Chapter 9 - The Confrontation
In the grand dining room, Trent dropped Clara as if she had suddenly caught fire.
"What the hell was that?" Richard demanded, stepping out of the dining room into the wide foyer, his chest puffed out with the arrogant authority of an untouchable billionaire. "Who is trespassing on my property? I'll have you arrested within five minutes!"
Marcus turned the corner from the foyer into the hallway.
When Richard Sterling saw the six-foot-three frame of Marcus Vance marching toward him—eyes completely devoid of fear, shoulders broad enough to block out the light from the front windows—the old man's voice withered in his throat.
"Marcus?" Trent stammered, stepping forward from behind his father, trying to muster a confident smirk that instantly dissolved into a grimace of fear. "What... what do you think you're doing here? This is breaking and entering! You can't just—"
Marcus didn't speak. He didn't issue a warning.
In three strides, Marcus crossed the distance. His left hand shot out like an iron vice, wrapping around Trent's throat, lifting the younger, softer man onto the tips of his expensive leather shoes. In the same fluid motion, Marcus drove Trent backward, slamming his spine into the dining room wall with enough force to send a framed oil portrait crashing to the floor.
"Marcus, stop!" Helen screamed, scrambling off her chair, her vodka glass shattering on the floor. "Richard, call the police! He's killing him!"
Nicole dropped her phone, her hands covering her mouth as she backed into a corner, trembling.
Marcus pressed his forearm against Trent's windpipe. Trent clawed desperately at Marcus’s wrist, his face turning a deep, suffocating purple, his eyes bulging with terror.
"You touched her," Marcus said, his voice terrifyingly quiet, right against Trent's ear. "You laid your hands on my sister while she carries your child."
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"M-Marcus... please..." Trent wheezed, spit bubbling at the corner of his lips. "It was... an argument... just an argument..."
Marcus’s right hand formed a fist, pulled back three inches, and drove directly into Trent’s solar plexus. Trent let out a breathless, agonizing gasp as his diaphragm paralyzed. Marcus let go of his throat, letting Trent crumple into a pathetic heap on the floor, gasping for air like a fish thrown onto dry gravel.
