Chapter 1: The Shattered Vase
No," I repeated, my voice steady despite the familiar spike of anxiety in my chest. "Lyric, the truck isn't a prop for your photo shoot. I have site visits all weekend, and I need it."
"It's just for a few hours, Arden!" she whined, her tone instantly shifting from sweet to sharp. "Ryker's father is a car enthusiast. He expects me to be driven in something... substantial. Why do you always have to be so difficult?"
I didn't answer. I hung up.
But when I arrived at the lake house, the truck wasn't in my driveway. It was parked right in the center of the lake house's circular gravel driveway, scrubbed clean, with a massive white ribbon tied to the front grille.
I felt the blood drain from my face. I walked into the ballroom, ignoring the clinking glasses, and found my father near the fireplace.
"Dad," I said, my voice tight. "Why is my truck here? And why is it decorated like a gift?"
He didn't even look at me. He was busy laughing at something Ryker’s father, a hulking man with a gold watch the size of a dinner plate, was saying. "Oh, Arden. You’re finally here. We were just telling Mr. Merritt about your generosity."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "My... generosity?"
"Ryker’s brother needed a reliable vehicle for his new job in Portland," my father said, waving a hand dismissively. "And since you’ve been so successful, and since Lyric wanted to make a good impression on the family, we decided to handle the transfer for you. The title is already signed over."
The room seemed to tilt. "You signed my title? That’s felony theft, Dad."
My mother, Marcella, glided over, her smile fixed and terrifying. "Don't cause a scene, Arden. It’s an engagement party. We simply thought it was time you started contributing to your sister’s happiness in a way that actually matters. You have your husband’s income now; you don’t need that truck."
"I bought that truck with my money," I hissed, my voice rising. The nearby conversations died. People started to stare. "Get the keys. Now."
"You are being incredibly selfish," my mother said, her voice a low, venomous whisper. She stepped closer, her hand tightening around the heavy, Waterford crystal vase on the buffet table. "Your sister is marrying into wealth. You should be honored to help her status."
"I don't care about her status! Give me my keys!"
That was when the world stopped. My mother didn't just snap; she swung. The heavy, lead-crystal vase whistled through the air and slammed into the side of my head.
The sound was sickening—a dull, wet thud. I stumbled backward, my vision turning into a kaleidoscope of red and black. I hit the edge of the heavy mahogany banquet table, the sharp corner digging deep into my seven-month-pregnant belly.
The floor rushed up to meet me. As I lay there, the world fading, I felt a sharp, tearing pain in my abdomen. A warm, wet sensation spread beneath me.
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"Oh my god," someone screamed.
My cousin, Sarah—the only one in the family who hadn't abandoned her conscience—was already on her phone. "Callum? Callum, come now! They hit her! She’s bleeding! The baby... Arden, stay with me!"
