The Broken Mother's Ruthless Revenge

Beverley sat on Aiden's bed, her back pressed against the door. She could hear the chaos on the other side. "You need a doctor!" Kaleigh was crying. "Ellwood, your arm is blistering! Your leg—oh my god, you're bleeding!" "Call the car," Ellwood growled. His voice was tight with pain. "Now." Footsteps—uneven, limping—stomped past the door. The front door slammed. Silence fell over the apartment. Beverley let out a shaky breath. She looked down at the T-Rex in her lap. She pulled the sleeve of her sweater over her hand and wiped at the ash stain on its nose. An hour passed. Maybe two. The apartment was dead quiet. Then, the click of the front door. Uneven footsteps walked down the hall. A distinct limp, punctuated by the soft thud of a cane she hadn't heard before. They stopped outside Aiden's door. The handle jiggled. Then, a key turned in the lock. Ellwood pushed the door open. He stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on a black cane, his weight shifted onto his good leg. His shirt was unbuttoned, showing a large, red burn on his chest. His arm was wrapped in white gauze. His injured calf was bandaged beneath his trousers, the bulk of the dressing visible, his stance awkward and pained. His face was a mask of fury. He threw a piece of paper at her. It fluttered down onto the bed. A medical report. "Second-degree burns," he said, his voice vibrating with anger. "Soft tissue damage to the calf. Kaleigh's arm might scar. You've outdone yourself." Beverley looked at the paper, then up at him. She said nothing. "She almost died for me in Bogota!" Ellwood shouted, stepping into the room, his cane thumping against the floor. "She had a fever for three days in that jungle. It damaged her heart permanently. And you, you jealous, spiteful woman, you hurt her again because you can't stand that she's better than you!" Beverley's jaw clenched. The Bogota lie. Again. "You are going to the hospital," Ellwood commanded. "You are going to apologize to her. And you are going to take care of her until she recovers." "I refuse," Beverley said. Ellwood's eyes narrowed to slits. "You refuse? Vaughn Industries has a lot of overseas contracts, Beverley. It would be a shame if those contracts were suddenly audited. Or canceled." Beverley's stomach dropped. He wasn't just threatening her. He was threatening her family. Her parents. Her brother. He knew exactly where to hit her. Outside the window, the rain had turned to snow. Huge, fat flakes were slamming against the glass. The wind was howling. "The driver is gone," Ellwood said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "You can take your own car. Or you can walk. But if you're not at New York Presbyterian in one hour, I will make a phone call." He paused at the door, leaning on his cane. "And Beverley? Where is my son? The twenty-four hours are ticking." He limped out. A minute later, the front door slammed again. Beverley stood up. She looked out the window. The blizzard was a whiteout. The city had issued a red alert. She felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. It was a deep, internal cold. Hypothermia. The chronic condition she had developed in the jungles of Colombia seven years ago. The cold rain, the fever, the shock—it had damaged her internal thermostat. Exposure to extreme cold could kill her. Ellwood had seen her collapse from it twice before—once in their second year of marriage when the penthouse heating failed, and once last winter when she'd been locked out on the balcony by mistake. He knew. He was sending her into a blizzard. He was risking her life to get Kaleigh an apology. She pulled on her thickest wool coat. She wrapped a scarf around her neck. She grabbed her car keys and walked out the door. The wind hit her like a wall of ice the moment she stepped outside. The snow was already ankle-deep. Her car was parked in the underground garage, but the streets were a nightmare. She drove slowly, the windshield wipers struggling against the onslaught. She made it two blocks before the car hit a patch of black ice hidden under the snow. The vehicle spun. The back end fishtailed. Beverley slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. The car jumped the curb and slammed into a fire hydrant. The impact deployed the airbag. It smacked her in the face, stunning her. The engine sputtered and died. The heat stopped. "No, no, no," she muttered, turning the key. The engine clicked. Dead. The cold rushed in. It seeped through the windows, through the coat, through her skin. It settled into her bones. She pulled out her phone to call for help. The screen flickered. The battery icon flashed red. The phone died. The cold was paralyzing. Her fingers went numb. Her breathing slowed. The shivering stopped, which was a bad sign. She leaned her head back against the headrest. The world was turning white. In the silence, she heard a small voice. "Mama." Aiden was standing in the snow, holding out his hand. He was smiling. Beverley smiled back, her eyes fluttering shut. Maybe this was easier. Maybe she could just go to sleep.