Chapter 3
Adrenaline exploded through my system. I sprinted down the rest of the hallway, sliding onto the kitchen tile, and froze in the doorway. The scene in front of me felt like a nightmare. My mother—dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal Chanel suit—had my pregnant wife pinned aggressively against the edge of the kitchen island. Elodie was wearing a simple, soft blue maternity dress. She looked incredibly small, incredibly fragile, despite the heavy swell of her eight-month belly.
One of my mother’s manicured hands was locked like a vice around Elodie’s lower jaw. Her fingers dug violently into my wife’s pale cheeks, squeezing her mouth open. Her heavy diamond rings pressed deep into Elodie's skin. Her other hand was forcefully shoving a heavy glass of tap water against Elodie's trembling lips, spilling it down the front of her dress.
"Stop fighting me!" my mother hissed, her polite facade entirely gone. "Take it!"
"Mom! What the hell are you doing?!" I screamed, the sound tearing out of my throat like a wild animal. I lunged across the kitchen. My mother flinched, her entire body jerking in shock. In that split second of distraction, her iron grip on Elodie's jaw loosened. Elodie didn't waste it. She twisted her head violently to the side. She gagged, choking on the water, and spat forcefully onto the floor. The white pill flew from her mouth, hit the kitchen tile with a faint click, and rolled into the shadows under our dining table.
I slammed into my mother’s shoulder, shoving her backward. She stumbled against the refrigerator. Elodie collapsed forward. I caught her instantly, pulling her against my chest. She was sobbing hysterically, gasping for air, her arms wrapped fiercely and protectively around her belly. I wrapped my arms around her, shielding her, pulling her behind me.
"Declan," my mother said. Her voice was instantly steady. She calmly smoothed out the front of her silk blouse. "You're home early. Your wife is just being hysterical again. It's the hormones. She completely refused to take her iron supplement."
"You were choking her!" I roared. "I saw you! You had your hands on her throat!"
"Don't be dramatic, Declan," my mother sighed. "It’s a prenatal vitamin. I am simply trying to ensure my grandson is healthy."
Elodie was shaking against my back. "Declan," she whispered, broken and terrified. "It’s not... it's not vitamins."
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"She brought her own bottle," Elodie sobbed. "She waited until I was making tea... she grabbed me... she said I was unfit to be a mother."
I looked down at the floor, remembering where the pill rolled. "Stay behind me," I whispered to Elodie. I dropped to my knees and crawled under the oak table, sweeping my hand across the floorboards. My fingers brushed against something. I pulled out a small, amber prescription bottle. No logo, no doctor's name, just a stark white label. I stood up slowly. My breath caught in my throat. It wasn't an iron supplement. It was a high-dose synthetic compound strictly forbidden for pregnant women—designed to induce violent, immediate uterine contractions. She wanted to steal my child, and she didn't care if my wife died in the process.
