Chapter 3 - Cold Steel and Hot Grease
Back in the kitchen of the Sterling mansion, the smell of burnt porcelain and scorched Earl Grey tea still hung heavy in the air.
"Are you deaf, girl?" Trent barked from the marble island, his voice dripping with condescension. He held up his pristine calfskin leather shoe, pointing at a single dark speck of tea near the welt. "You left a droplet on my wingtip. You think these cost what your brother's military welfare checks pay?"
Clara stood by the six-burner commercial stove, her knuckles white as she gripped the handle of a cast-iron skillet. The baby kicked violently against the wall of her stomach—a sharp, frantic flutter that made her breath catch in her throat. She pressed her free hand against her apron, silently trying to soothe the unborn child.
*Just hold on,* she prayed inside her mind. *Just stay still, little one. Mommy is working on getting us out.*
"Leave the shoe, Trent," Helen said, waving a diamond-encrusted hand dismissively as she adjusted her silk scarf. She was seated on an antique velvet barstool, watching Clara with the cruel satisfaction of an empress watching an insect struggle on a pin. "She's already ruined the breakfast schedule. If my quiche isn't in the oven in ten minutes, Richard will have a migraine before his morning board call."
Richard Sterling didn't even look over the edge of the financial daily he was reading. "Do as your mother-in-law says, Clara. Efficiency is not an unreasonable expectation under this roof. You have no career, no assets, and no prospects. The least you can offer this household is hot food on time."
"Yes, Richard," Clara whispered, her voice rough from holding back the sobs that threatened to tear through her chest.
She turned on the gas burner. The flame clicked and ignited into a ring of pale blue. Behind her, Nicole leaned against the archway leading into the grand dining room, her smartphone held at chest level, broadcasting to a private group of her wealthy socialite friends.
"Look at her posture, you guys," Nicole whispered loudly into her phone's microphone, giggling. "Total trailer-trash form. You can take the girl out of the public school system, but you can’t teach her how to fold an omelet without weeping."
Trent walked up behind Clara. He didn't say a word. He simply placed a heavy hand onto the nape of her neck, his fingers digging into the tender muscle right below her hairline, forcing her chin downward toward the spitting grease in the skillet.
"You're shaking," Trent whispered against her ear, his breath smelling of mint and stale arrogance. "Why are you shaking, Clara? Are you nervous around your family? Or are you just pathetic?"
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"Trent, please," she gasped, her hands trembling as she tried to keep the spatula steady. "The stove is hot. The baby—"
"Don't you dare hide behind that baby," Trent hissed, his grip tightening until her vision flashed white at the edges. "I put that kid in you, and I can take you out of this house whenever I please. You exist here because I allow it. Remember that."
