Chapter 2
Z
The shadow of the heavy iron wrench swung upward, catching the brilliant glow of the brass chandelier before plunging downward toward my skull. In that microsecond, bounded by my father’s immovable grip upon my wrists and my sister’s face twisted into an expression of unhinged euphoria, every instinct for self-preservation took over. I couldn't scream—my crushed jaw rendered me mute—but I threw my entire upper body violently to the right, using my father's pinned arms as a leverage pivot.
The sound of iron connecting with hardwood was catastrophic. The heavy wrench missed my temple by a fraction of an inch, biting deeply into the pristine oak floorboards with a dull, splintering crack.
The sheer violence of the vibration shocked my father, his steel grip loosening for a fraction of a second. That was all I needed. Fueled by adrenaline, terror, and the metallic burn of my own blood pooling in the back of my throat, I yanked my right arm free and drove my fingernails directly into Robert’s eye socket. He roared in shock, his hands flying to his face.
I didn't wait. I scrambled across the slick, blood-stained floor like a wounded animal, slipping on my own gore. Behind me, Madison was screaming in fury, her pristine heel clicking rapidly as she raised the iron tool again. "Get her, Travis! Don't let her get to the front door!"
I lunged forward, throwing my shoulder against the heavy oak front door, bursting into the freezing Connecticut night air. Blood rained from my jaw, dripping off my chin onto the white porch steps. Behind me, the heavy footfalls of Travis Mitchell echoed across the foyer. The polished investment banker had shed his suave persona; his eyes were wild, consumed by the collective madness of the family he was joining.
I didn't head for my beat-up sedan; he would catch me before I could insert the key. Instead, I sprinted blindly into the thick, dark tree line bordering our suburban property. Leaves tore at my face, and darkness swallowed me whole as I crashed through the brush, my lungs burning, each footfall sending a shockwave of agony straight into my shattered jaw. Behind me, the beam of a flashlight cut through the dark timber, accompanied by Travis's low, chilling laughter.
"Come on out, Emily!" his voice echoed through the woods, smooth and cruel. "Your family isn't finished with you yet!"
I collapsed behind the roots of an overturned pine tree, clutching my face as warm blood drenched my hands. I squeezed my eyes shut, listening to the heavy footsteps rustling through the dead leaves just yards away. He stood there for what felt like an eternity, shining the light left and right, before spitting on the ground and turning back toward the house.
"She won't survive the night anyway," I heard him call out toward the house. "Let the cold take care of her."
I waited until the ambient light of the house faded into the distance. Barely conscious, slipping in and out of shock, I crawled on my hands and knees through the dark woods for nearly a mile until the trees gave way to a desolate, two-lane county road. The world spun in violent bursts of white and black. I collapsed against the cold asphalt, my body finally giving out.
The last thing I saw before blacking out was the blinding flash of high beams rounding the curve, followed by the screeching sound of tires burning rubber against the road.
When my eyes opened, the white ceiling of a hospital room blindingly replaced the darkness of the woods. The air reeked of antiseptic and rubbing alcohol. Every breath I took felt like inhaling broken glass. I tried to speak, but my mouth was entirely immobile, locked down tightly by surgical metal.
"Don't try to talk, dear," a gentle, stern voice said from the bedside.
I turned my eyes slowly. A woman in her mid-fifties with silver-streaked hair, sharp dark eyes, and a tailor-made navy suit sat in an armchair beside my bed. She wasn't a nurse. She held a thick leather folder in her lap, and her posture exuded an aura of absolute, lethal authority.
"My name is Victoria Sterling," she said calmly, setting down a fine porcelain cup of tea. "I am a senior partner at Sterling & Vance. More importantly, I am the lead attorney assigned to your pro bono case after the state trooper found you bleeding out on Route 7."
I made a muffled, strained sound in my throat, my hands twitching against the crisp white sheets.
"Your jaw was fractured in three places," Victoria said, her tone utterly devoid of pity, replaced instead by a cold, calculating precision. "The surgeons spent six hours wiring it shut. You have two fractured ribs, a severe concussion, and permanent tissue damage on the left side of your face. You were two minutes away from choking to death on your own blood."
She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a digital recorder, and set it on the nightstand.
"While you were in a medically induced coma for forty-eight hours, the local police department conducted an investigation at your parents' residence," she continued, her eyes fixing onto mine with terrifying intensity. "Do you know what they found, Emily?"
I stared at her, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"They found nothing," Victoria spat, a bitter smile touching her lips. "Your father, Robert, had polished the oak floors until they shone like glass. Your mother, Eleanor, handed the officers a mug of coffee and tearfully reported that you had turned violent during dinner, thrown a tirade over your sister's engagement, smashed a vase, and fled into the night in an unhinged state. And Travis Mitchell—a man with deep ties to the district attorney's financial donors—provided a sworn statement corroborating their story."
Tears of pure, unadulterated frustration burst from my eyes, burning against the bandages wrapping my face.
"They think they erased you," Victoria whispered, leaning in close, her eyes flashing like steel blades. "They think you are a broken, helpless girl who will take a minor settlement and crawl away to die in a dark corner. But I know your father's company. Sterling & Vance has been looking for a way to break Robert Vance's real estate syndicate for five years. You are not a victim, Emily. You are my warhead."
She opened the leather folder, revealing a stack of documents, police reports, and high-resolution medical photographs of my shattered face before surgery.
"They broke your bones," Victoria said coldly, handing me a small whiteboard and a dry-erase marker. "Now, you are going to help me break their lives. Are you ready to burn their picture-perfect world to the ground?"
I grabbed the marker with trembling, bruised fingers. I looked down at the white surface, the metallic taste of blood still lingering beneath the rubber bands keeping my jaw locked tight. I didn't write about justice. I didn't write about peace.
I wrote a single word in bold, sharp letters:
May you like
EVERYTHING.
Victoria looked at the board, and for the first time, a dark, dangerous smile crossed her face. "Good," she murmured. "Because the party is just getting started."
