Chapter 4 - The Tables Turn
Lacey dropped her wineglass. The crystal shattered upon the stone pavers, spraying shards of sparkling glass and dark red liquid across the patio like droplets of fresh blood.
“Damon!” Lacey shrieked, her earlier composure instantly evaporating as she clutched the lapels of Clara’s silk robe around her throat. “Are you crazy? Call the police! Call someone!”
Damon groaned, rolling onto his side and clutching his burning cheek, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief as he looked up at Arthur. The older man towered over him, his chest heaving slightly, his face completely devoid of mercy.
“Get up,” Arthur commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that carried the absolute weight of a judicial sentence.
“Arthur, please—you can’t do this—this is assault—!” Damon choked out, trying to scramble backward on his hands and knees away from the towering figure of his father-in-law.
“Assault?” Arthur repeated, a dark, humorless chuckle escaping his throat. He reached down with both hands, gripping Damon by the expensive fabric of his silk designer shirt and the belt loops of his trousers with ironclad strength. “You call this assault? What you did to my daughter—to my unborn grandchild—isn't assault. It’s a crime against humanity.”
With a single, explosive heave of raw adrenaline and paternal fury, Arthur hoisted Damon completely off the ground, dragging him kicking and screaming across the flagstones toward the open mouth of the kennel.
“No! No, please! Not in there! Clara, tell him! Tell him to stop!” Damon wailed, flailing wildly as his polished Italian leather shoes scraped uselessly against the stone.
Clara watched from the shadows of the cage, her breath hitched in her throat. For months, she had felt utterly powerless, reduced to a ghost in her own home. But watching Damon—the man who had terrorized, belittled, and dehumanized her—begging for mercy in the dirt gave her a sudden, electric surge of vindication.
Arthur showed no mercy. He threw Damon headfirst into the dark wooden enclosure with enough force to send him crashing against the far wall. Damon scrambled frantically to turn around, coughing as the thick smell of cedar dust filled his lungs, and lunged for the open door.
Before his fingers could grasp the edge, Arthur slammed the cedar door shut. He slid the heavy iron bolt home, securing it with a sharp, definitive click that sealed Damon inside.
Arthur then reached into his jacket pocket, retrieved a small brass padlock he routinely used for his specialized travel luggage, looped it through the heavy iron staple of the bolt, and clicked it shut, pocketing the tiny key with absolute finality.
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He stepped back, crouched slightly so his face was level with the cedar bars, and looked directly into Damon’s terrified, tear-streaked eyes.
“From now on,” Arthur said, his voice dropping to a freezing, deadly whisper, “this will be your home. Let’s see how well you like the accommodations.”
