Chapter 4 - Behind the GlassThe Cook County holding facility smelled of stale bleach, damp concrete, and unwashed despair.
I walked down the heavily secured corridor flanked by two of my father’s private bodyguards, their dark suits contrasting sharply with the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. When the heavy steel door of the visitation booth clicked open, I stepped inside and sat down in front of the thick, reinforced glass window.
A moment later, a side door banged open, and two guards shoved Victor into the room.
He looked unrecognizable. The expensive navy suits were gone, replaced by a drab orange jumpsuit that hung loosely on his frame. His hair was uncombed, his cheeks were hollow, and the arrogant, untouchable smirk that had defined his entire existence had been wiped off his face forever.
He hurried to the stainless-steel stool on the other side of the glass, grabbing the heavy plastic telephone receiver with shaking hands.
I picked up my receiver slowly, sliding it to my ear.
“Elena!” Victor sobbed almost immediately, pressing his face against the glass. His eyes were bloodshot and frantic. “Thank God! Thank God you came! I knew you still cared about me. I knew you wouldn't let your husband rot in this hellhole!”
I didn't smile. I didn't frown. I just stared at him through the glass, my expression as blank and impassive as a marble statue.
“I’m not your wife, Victor,” I said quietly, my voice carrying clearly through the intercom speaker. “And I certainly didn't come here to save you.”
Victor’s frantic expression froze. A flash of desperate confusion crossed his face. “What are you talking about? The lawyer said—the lawyer said if you signed the paper—”
“My father’s lawyers own your lawyers, Victor,” I interrupted smoothly. “Every motion you file, every plea you attempt to make, is being systematically crushed before it even reaches the judge’s desk. You are going away for a very long time.”
Panic flared in Victor’s eyes, instantly dissolving his pathetic facade of remorse. The old, ugly temper—the one he had hidden behind polite smiles for years—flashed back to the surface.
“You bitch!” he snarled, slamming his fist against the glass partition. The metal frame rattled violently. “You think you’re so smart because of your daddy’s money! Without my family, you’re nothing! You’re just a weak little girl who needs a man to—!”
Before he could finish the sentence, the two guards standing behind him slammed their heavy hands onto his shoulders, forcing him back down onto the stool with a rough thud.
I didn't flinch. I didn't look away. I simply leaned closer to the microphone.
“When you were standing in our kitchen with your father’s cane, watching your mother smile while I bled on the marble floor,” I whispered, every word dripping with ice, “you whispered that no one would ever come to help me because no one would dare challenge your family.”
Victor’s breath hitched. He stared at me, the terrible reality finally settling deep into his terrified bones.
“You forgot one very important detail, Victor,” I continued softly. “You didn't marry a nobody. You married an heiress to the most powerful syndicate in the Midwest. And the moment you raised a hand against my child, you signed your own death warrant.”
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Victor opened his mouth, but no words came out. His lips trembled, his eyes wide with absolute, unadulterated horror.
I slowly placed my receiver back onto its cradle, cutting off the sound of his ragged breathing. Without another word, I turned around, stood up, and walked out of the booth, leaving him alone in the dark.
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