Chapter 1: The Silver Candelabra
The smell of melting tallow and scorched wool will stay in the back of my throat for the rest of my life. When Helena’s fingers locked into my blonde hair, pulling me hard enough to make my scalp burn, there was no warning. One second I was standing by the mahogany nightstand in the master bedroom, trying to explain why the courier service had delayed the foundation paperwork, and the next my world narrowed down to the bright, furious heat of her face. Her emerald green satin blouse caught the yellow glare of the bedside lamp as she leaned over me, her dark hair pulled back so tight her skin seemed stretched across her cheekbones.
"You liar," she screamed, her voice vibrating with a cold, controlled rage that terrified me far more than a raw shout would have.
My cry of pain wasn't loud. It never was around her. I had learned over three long years in that penthouse that making a sound only invited another strike. My knees buckled against the grey carpet, the fibers rough and cold beneath my bare feet. The silver candelabra sat mere inches from my hand, its lit white candles flickering wildly as the draft from the hallway hit them. I caught a glimpse of my own reflection in the tinted wardrobe mirror—a woman wearing a dark maroon turtleneck sweater and grey pants that suddenly felt too heavy, too thick to breathe in.
Then the floorboards groaned. Michael came through the doorway like a storm that had been building for hours. His blue long-sleeve athletic shirt was stretched across his broad shoulders, his short dark hair slightly damp from the gym. He didn't hesitate. He crossed the room in two long strides, his voice cutting through the space with an authority that made Helena's fingers instantly loosen their grip on my hair.
"Stop it!" Michael yelled, his tone dropping into that low, dangerous register he used when he was entirely done arguing.
Helena shoved me away, sending me sprawling sideways against the baseboard. I gasped, clutching my ribs, my eyes darting instantly to the wicker crib in the far corner where our newborn baby lay wrapped tightly in a light green knitted blanket. The baby stirred, letting out a thin, mewling cry that sounded like a kitten in the dark.
Helena spun around to face him, her chest heaving beneath the vibrant emerald satin. Her piercing gaze locked onto Michael with a venom that could have melted glass. She pointed a manicured finger toward the carved double doors leading out to the private elevator landing.
"Get out! Back off! Leave now!" Helena demanded, each word clipped and sharp.
Michael didn't blink. Instead of retreating, he stepped past her, moving with a fluid, athletic grace that ignored her commands entirely. He knelt down beside the crib, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he reached in and scooped the crying newborn against his chest. He murmured something low and rhythmic, rocking his weight from one heel to the other until the baby's cries softened into rhythmic hiccups.
That was when Helena lost what little restraint she had left. Her hand shot out to the mahogany nightstand, her fingers wrapping around the heavy brass candelabra with its three remaining lit white candles. Before Michael could turn around, she raised it high and brought it down hard onto his back.
The impact was a dull, sickening thud. Michael grunted, his grip tightening instinctively around the baby to shield the little bundle from the blow. The candelabra slipped from Helena's grip as she struck, sending the heavy silver-plated base and the burning candles flying across the room. They hit the grey wool carpet with a shower of hot wax and sputtering wicks. Within seconds, a small, hungry tongue of orange flame caught the edge of the rug, licking upward toward the heavy velvet drapes.
"Michael!" I screamed, pulling myself up by the brass foot of the bed.
The heat hit my face instantly. Michael turned, his face pale under his well-groomed beard, his eyes wide as he saw the fire spreading across the floor toward the doorway.
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"Get out, Elena. Now," he muttered, using his shoulder to push me toward the hall while keeping the baby clutched safely against his chest.
We stumbled out into the cool, silent marble hallway as the penthouse door slammed shut behind us, leaving Helena alone with the flames.
