Chapter 6 - Blood in the Water
The next forty-eight hours passed in a surreal, suffocating haze. Matthew barely spoke to me when he came home, treating me like a ghost that was about to be politely exorcised from the house. He spent hours on the back terrace, laughing quietly on his phone, drinking bourbon, utterly convinced his brilliant new life was days away from commencing.
I played my part flawlessly. I stayed upstairs, pretended to rest, and let Patricia believe her threats had broken my spirit.
On Thursday afternoon, a courier arrived with a package addressed to me from *Davis Consulting Group*. Inside was a breathtaking emerald-green maternity gown made of Italian silk, along with a handwritten note on expensive linen cardstock:
*Rachel, Matthew asked me to ensure you had something appropriate to wear to the Heritage Gala tomorrow night. Green has always been my favorite color, but I think it will look passable on you for your farewell appearance. Best, Lauren.*
The sheer, venomous arrogance took my breath away. She was sending me a dress for my own execution.
I laid the dress across the guest bed, smoothed the fabric, and smiled a cold, dangerous smile. "Oh, Lauren," I whispered to the empty room. "You have no idea what you've walked into."
At 6:00 PM, I went downstairs to the kitchen to pour a glass of water. Matthew was in the kitchen island, scrolling through his tablet, looking immaculate in a tailored polo.
"You got the dress?" he asked, not looking up.
"I did," I replied evenly.
"Good. Wear it tomorrow night. Patricia told me you've agreed to review the trust addendum. That's mature of you, Rachel. It really is for the best. You're not built for this life. Once the baby arrives, you'll be happier in a quiet cottage in Asheville or Charleston. We'll take care of all the bills."
"You think of everything, don't you, Matthew?"
"I try to," he said, taking a sip of coffee. "I'm announcing the Savannah Maritime expansion tomorrow night at the gala. Senator Davis will be on stage with me. It’s the culmination of three years of work. I need you on my arm for the first half hour, looking poised, smiling for the cameras. After that, you can claim fatigue and have the driver take you home."
"Of course," I said. "Whatever helps your announcement."
Suddenly, a sharp, searing pain tore through my lower abdomen.
I gasped, dropping my glass onto the marble floor. It shattered into a dozen glittering pieces, water splashing across Matthew's leather loafers.
"What the hell, Rachel?" Matthew barked, jumping back in annoyance. "Can't you watch what you're doing?"
I gripped the edge of the granite counter, my knuckles turning white. Another wave of agonizing pressure gripped my pelvis. It wasn't the dull ache of a third-trimester cramp; it was a tight, crushing contraction that stole the air right out of my lungs.
I looked down. A warm trickle of fluid was running down the inside of my thigh.
"Matthew..." I gasped, sweat instantly beading on my forehead. "My water... my water just broke."
Matthew froze, his face cycling from irritation to sheer horror. "What? No. No, no, no. You're only thirty-four weeks! The gala is tomorrow night! You can't be in labor right now!"
"Call the hospital!" I cried out, doubling over as another blinding spasm seized my body. "Matthew, call an ambulance!"
Instead of rushing to help me, Matthew took a step back, pulling out his phone with shaking hands. But he didn't dial 911.
Through the haze of blinding pain, I heard him hiss into the receiver: "Lauren? We have a catastrophic problem. Rachel's water broke. What the hell do we do about the gala?"
He wasn't saving his child. He was trying to save his press conference.
May you like
Cold fury erupted through the agony. With the last ounce of strength I had, I didn't reach for Matthew. I reached into my cardigan pocket, pulled out my phone, and pressed the emergency speed dial.
"Julian," I wheezed, collapsing to my knees among the shards of broken glass. "It's time. The baby is coming. Call Evelyn. Don't wait for the gala... hit them now!"
