Chapter 4

Eliza POV:

The world went white. Cecilia. Her inhaler. Missing. The words echoed in my head, freezing my blood, paralyzing me for a split second. Then, a primal roar erupted inside me.

I sprinted out of the apartment, down the creaking stairs, and onto the chaotic city streets. My mind was a whirlwind of terror and fury. Every horn blare, every shouted word, every flash of light felt like a personal assault. I hailed a cab, my voice hoarse as I yelled the school's address.

The drive was agonizing. Every second was an eternity. I imagined Cecilia gasping for air, her small chest heaving, her eyes wide with panic. The image fueled my speed, my desperation.

When the cab screeched to a halt, I threw a wad of cash at the driver and burst through the school doors. The lobby was a scene of controlled chaos. Teachers hovered, parents whispered, and in the center, a small huddle. My heart plummeted.

I pushed through the crowd, my eyes fixed on the small, pale figure on the ground. Cecilia. Her face was ashen, her lips blue, her body wracked with violent, desperate coughs. A teacher was trying to help her sit up, but Cecilia was too weak.

And standing over her, perfectly coiffed, her expression a mask of performative concern, was Fiona Wilson. She was speaking to a cluster of reporters, her hands fluttering dramatically.

"It's just so tragic," Fiona lamented, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "This poor darling. I was just trying to help, offering her a little guidance." She leaned in conspiratorially to the cameras. "But I really must ask you to get my good side. This angle is not flattering."

My blood ran cold. My daughter was suffocating, and this monster was worried about her camera angle.

A guttural sound ripped from my throat. "Get away from my daughter!"

I charged forward, pure adrenaline coursing through my veins. Fiona flinched, turning just as I reached her. Without a second thought, I shoved her. Hard.

Fiona, caught off guard, stumbled backward, her designer heels betraying her. She crashed to the polished floor with an undignified shriek, her expensive handbag spilling its contents – lipstick, a compact, and a small, blue inhaler. Cecilia's inhaler.

My eyes locked onto it. The rage was blinding.

I ignored Fiona's indignant cries. I dropped to my knees beside Cecilia, snatching up the inhaler. My hands, usually so steady, trembled as I pressed it to her lips, guiding her through the puff, then another.

"Breathe, baby. Just breathe," I whispered, tears stinging my eyes. I rubbed her back, felt the tiny tremors in her skinny frame. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the wheezing subsided a little. The blue tinge on her lips began to recede. She gasped, a deep, shuddering breath that filled my chest with a fragile hope.

The momentary relief only intensified the fury simmering beneath my skin. This woman. This entitled, heartless woman had stolen my daughter's breath.

I looked up, my eyes blazing, and slapped Fiona Wilson across the face. The sharp crack echoed through the stunned silence of the lobby.

Fiona's perfect face contorted, a bright red mark blooming on her cheek. Her eyes, wide with shock, slowly filled with disbelief, then rage. The entire lobby seemed to hold its breath.

"How dare you?!" Fiona shrieked, her carefully constructed poise shattering. "You peasant! You just assaulted a celebrity!"

"Peasant?" I spat, my voice vibrating with unleashed fury. "You left my daughter to die! You took her inhaler! You narcissist! You self-absorbed monster!"

Suddenly, Fiona's burly bodyguards moved, lunging towards me. Parents, who had been murmuring in the crowd, started shouting. Flashbulbs from the few remaining reporters popped, but other security guards quickly moved to block their view.

I saw one camera, though, a small, discreet one, held by a student journalist, still recording from behind a potted plant. A flicker of strategic thought cut through my rage.

"She tried to kill my child!" I screamed, loud enough for that distant microphone to catch. "She stole her medication! While my husband, Justin Mitchell, was busy buying her penthouses and diamond necklaces!"

A wave of gasps rippled through the crowd. Murmurs exploded into shocked whispers. But then, Fiona's fans, a small, fanatical group who had been at the gala, started to turn on me, shouting obscenities, calling me a liar, a jealous witch.

"Mommy!" Cecilia's weak cry pierced through the noise, pulling me back from the brink of pure, destructive rage. She was still struggling, still vulnerable.

Just then, a sleek black car screeched to a halt outside. The door burst open, and Justin Mitchell, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, strode in, his face a mask of concern. Fiona's assistant must have called him.

He took in the scene: Fiona on the floor, her cheek red; me, kneeling by Cecilia, wild-eyed and disheveled; the screaming fans; the hushed, scandalized crowd.

"Fiona, my love!" he exclaimed, rushing past me to help Fiona up. "Are you alright? What happened?"

He completely ignored me. Ignored his daughter, who was still gasping for air.

Fiona clung to him, sobbing dramatically. "Justin! She attacked me! This... this crazy woman! She slapped me! She tried to ruin everything!" She pointed a trembling finger at me.

Justin's eyes, usually so warm and full of feigned affection, turned glacial as he looked at me. He didn't ask about Cecilia. Didn't ask about me. He just saw the chaos, the damage to his carefully constructed illusion.

"Eliza, what have you done?" he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. He grabbed my arm, his grip surprisingly strong, digging into my flesh. "Have you lost your mind?"

The pain shot through me, but it was nothing compared to the agony of his betrayal. He was protecting her. He was siding with the woman who had put our daughter's life in danger.

My eyes locked with his. The coldness in them must have taken him aback. His grip faltered slightly. He looked at my face, really looked at it, perhaps seeing the years of exhaustion, the hollow agony that now consumed me.

Then, his gaze fell to Cecilia, who was now crying softly, clinging to my arm. For a split second, a flicker of something - recognition, perhaps even shame - crossed his face.

"Eliza?" he breathed, his voice tinged with a sudden, dawning horror. It was the first time he'd truly seen me since he walked in. It was the moment he realized the "crazy woman" wasn't a stranger. She was his wife. And he had just physically assaulted her.