The dining room at the Logan Estate was designed to make people feel small. The table was mahogany, long enough to seat twenty, and Beverly Perry sat at the head like a queen on a throne.
Elinor stood by the side of the table. She felt like a defendant awaiting sentencing.
"I heard you threw a tantrum yesterday," Beverly said, lifting a bone china teacup to her thin lips. "Because Julius was helping a friend in need."
Julius sat to Beverly's right, reading the Wall Street Journal. He didn't look up. He was the perfect picture of the indifferent son.
"Chanelle is weak," Beverly continued, setting the cup down with a sharp clink. "She needs nourishment. As the wife of the head of the family, it is your duty to ensure the extended circle is cared for. Tradition dictates the sister-in-law prepares the postpartum meal."
Elinor felt a cramp twist in her gut. She looked at Beverly, eyes widening.
"Mother," Julius murmured, turning a page. "The chef can do it."
"It's the gesture that counts," Beverly snapped. She turned her cold gaze on Elinor. "Since you seem incapable of producing children of your own, you can at least make yourself useful to those who can."
Incapable.
The word hung in the air, toxic and heavy.
A servant entered, carrying a large silver tray. He set it down in front of Elinor.
It was piled high with raw liver, kidneys, and leafy greens. The meat was slick with blood. The metallic scent wafted up, hitting Elinor in the face.
It smelled exactly like the operating room.
Bile rose in Elinor's throat. She gagged, covering her mouth with her hand.
"Oh, stop the theatrics," Beverly sneered. "Take it to the kitchen. Now."
Elinor looked at the raw meat. Then at Beverly's sneering face. Then at Julius, who was studiously ignoring the abuse.
Something inside her snapped. It wasn't a loud snap. It was the quiet sound of a tether breaking.
Elinor gripped the edge of the table. Her fingers dug into the silk tablecloth.
She didn't think. She just acted.
With a guttural grunt of exertion, she heaved upward.
The table was heavy, but adrenaline was heavier.
Crash!
The table tipped. The china, the crystal glasses, the silver teapot, and the pile of raw organs went flying.
Beverly shrieked, scrambling backward as the teapot shattered inches from her Gucci loafers. Hot tea splattered her ankles.
Julius jumped up, his newspaper soaked in water and blood from the meat tray.
"Elinor!" he roared.
The dining room was a disaster zone. Liver slid down the expensive wallpaper. Broken porcelain littered the Persian rug.
Elinor stood amidst the wreckage. Her chest heaved. Her hair was wild. She looked dangerous.
She pulled out her phone. She opened her text-to-speech app. Her fingers flew across the screen.
She pressed play.
A robotic, female voice cut through the stunned silence.
"I am not a maid. I am not an incubator."
Beverly was trembling, her face purple with rage. "You... you unstable creature! I will have Julius divorce you!"
Elinor typed again.
"You won't have to."
She turned on her heel. She stepped on a piece of bone china, grinding it into dust with her heel. The crunch was satisfying.
Julius started to come after her. "Elinor, get back here!"
He slipped on a piece of kidney and flailed, grabbing a chair to stay upright. He looked ridiculous.
Elinor walked out the front door. The sun hit her face. It felt different today. It felt like her own.
She dialed a number she hadn't called in years.
"Harper," she whispered, her voice barely a scrape of air. "I need a lawyer."
