, calloused, and immovable-was wrapped around Garrick's wrist, stopping the slap mid-air.
K. Holloway.
Garrick was struggling, his face contorted with pain as Holloway's grip tightened. He tried to yank his arm away, but it was like trying to move a steel beam.
"Let me go!" Garrick snarled. "This is my house!"
Holloway's face was completely devoid of emotion. He looked at Garrick the way one might look at an insect.
"Mr. Tillman," Holloway said, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of a death sentence. "Does not allow anyone to touch a hair on her head."
