Chapter 3 - Margaret’s Ultimatum
“Nathan! Open this door right now!”
Margaret’s voice pierced through the mahogany panels again, accompanied by the heavy thud of a fist.
Nathan didn't move toward the door. Instead, his gaze remained locked on the papers spread across the bed. His fingers traced the state seal on the court order once more, as if trying to force his brain to accept data that defied every law of physics and biology.
“Emily,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “Is this real?”
“Every word of it,” I said, feeling a tear finally slip down my cheek. “Every date, every medical diagnosis, every court stamp.”
He looked up, his dark eyes shining with a sudden, overwhelming surge of protective fury. He stood tall, walked to the heavy bedroom door, and turned the deadbolt with a sharp, metallic click.
He pulled the door open.
Margaret stood in the hallway, her silk bathrobe tied tightly around her thin frame, her silver hair perfectly coiffed even at midnight. Behind her stood Arthur, the family attorney, clutching a thick leather briefcase with a smug expression that made my stomach churn.
Margaret swept past Nathan into the room without an invitation, her nose wrinkled in disdain.
“It’s about time,” she snapped, before freezing as she saw me standing near the bed in my unzipped robe, the scars across my back partially visible despite my hasty attempt to cover them. Margaret’s eyes widened with visceral satisfaction. “Ah. I see you’ve finally shown him your little souvenirs. Did you tell him how you got them, Emily? Or did you leave out the part where those children destroyed your entire family before you even set foot in New York?”
Nathan stepped between his mother and me, his presence towering and formidable.
“Watch your tone, Mother,” Nathan growled, his voice dropping into a register that made even Margaret take an involuntary half-step back. “You pounded on my bridal suite door in the middle of the night. Explain yourself. Right now.”
Margaret recovered her composure quickly, smoothing down her lapels with a theatrical sigh. She turned to Arthur.
“Arthur has spent the last three weeks digging into your little bride’s background, Nathan,” Margaret said, her voice dripping with venom. “You thought she was a poor, misunderstood orphan from West Virginia. You thought her paychecks were going to support some tragic family back home.”
She pointed a manicured finger directly at the manila folder on the bed.
“Those aren't her children, Nathan. Those are her siblings! And she didn't send money home to support them—she sent money to pay for their permanent psychiatric care and state-supervised foster placement, because the court records prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Emily is the one who set the fire that nearly burned them alive!”
The room seemed to spin.
The secret I had guarded with my life, the nightmare I relived every time I closed my eyes, was suddenly laid bare under the harsh bedroom lights, thrown like garbage by a woman who wanted to destroy me.
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I gripped the edge of the mattress, my knuckles turning white.
Margaret smiled, a cruel, triumphant smirk. “She’s a pyromaniac, Nathan. A damaged girl who nearly burned her family to ash. And you married her.”
