Chapter 2 - The Mother-in-Law’s ThreatThree days later, I was discharged. I didn't go back to the house with the cold iron doorframe. I moved into Sarah’s small, gated apartment on the other side of the city. The doctors had strictly ordered bed rest. My foot was casted, fractured in three places, and the stress was threatening to send me into early labor.
Liam was sitting in a county jail cell, denied bail after the judge viewed the video and deemed him a severe flight risk and a danger to his unborn child.
But a monster doesn't work alone. It was born from one.
It was a Tuesday afternoon when the intercom to Sarah’s apartment buzzed. Sarah was at the pharmacy getting my painkillers. I hobbled on my crutches to the security monitor by the door and hit the video feed.
Eleanor, my mother-in-law, stood on the front steps. She was dressed in her signature tailored Chanel suit, her hair perfectly coiffed, looking entirely out of place in Sarah’s modest neighborhood.
"Clara," Eleanor’s voice crackled through the speaker, cold and calculating. "I know you're up there. Let me up. We need to talk about this foolishness."
My grip on the crutch tightened. This was the woman who had stood there, watching her son shatter my bones, urging him to hit me harder.
"Leave, Eleanor. Or I'll call the police and tell them you're violating the protective order," I warned, pressing the microphone button.
Eleanor let out a sharp, aristocratic laugh that made my blood run cold. "A piece of paper won't save you, little girl. You think you’ve won because Liam is in a cell? You’re carrying a Vance heir. Do you honestly believe I will let a pathetic, weak-willed woman like you raise my grandchild?"
Her face moved closer to the camera lens, her eyes dark and hollow.
"I have hired the best family lawyers in the state. I am filing for emergency grandparent custody the moment that baby takes its first breath. I will prove you are mentally unstable. I will say you injured yourself in a hysterical fit to frame my son. You have no money, Clara. You have no power. Drop the charges, come home, and apologize, and I might let you stay in the guest room to nurse the child. Defy me, and I will leave you on the street without your baby."
Panic clawed at my throat. She was rich. She was ruthless. And she had destroyed people for less.
But then I felt a soft flutter against my palm. A kick. My baby was moving.
I took a deep breath, the panic dissolving into a white-hot fury.
"Eleanor," I said, my voice eerily calm. "You made a mistake. You taught me exactly how to be ruthless. I will see you in court, and I promise you, by the time I am done, the Vance name will be synonymous with garbage."
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I severed the connection. I didn't wait for her to leave. I grabbed my phone, pulled up the contacts, and called the most vicious, bloodthirsty divorce attorney in the city—a woman I had researched late last night.
"Ms. Sterling," I said when the lawyer answered. "My name is Clara Vance. My husband tortured me, and my mother-in-law is trying to steal my baby. I want to destroy them both. Can you help me?"
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