Chapter 3 - MEMORIES OF THE MECHANIC'S DAUGHTER
To understand the fire in Jacqueline,
one had to understand the grease and the cold of her youth.
She remembered the way the wind would howl through the cracks in the window frames,
the way her mother would tuck her in with three blankets to keep the chill at bay.
She remembered the calluses on her father’s hands,
each one a story of hard work,
of long hours under the hoods of cars,
all to put food on the table.
Ambrose had met her when he was just a rising star,
a young man with a sharp tongue and a hunger for success that made him reckless.
His car had broken down near her father's shop,
a sleek Italian machine that didn't belong in a town like theirs.
Jacqueline had been the one to greet him,
wiping her hands on a rag,
her eyes bright with a intelligence that he hadn't expected.
She didn't care that he wore a watch that cost more than her house,
she didn't care that he was frustrated and late for a meeting.
She looked at the engine,
diagnosed the problem in seconds,
and told him he’d have to wait for a part to arrive from the city.
He had been furious,
pacing the small office,
trying to intimidate her with his presence.
But she had just handed him a cup of lukewarm coffee,
pointed to a creaky chair,
and told him to relax.
That was the first time Ambrose Blackwell had ever been told what to do.
He stayed in that town for three days,
and by the end of it,
he was in love.
He loved the way she spoke about poetry,
the way she cared for her parents,
and the way she didn't seem to want anything from him.
He had promised her the world,
promised to take her away from the chipping paint and the creaking swings.
And he did.
He brought her to Manhattan,
dressed her in silk,
and introduced her to a world of glitz and glamour.
But Jacqueline Mitchell didn't change,
she only adapted.
She kept her grit,
she kept her powers of observation,
and she kept her moral compass.
She watched as Ambrose became more successful,
and as he did,
she watched as he became more arrogant.
She saw the way he began to look at other women,
the way he began to lie about his late nights,
the way he began to treat her like an accessory.
But she didn't say anything,
not at first.
She was a Mitchell,
and Mitchells were patient.
She waited,
she watched,
and she gathered her strength.
When she found out she was pregnant,
she thought for a moment that he would change,
that the baby would bring back the man she had met in the mechanic's shop.
But the night he came home smelling of Cassandra,
she knew the man she loved was dead.
He had been replaced by a suit,
by a brand,
by a hollow billionaire who didn't know the value of the woman beside him.
Standing now in her small,
anonymous hotel room,
Jacqueline looked at her hands.
They weren't covered in grease,
but they were just as strong as her father's.
She was done being the Blackwell wife,
May you like
she was going back to being the Mitchell daughter.
And God help anyone who stood in her way.
