Chapter 4

The antique grandfather clock chimed eight times.

Elliana sat on the edge of the velvet sofa in the dimly lit living room. Clara was sitting on the thick rug near the coffee table, carefully piecing together a five-hundred-piece landscape puzzle.

The heavy oak front door was violently shoved open. A gust of cold autumn wind rushed into the foyer.

Devontae stomped into the house. His face was flushed. The overwhelming stench of cheap, sweet perfume and stale alcohol rolled off his clothes, instantly polluting the air in the room.

He ripped his silk tie from his neck and threw it blindly toward the sofa.

He marched toward the wet bar. He did not look down. His heavy leather shoe slammed directly into the center of Clara's puzzle, kicking the pieces across the rug in a chaotic mess.

Clara shrieked. She scrambled backward, pressing her small back against the base of the sofa, her eyes wide with fear.

Devontae stopped. He looked down at the ruined puzzle, then glared at his daughter.

"Why is this garbage in the middle of the floor?" he yelled, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "Learn some damn manners and stay out of my way!"

Elliana's blood turned to ice.

She stood up. She stepped over the coffee table and positioned her body directly between Devontae and Clara.

"Are you out of your mind?" Elliana's voice was low, vibrating with pure hostility. "Did you have a bad day playing pretend in the city, so you come home to terrorize a child?"

Devontae's eyes widened in shock. He stared at her, unable to process the tone of her voice. The meek, compliant woman he left this morning was gone.

He took a step forward, his chest puffed out. He pointed a thick finger right at her face. "You are a useless mother. You sit in this house all day and you can't even teach her basic discipline."

Elliana did not flinch. She raised her hand and slapped his finger away with a sharp, loud smack.

"Don't point at me," she said coldly. "And don't bring your cheap whore's perfume into the room where my daughter breathes."

Devontae's face drained of color. He took a quick step back, his eyes darting away for a fraction of a second.

"I was at a business dinner," he shouted, his voice cracking slightly with defensive anger. "It's called networking."

Elliana let out a dry, mocking laugh. "Networking doesn't leave a bright red lipstick stain on your collar."

Devontae panicked. He immediately dropped his chin and slapped his hand over his left collarbone, trying to cover the nonexistent stain.

He realized his mistake a second later. There was no lipstick.

His face turned a violent shade of purple. The veins in his forehead throbbed. He raised his right hand high into the air, curling his fingers into a tight fist.

Elliana tilted her chin up. She stepped directly into his space. She stared unblinking into his eyes.

"Do it," she whispered. Her voice was pure ice. "Hit me. And tomorrow morning, the Wall Street Journal will have high-definition photos of my bruised face on the front page. Your board of directors will strip you of your CEO title before lunch."

Devontae's fist froze in mid-air. He saw the absolute, terrifying certainty in her eyes. She was not bluffing. She was waiting for him to strike.

He cursed loudly. He dropped his arm, spun around, and kicked the heavy glass coffee table with all his might.

The table flipped over. The thick glass shattered into a thousand jagged pieces, exploding across the floor.

Elliana spun around instantly. She dropped to her knees and covered Clara with her own body, shielding her from the flying shrapnel.

She stood up slowly, brushing a shard of glass off her sleeve. She pointed toward the hallway.

"Get out of my sight. Sleep in the guest room."

"This is my house!" Devontae roared, spitting as he spoke. "I sleep wherever I want!"

Elliana looked at him with utter disgust. "The property taxes on this estate are paid by my trust fund. You live here because I allow it. Now get out."

Devontae opened his mouth, but no words came out. He turned around and stormed down the hall, slamming the guest room door so hard the walls shook.