Chapter 3 - Blinded by Malice|
Veronica did not aim at the floor. With a sharp flick of her wrist, she pointed the nozzle directly at my face.
Before I could turn or cover my eyes, the first harsh stream struck me across the face. Concentrated chemical liquid forced its way beneath my eyelids and flared into my nostrils. The sensation was immediate and catastrophic—a blinding, terrifying heat that burned through delicate tissue.
"Ah! My eyes!" I gasped, stumbling backward and reaching up instinctively to shield my face.
"Preston!" I cried out, hearing footsteps rush toward me through the haze.
For one brief, desperate second, I believed my husband was reaching out to save me. I expected his arms to wrap around my waist, to pull me away from his mother's cruelty. Instead, his heavy hands closed tightly around my upper arms like steel cuffs.
Rather than shielding me, he pinned my hands down, pulling them violently away from my face.
"Stop fighting, Amelia!" he hissed in my ear, his breath hot and tight.
"Preston, let me go! It burns!" I screamed, squirming against his hold.
Veronica stepped closer and squeezed the trigger again. Another direct blast of chemical spray rained over my open, weeping eyes.
The pain transformed instantly into a white-hot agony, as if someone were pressing liquid fire and shattered glass straight into my eye sockets. I screamed Preston’s name until my throat felt raw, throwing my full weight against him, but he only tightened his grip, bracing his boots firmly against the marble floor.
"Stop being so dramatic," Preston muttered coldly into my hair. "It’s disinfectant, not acid."
Above my cries, I heard Veronica laugh—a high, brittle sound.
"A penniless girl like you was never clean enough for this family," Veronica declared proudly. "Consider this your very first proper lesson in knowing your place."
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My knees gave out, slamming hard onto the marble. My suitcase toppled over, sending our framed wedding photos sliding across the floor. Preston released his grip only when I collapsed completely, curling into a ball on the rug. Through a terrifying, blurry veil of red and white, I saw his expensive leather shoes step carefully around my trembling body to avoid the chemical puddle spreading beneath me.
He did not rush to get a wet towel. He did not wash my face. He called an ambulance seven long minutes later—and only because a horrified housekeeper shouted that she would call the police herself if he refused.
