The Neglected Wife's Bloody Revenge Pact

Jenna slammed her open palms against the thick wooden door. The impact sent a painful shockwave up her arms, but the heavy wood absorbed the sound completely. No one answered.

She took two steps back. Her chest heaved. She forced herself to inhale deeply through her nose and exhale through her mouth, pushing down the rising tide of panic in her throat.

Through the thick door, she heard Alonzo's deep, authoritative voice echoing in the hallway. He was calling for Hector Finch, the estate's head butler.

Rapid, precise footsteps approached. Hector's voice murmured a respectful greeting to his employer.

Jenna pressed her ear against the narrow crack between the door and the frame. She held her breath.

"My wife's mental state is extremely unstable," Alonzo ordered, his tone devoid of any emotion. "She is exhibiting violent tendencies."

He paused, then continued. "Confiscate all her car keys. Freeze every supplementary credit card under her name. Instruct the entire staff that no one is allowed to speak to her."

Hector hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Sir, should I call the family physician to examine her?"

"No," Alonzo snapped impatiently. "She is just throwing a hysterical tantrum. Starve her for a few meals. She'll figure out reality soon enough."

A moment later, the sound of little Arthur and Clio running up the stairs echoed in the hall.

Alonzo's voice instantly shifted, becoming sickeningly gentle. "Pack your things, kids. Mommy is sick. She needs absolute quiet to rest."

"Mommy is a crazy witch!" little Arthur complained loudly, his childish voice laced with pure malice. "She hit me so hard!"

"Mommy is just very sick in her head right now. She didn't mean it," Alonzo soothed, his voice dripping with calculated, hypocritical warmth. "We are going to stay at the penthouse in the city for a few days so she can get the help she needs. Remember, we are the normal ones. We are a family."

The footsteps moved down the hall and faded away. Minutes later, the heavy thud of the front doors closing echoed through the house, followed by the low rumble of the Aston Martin driving away.

The massive estate fell into a suffocating, dead silence. Jenna was completely isolated.

She turned away from the door. Her eyes swept the room and found her smartphone still lying on the rumpled bed where she had tossed it earlier. She walked over, picked it up, and pressed it into her pocket. At least she had this.

Then her gaze fell on the scattered clothes near the busted suitcase. She crossed the room, knelt, and pulled a pair of her own faded jeans from the pile. She stepped into them, buttoned the waist, and smoothed the rough denim against her thighs. The old cotton shirt she was already wearing would do. If she was going to fight her way out, she needed proper clothes.

She then walked to the nightstand and picked up the landline phone receiver. She pressed it to her ear. There was no dial tone. Just dead air. She traced the plastic cord down to the wall. The wire had been cleanly snipped right at the jack—just as she'd heard from the hallway.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her smartphone. She tapped the screen. In the top right corner, the signal bars were completely empty. It read: No Service.

Alonzo had activated the estate's internal signal jammers. He had severed her last remaining lifeline to the outside world.

Jenna walked over to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. She grabbed the brass handles and pushed. They were locked tight. She tapped her knuckles against the glass. It was thick, reinforced bulletproof glass.

She looked down. The second-floor balcony was nearly twenty feet above the stone patio below. Jumping straight down would shatter her legs.

She turned around and looked at her clothes scattered across the floor. A heavy, crushing weight pressed down on her chest.

But then, the memory of lying on the hospital bed, gasping for air while the monitor flatlined, flashed violently in her mind.

She ground her teeth together. A fierce, predatory light sparked in her eyes. She refused to sit here and wait to die again.

She walked over to her vanity table and yanked the drawers open. She dug through the makeup brushes and velvet pouches, searching for anything that could be used as a tool.

Her fingers brushed against cold metal. She pulled out a pair of stainless steel eyebrow scissors. They were small, but the blades were razor-sharp.

She slipped the scissors into the tight front pocket of her jeans. It was a pathetic weapon, but it was all she had.

Time dragged on. The natural light outside the window slowly faded into a deep, bruising purple, and then finally into pitch black.

Jenna didn't turn on the lamps. She sat on the edge of the mattress in the dark, her posture rigid, waiting like a cornered animal.

Suddenly, the faint sound of leather shoes stepping softly on the carpeted hallway approached. The footsteps stopped right outside her door.