Chapter 2 - Abandoned on the Marble Floor
For one agonizing, suspended second, the entire room went dead silent. The champagne bottle slipped from Ethan’s hand, clattering against the coffee table before rolling onto the rug. Everyone stared down at me as I lay curled on the marble floor, clutching my stomach while a widening puddle of fluid pooled beneath my dress.
Then, Chloe broke the silence, her voice trembling with sudden, selfish panic. "Oh, my God... is she faking it? Look at what she's doing to my weekend!"
Instead of rushing to help me, instead of showing a shred of human empathy or calling for medical assistance, my father’s immediate reaction was pure self-preservation. He reached out and grabbed Ethan by the shoulder, pulling him forcibly toward the private elevator. "Don't touch her, Ethan. Leave it alone. She's trying to ruin your wedding."
Mom didn't even look down at her pregnant daughter in distress. She snatched her designer handbag off the sofa, adjusting her silk scarf with shaking fingers. "Come on, Chloe. Let's get out of here before this mess becomes a public scene."
I couldn't believe my eyes. The sheer, sociopathic cruelty of it paralyzed me for a heartbeat. "Call an ambulance!" I shrieked, the pain in my abdomen intensifying into wave after agonizing wave of contractions. "I'm in labor! Call 911!"
Mom paused near the elevator doors, turning her head back just once to offer a final, venomous parting shot. "Stop screaming, Claire. You always make everything so damn dramatic."
Ding.
The private elevator doors slid open. Without a backward glance, my parents, my brother, and his fiancée stepped inside, pressing the lobby button as the stainless-steel doors closed shut, sealing me away in my own home while I bled and contracted on the floor.
Sobbing through the blinding agony, I dragged myself across the slippery marble, inching toward my fallen phone that lay just out of reach near the kitchen counter. Another contraction tore through my body, forcing the air out of my lungs in a ragged gasp.
I opened my mouth and screamed for help, knowing the concrete-reinforced walls of the penthouse were thick, but hoping against hope that a neighbor or building concierge might hear my cries.
Two minutes later, right as my vision began to blur at the edges from the sheer intensity of the pain, someone knocked hard, urgent knuckles against my heavy wooden front door.
“Ms. Claire Morgan?” a deep, authoritative male voice called out from the hallway. “Federal agents! Open up!”
I gathered every remaining ounce of strength I had, crawling across the floor until my fingers brushed the bottom lock. I threw the deadbolt open, collapsing back against the baseboard as the door pushed inward.
A tall man in a tailored dark suit stepped into the foyer, his eyes widening in shock as he took in the blood, the water on the floor, and me curled in agony. Behind him stood two uniformed NYPD officers and a digital forensics specialist.
The lead man flashed an official Department of Justice shield. "Ms. Morgan? I’m Special Agent Daniel Reeves with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We need to speak with you immediately regarding—good lord, ma'am, what happened here?!"
Before I passed out from the pain, I pointed a shaking finger at the closed leather folder lying beside the coffee table.
"Federal... documents..." I choked out, tears streaming down my face. "They... forged my signature..."
Agent Reeves dropped to his knees beside me, shouting into his radio for an emergency medical unit, while his eyes flicked down to the deed-transfer form resting on the floor.
And right before the darkness claimed me, through the haze of contractions and terror, I finally understood something my toxic family never could.
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They hadn't just targeted the wrong woman.
They had just signed their names to a federal felony.
