Chapter 2 - The Cold Porcelain Cell
The service corridor was a stark contrast to the opulence of the ballroom,
with its dim fluorescent lights,
and the smell of industrial cleaning fluid,
and the distant clatter of caterers.
Regina pushed me into a large,
marble-tiled bathroom,
the bridal suite's private sanctuary that had become my prison.
I stumbled,
my wet shoes slipping on the floor,
and fell against the edge of a mahogany vanity.
"Stay here,"
Regina commanded,
her eyes cold and devoid of any human warmth.
"If I hear a single scream,
Laura,"
"I will make sure your life in this family becomes a living hell."
"You are overreacting,"
"women have been having babies for thousands of years,"
"a few more hours won't matter."
I looked at Derrick,
hoping for a shred of the man I thought I had married,
but he was staring at his shoes,
fiddling with his wedding ring.
"Derrick,
help me,"
I begged,
the pain folding me in half again.
"Just ten minutes,
Laura,"
he whispered,
his voice cracking with a pathetic weakness.
"Once they cut the cake,
I'll come back for you,"
"just don't make this any worse than it already is."
The door slammed shut,
and the sound of the deadbolt clicking echoed through the small room like a gunshot.
I lunged for the handle,
pulling with all my might,
but it was solid oak and held firm by a lock I couldn't break.
"Derrick!"
I screamed,
pounding my fists against the wood.
"Open the door!"
His shadow lingered under the door for a second,
then disappeared,
followed by the fading sound of their footsteps retreating toward the music.
I was alone,
locked in a room with white marble floors that felt like ice,
and a body that was determined to bring a life into the world six weeks too early.
I slid down the wall,
my breathing becoming shallow and ragged as the contractions intensified.
The arrogance of that family was staggering,
the way they viewed my child as an inconvenience to a party.
They thought I was weak because I was quiet,
because I wore sensible shoes,
and because I worked for the government instead of inheriting a fortune.
They called me "the little accountant,"
laughing at my spreadsheets and my locked briefcase.
But as I sat on that floor,
clutching my stomach,
I realized they had made the biggest mistake of their lives.
They had locked a predator in a cage,
not realizing that I had spent the last nine months building the very walls that would crush them.
I reached into my purse,
my fingers searching for the hidden compartment I had stitched in myself.
I pulled out the sleek,
black emergency phone,
the one used only for field operations of the highest priority.
My hand was shaking,
but my mind was suddenly,
terrifyingly clear.
I wasn't just a mother in labor anymore.
May you like
I was a forensic auditor for the state attorney general's organized fraud unit.
And I was about to call in the cavalry.
