Chapter 2: The Stitches
Chapter 2: The Stitches
The emergency room was cold and smelled of antiseptic.
It was a stark contrast to the champagne and roses of the Whitmore Hotel. I sat beside Sophie’s hospital bed, holding her hand while the doctor meticulously stitched the gash on her forehead.
Seven stitches.
Seven painful reminders of the monster I had called my brother.
Sophie whimpered, her eyes squeezed shut. The local anesthetic had numbed the pain, but the trauma of the evening still gripped her tiny body.
“You're doing so good, baby,” I whispered, kissing her knuckles. “Mommy’s right here.”
The door to the ER bay swung open.
My parents walked in. They weren't rushing. They weren't crying. My mother’s eyes darted around the sterile room with clear disgust, careful not to let her silk gown touch the hospital equipment.
“How is she?” my father asked. It sounded like a business inquiry.
“She has a concussion,” I said softly, not taking my eyes off Sophie. “And seven stitches.”
My mother sighed. “Evelyn, this has gone entirely too far. Preston is sitting in a holding cell in his wedding tuxedo. Chloe is hysterical. The caterers threw away the food.”
I slowly turned my head to look at her. “My daughter was bleeding on the floor, and you're worried about the catering?”
“It was a mistake,” my father interrupted, stepping closer. “Preston lost his temper. But you calling the police? Having him arrested in front of the mayor and half the country club? You’ve ruined his life.”
“He ruined it himself.”
“Evelyn, listen to me,” my father said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You are going to call the precinct. You are going to tell them you overreacted. You will drop the charges.”
I stood up. I didn't yell. I didn't cry.
“Get out.”
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“Evelyn—”
“Get out of this room before I have security throw you out,” I said, my voice like ice. “You have no daughter. You only have a son. And he is going to prison.”
