Chapter 2 - The Table Flip
The sound of shattering crystal, snapping mahogany legs, and bursting wine bottles echoed through the mansion like a localized earthquake. Lobster tails, prime steaks, and expensive sauces slid across the white marble floor, smashing against the baseboards. Two luxury shopping bags filled with designer purchases were instantly soaked in dark red Merlot, while my mother’s elite socialite friends shrieked in absolute terror, scrambling backward and tripping over their own designer heels to escape the chaos.
"Have you completely lost your mind?!" Eleanor screamed, her face turning a mottled, furious purple as drops of red wine splattered onto her pristine white designer blouse. "You are destroying my property! You are humiliating me in front of society!"
"Your property?" I laughed, a harsh, humorless sound that frightened even me. I stepped over a shattered crystal decanter, towering over my mother until she was forced to lean back against the wall. "This house is mine. Every dollar that feeds your lavish lifestyle comes from my accounts. And Clara is carrying my son—a child you and your friends treated like a caged animal."
I turned sharply toward the entrance of the foyer, where two private security guards stood frozen, drawn by the deafening crash. "Clear this house," I commanded, my voice slicing through the air like a razor. "Escort every single one of these guests off my property immediately. If any of them set foot on this estate again, I will personally ensure their husbands' corporate portfolios are liquidated before the end of the week."
The socialites didn't wait to be asked twice. They grabbed their coats, shoved past the guards, and fled out the front doors like rats abandoning a sinking ship.
Eleanor stood her ground for a fraction of a second longer, her chest heaving with spiteful arrogance. "You'll regret this, Sebastian! You're choosing a nobody over your own flesh and blood! When you wake up and realize what a manipulative leech she is—"
"Shut your mouth," I snarled, stepping so close she stopped breathing. "Pack your bags. When I get back from the hospital, if you are still breathing air under my roof, I won't just throw you out—I'll make sure you never see a single cent of Vance money ever again."
Before Eleanor could formulate a venomous retort, a soft, choked gasp drew my attention away.
I spun around just in time to see Clara swaying unsteadily on her feet near the base of the shattered table. Her face had turned an alarming, ghost-like shade of ash.
"Sebastian..." she whispered weakly, her eyes rolling back.
Her knees buckled. I lunged forward across the slippery, wine-soaked marble, catching her in my arms just a split second before her head could strike the floor. She felt horrifyingly light—a bundle of skin and fragile bones under the heavy swell of an eight-month pregnancy.
"Clara! Clara, stay with me, look at me!" I yelled, scooping her up into my arms as panic surged through my veins.
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"I'm... I'm so sorry, Sebastian," she murmured against my chest, her fingers weakly clutching the lapel of my suit jacket as I carried her toward the front doors. "I didn't... I didn't want to make trouble between you and your mother... I tried to be good..."
Hearing my starving, battered, eight-month-pregnant wife apologize for being abused by my own flesh and blood struck a knife straight into my heart. I rushed her out to my car, gently placing her in the passenger seat, while my mother stood on the front steps shouting furiously that I was abandoning my family over a dramatic stunt. I didn't look back. I slammed the accelerator down, racing toward the emergency entrance of Manhattan Memorial Hospital with a prayer trapped in my throat.
