Chapter 5 - The Glass Shatters
The small, velvet-covered engagement ring box that Marcus had apparently been holding slipped from his trembling, nerveless fingers, tumbling down the porch steps to land pathetically in the snow.
Victoria gasped, stepping back as if I were holding a venomous snake. "Marcus! What is she talking about? Who are these people?!"
Patricia Reynolds finally recovered enough of her voice to push past her paralyzed son, her face twisting into an ugly mask of aristocratic fury and panic.
"Elena!" Patricia screeched, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings of the foyer. "What kind of insane game are you playing here?! How dare you show up uninvited with these... these brats! Security! Get security out here right now and throw them off the property!"
Not a single security guard moved. They were all standing near the parlor doors, paralyzed by the sheer shock of the scene unfolding before them.
I didn't blink. I didn't flinch. I simply turned my gaze from Patricia back to Marcus, who was trembling so violently his teeth were practically chattering.
"Game, Patricia?" I tilted my head, letting a cold smile touch my lips. "Oh, no. We aren't playing games. We're just returning a family visit, exactly like your son requested in his text message."
Marcus finally found his voice, though it sounded like dry leaves scraping across pavement. "El... Elena..." he choked out, his hands reaching out instinctively before dropping helplessly to his sides. "You... you told me... you said you weren't..."
"I said nothing of the kind, Marcus," I interrupted, my voice dropping an octave, carrying the sharp authority of a CEO who managed thousands of employees. "You didn't want to listen. When I told you I was pregnant eight years ago, you called me a liar. You accused me of trying to trap you into a life you were too selfish to commit to. You packed your bags, cleaned out our joint bank account, changed your phone number, and ran crying back to Mommy's estate before I could even finish my sentence."
A collective murmur rippled through the gathering of high-society guests inside the foyer. Necks craned. Whispers erupted like a swarm of angry hornets. Victoria spun around to face Marcus, her face flushed with sudden, incandescent rage.
"You said she was a crazy ex-girlfriend who made up a fake pregnancy to trap you!" Victoria hissed, her voice shaking. "You told me she had an abortion years ago! Marcus, what is the truth?!"
Before Marcus could stammer out a lie, little Olivia stepped forward.
She let go of her brother’s hand, walked right up to the base of the porch steps where Marcus was frozen, and looked up with wide, innocent, impossibly clear gray eyes. She tilted her head, exactly the way Marcus used to whenever he was confused, and asked the one question that froze the entire room solid.
"Mister," Olivia asked sweetly, her voice ringing clear as a bell in the silent foyer, "why are you shaking so much? Are you cold, or are you just scared of us?"
A sharp intake of breath echoed through the hallway. Several female guests covered their mouths with their hands.
Marcus looked down at his daughter—his flesh and blood, whom he had never held, never named, and never loved—and tears welled up in his eyes.
May you like
"Olivia..." he whispered, his voice cracking horribly.
"My name is Olivia Reynolds," the little girl corrected him politely, crossing her small arms. "And Mama says we have places to be today, so if you're done looking at us, we'd like to see the rest of the house."
