Chapter 2 - The Panic
David stared at his phone as if it had suddenly turned into a poisonous snake.
The color drained entirely from his arrogant face.
“What did you just say?” David stammered into the speaker.
“You have reached the private security line of Chief Justice Arthur Sterling,” the deep voice repeated.
“This line is restricted for federal emergencies only.”
“State your name and location immediately, or this call will be traced by federal authorities.”
David’s hand was shaking so violently that he nearly dropped the device.
He looked down at me bleeding on the white tile floor.
He finally realized that the quiet orphan he had married was actually American royalty.
Instead of answering the federal agent, David frantically pressed the red button to end the call.
“What did you do?” Sylvia shrieked, looking at the disconnected screen.
“Shut up, Mom,” David hissed, his lawyer instincts shifting into pure survival mode.
He shoved his phone into his pocket and grabbed my arms roughly.
“We have to get her out of the kitchen before the local cops show up,” he told his mother.
“I am bleeding, David,” I cried out, trying to protect my stomach.
“If you move me, you could kill your own child.”
“You are going down to the basement until I can figure out how to spin this,” he growled.
He tried to drag me by my wrists across the kitchen floor.
I screamed as loud as my lungs would allow, hoping his colleagues in the dining room would finally intervene.
The heavy wooden swinging door pushed open, and David’s senior partner, Mr. Vance, stepped into the kitchen.
Mr. Vance saw me on the floor, saw the blood pooling on the tile, and saw his star employee dragging a pregnant woman.
“David, what in God's name are you doing to your wife?” the older man demanded.
“She had a psychotic break and fell,” David lied instantly, not missing a single beat.
“I am trying to get her to the car so we can go to the psychiatric hospital quietly.”
Mr. Vance looked at me with deep suspicion, clearly weighing his firm's reputation against my life.
Before anyone could say another word, the sound of heavy, rhythmic thumping filled the night air.
It wasn't the high-pitched wail of local police sirens.
It was the unmistakable, bone-rattling sound of military-grade helicopters approaching the house.
The crystal wineglasses in the dining room began to vibrate off the tables.
The front windows of Sylvia’s house suddenly lit up with blinding, intense white spotlights.
A booming voice echoed through a massive megaphone outside, loud enough to shake the walls.
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“This is the United States Marshals Service.”
“Surround the perimeter and breach every single door.”
