Chapter 2 - The Crack of Judgment
Marcus stopped dead in his tracks.
His dark eyes, usually so calculating and composed, flickered wildly. He looked down at me—writhing on the floor, weeping, hands guarding my stomach. Then his gaze drifted to Isabella’s right shoe. The sharp red heel had a faint smudge on the side. Slowly, his eyes traveled up the length of her red dress to her tear-streaked face.
"Marcus, please," Isabella whimpered, taking a step toward him, her hands outstretched, reaching for his arm. "Just listen to me... I came to bring her flowers, and she lost her balance. I tried to catch her, but—"
SLAP!
The sound cracked through the silent hospital room like a gunshot.
The sheer force of Marcus’s palm striking Isabella’s cheek snapped her head to the side. She stumbled sideways, her balance failing, and collided hard against the stainless-steel side table. Vials of sterile saline and a glass water pitcher crashed to the floor, shattering into a hundred glittering shards.
“DON'T YOU DARE LIE TO ME!” Marcus roared, his chest heaving, his fist clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Isabella stood frozen, her left hand pressed against her burning, reddening cheek. Her mouth hung open, but no sound came out.
For several agonizing seconds, nobody moved. The sound of my heavy breathing and the rhythmic beep of the fetal monitor were the only sounds in the room.
Marcus dropped to his knees beside me, his hands trembling as he touched my shoulders, terrified that moving me might cause more harm. "Khloe... baby, look at me. Are you okay? Where does it hurt? Someone get a doctor!" he yelled toward the open hallway.
I looked up at Marcus, my vision blurred by tears. "The baby... Marcus, check the baby..."
"I'm getting help, stay still," he pleaded, his voice breaking.
Then, behind him, something shifted.
The atmosphere in the room altered completely. The panicked, victimized expression on Isabella's face began to melt away. The forced tears dried up instantly. Her eyes narrowed, losing all trace of fear or pain from the blow she had just received.
Slowly, methodically, Isabella’s eyes traveled upward.
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She didn't look at Marcus. She didn't look at me. She stared straight at the far corner of the high ceiling, right above the heavy privacy curtains.
And as she stared, all the remaining color drained from her face, leaving her looking like a corpse.
