Chapter 2 - Left for Dead
The cold tile of the kitchen floor pressed against my cheek as my vision began to flicker like a dying lightbulb. I could hear the sharp, rhythmic clicking of my mother-in-law’s designer heels approaching. Patricia Brooks stepped into the kitchen, her eyes sweeping over my crumpled body, the pool of amniotic fluid, and the fake legal documents scattered across the counter.
There was no shock in her expression. No horror. Only a cold, calculating assessment.
“Is it done?” Patricia asked, her voice entirely devoid of emotion.
“She wouldn’t sign,” Brianna panted, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead. “She figured out the papers were fake. She’s a forensic accountant, Mom—I told you she’d notice. And then she tried to lock the account with her phone. I had to… I had to stop her.”
Patricia stepped closer, her heels splashing slightly into the fluid near my legs. She looked down at me with utter disgust, as if I were nothing more than a nuisance she had tracked into her immaculate life.
“You stupid girl,” Patricia whispered, kneeling down beside me, though she took care not to get her expensive silk trousers dirty. “You always thought you were so smart. You thought because Ryan married you, you suddenly belonged in our social circle. But you’re nothing. You’re a temporary distraction.”
“Please…” I choked out, a wave of agonizing contraction ripping through my abdomen. The pain was blinding, a white-hot iron twisting inside my womb. “The babies… call 911… please.”
Patricia ignored my pleas. She turned to her daughter. “Did anyone see you come in?”
“No. I parked down the street, around the corner where the streetlights are broken,” Brianna replied, her voice trembling slightly now that the adrenaline of the attack was fading. “What do we do? Look at her. What if she dies? What if the babies die?”
“If they die, they die,” Patricia said coldly. The sheer malice in her voice sent a shiver straight to my bones. “If she miscarries, Ryan will have no reason to keep that trust fund active. The money will revert back to the estate, and as his mother, I can handle his finances while he’s grieving. But we need to make this look like an accident. Clean up your fingerprints from the counter. Grab the documents.”
I watched in absolute horror as my mother-in-law actively orchestrated the cover-up of my attempted murder. Brianna quickly gathered the forged documents. Patricia grabbed a bottle of olive oil from the pantry—ironically, right beneath the hidden security camera—and poured a generous amount onto the floor near my feet.
“A tragic accident,” Patricia murmured, standing up and smoothing her jacket. “An eight-month pregnant woman, clumsy, slipping in the kitchen while her husband is away. By the time anyone finds her, it will be too late for those bastards she’s carrying.”
“Mom, her phone,” Brianna pointed out, kicking it further under the cabinet where she had shoved it.
“Leave it. If she can’t reach it, she can’t call for help. Let’s go. We need to be seen at the charity luncheon across town in twenty minutes. That is our alibi.”
They turned and walked out of the kitchen, their footsteps fading down the hallway. The heavy thud of the front door closing signaled their departure.
May you like
I was entirely alone. The darkness was closing in, and the contractions were coming faster, tighter, crushing the very life out of me. I looked up at the tiny black lens of the hidden security camera above the pantry.
Keep recording, I prayed silently, my eyelids growing impossibly heavy. Please, God, just keep recording.
