He crouched low, bringing his face mere inches from mine, his breath smelling of the wine I had poured. “You will not ruin my career over a clumsiness spell,” he whispered, his voice vibrating with a dark, terrifying promise. “You will apologize to my mother. And you will stay quiet.”
As I lay there in my own blood, looking into the hollow, dead eyes of the man I had married, something fundamental inside my chest finally snapped. The desperate, pleading girl who had wanted a simple life evaporated, leaving behind a woman made entirely of ice. The panic dissolved, replaced by a crystalline, terrifying clarity.
I stopped crying. My breathing slowed. I looked up at him carefully, analyzing the contours of his face, seeing the coward beneath the bespoke suit for the very first time.
“You should call my father,” I rasped, my voice eerily calm against the backdrop of my dying child.
Aaron let out a short, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. “Your father? The retired nobody from the suburbs you made up to sound vaguely interesting? Fine. Give me his number. Let’s get him over here to mop the floor.”
I recited the ten digits of my father’s private line. Aaron pulled his own sleek phone from his breast pocket, dialed the number with exaggerated, mocking slowness, and pressed the speaker icon so the entire room could hear.
He expected a meek, elderly man to answer. He had absolutely no idea he was dialing the executioner.
Chapter 3: The Leviathan Wakes
