Chapter 3

My scalp screamed in agony as Matthew’s fingers twisted into my hair.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," Matthew snarled, his handsome features contorted into an ugly, unrecognizable mask of rage. "Did you honestly believe you could just walk out? That you could abandon your wifely duties and humiliate me by running away like a petulant child?"

I stared at him, my vision swimming with unshed tears and sheer disbelief.

"You threw a pathetic tantrum just because Elara came back to visit," he continued, his voice dripping with condescension as he finally released my hair, shoving me back onto the plush carpet.

"You packed a bag and tried to flee the country over a little jealousy? Do you have any idea how embarrassing it was to come home to an empty house? To have to explain to my guests that my wife is throwing a hysterical fit?"

"Jealousy?" I choked out, a hysterical, broken laugh tearing from my throat.

I scrambled to my feet, my hands balling into fists so tight my fingernails bit into my palms. "You think I give a damn about you and Elara? You think I left because of a childish tantrum?"

"Enlighten me, then, Beatrice," he mocked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"My mother is dead!" I screamed, the sound tearing through the grand, echoing foyer of the house. "She is dead, Matthew! And do you know why? Because while you were playing happy family at a piano recital, your precious son locked her in a room during a massive asthma attack!"

Matthew’s arrogant smirk faltered, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"She suffocated to death!" I shrieked, tears streaming down my bruised cheeks. "Ethan locked the door and took the key! He laughed while she gasped for air! I begged you to come home, and you told me to let her die!"

A sudden, sharp gasp echoed from the hallway.

I whipped my head around. There, peeking from behind the mahogany doorframe, was Ethan. His wide eyes darted between my furious face and Matthew’s stunned expression.

A loud, piercing wail erupted from his mouth. He threw his hands over his face, sobbing hysterically and shrinking back against the wall, playing the role of the terrified, innocent victim to absolute perfection.

"Dad!" Ethan wailed. "She's yelling at me! She's lying!"

Before Matthew could even move, the click of designer heels echoed on the hardwood floor.

Elara stepped out from the shadows of the hallway. She immediately dropped to her knees, wrapping her arms fiercely around Ethan and pulling his face into her chest.

"You dare yell at my child?" Elara hissed. "Are you completely out of your mind, Beatrice?"

"He killed her!" I sobbed, pointing a shaking finger at the boy burying his face in Elara's silk robe. "He murdered my mother!"

Elara stood up, shielding Ethan behind her. "Listen to yourself. You sound completely unhinged. You're just a pathetic, barren woman trying to blame a little boy because you couldn't even keep your own mother alive."

The word barren struck me like a physical blow, a cruel reminder of the years I had spent desperately trying to give Matthew a child of our own, only to pour all my maternal love into the boy who was now hiding behind his biological mother.

"Shut your mouth!" I roared.

Blinded by a grief so profound it completely consumed my rational thought, I lunged at her.

I wanted to wipe that smug, victorious sneer off her flawless face.

I wanted her to feel a fraction of the agonizing pain tearing my heart to shreds.

My hands were inches from her throat when a pair of strong arms wrapped around me like steel bands.

"Enough!" Matthew bellowed.

He caught me mid-lunge, spinning me around and brutally twisting my arms behind my back.

The joint in my shoulder popped, sending a blinding flash of pain down my spine.

I thrashed wildly, kicking and screaming, completely feral with heartbreak.

"Let me go! Let me go, you murderer!" I shrieked, my voice cracking into a guttural sob.

"You are completely hysterical," Matthew growled directly into my ear, his breath hot against my neck.

"You're traumatizing my son with these psychotic lies. You need to be locked up until you remember how to behave."

Without another word, he began to drag me down the hallway. My bare feet skidded against the polished hardwood. I fought with every ounce of strength I had left, but I was exhausted, bruised, and broken.

"Matthew, no! Let me go!"

He ignored my pleas, hauling me toward the end of the corridor. He stopped in front of the heavy oak door. The doorknob was still warped and dented from where I had smashed it with the brass candlestick three days ago.

My blood ran instantly cold.

"No," I whimpered, all the fight draining out of me in a single, terrifying rush. "Matthew, please. Not in there. Please, God, no."

He didn't even hesitate. He shoved the door open, threw me violently into the dark room, and slammed the heavy wood shut behind me.

Click.

The sound of the lock turning echoed like a gunshot in the pitch-black space.

My trembling knees gave out. I collapsed onto the hardwood floor, my hands brushing against the carpet. It was the exact spot. The very place where I had found her crumpled body, her lips blue, her eyes frozen in unadulterated agony.

"Mom," I whispered into the suffocating darkness.