Chapter 9 - The Last Stand of the Architect
"Don't do this, Mark," I said, stepping forward, my eyes locked onto his. "Look at them. They are your children. They are innocent."
"They aren't my children," he hissed, a tear escaping his wild, bloodshot eyes. "They are Moore heirs. They are Arthur’s blood. They look like him. They look like you. They were never mine. You never let me in, Rebecca! You always kept the keys!"
"Because I knew what you were, Mark," I said, taking another step, drawing his attention entirely away from the cribs. "I knew you didn't love me. I knew you wanted the empire. But you could have had a life. You could have had a family. You chose this."
"I chose to win!" he screamed, lunging forward, swinging the heavy brass poker down toward my head.
I ducked, the metal bar whistling inches from my ear, smashing into the wooden frame of the rocking chair, sending splinters flying across the floor.
I scrambled back, my foot catching on the rug, sending me sprawling onto the floor. Mark stood over me, his face contorted in a mask of pure, murderous rage, raising the poker for a final, crushing blow.
"Goodbye, Rebecca," he whispered.
Before he could swing, the nursery door was kicked open with a deafening crash.
Two security guards burst into the room, their weapons drawn, followed by Dr. Jonathan and several police officers who had been stationed at the perimeter since the trial began.
"Drop the weapon! Now!"
Mark froze, looking from the guards to the officers, his eyes darting to the window. He realized he was completely cornered. The madness in his eyes flickered, replaced by a sudden, devastating realization of his own defeat.
He dropped the brass poker onto the rug, the heavy metal clattering against the wood.
He fell to his knees, his hands shaking as he raised them above his head, weeping silently as the officers rushed forward, pinning him to the floor and clicking the handcuffs around his wrists.
"Rebecca!" Jonathan rushed to my side, helping me stand, his face full of concern. "Are you okay? Did he touch you?"
"I'm fine, Jonathan," I gasped, my breathing ragged as I looked over at the cribs.
May you like
Arthur and Clara were awake, their tiny eyes wide, but they weren't crying. They looked at me, as if they knew the storm had finally passed, and that they were safe.
I walked over, lifting them both into my arms, holding them tight against my chest as the officers dragged my husband out of our home for the very last time.
