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That witch, Cathleen, is pregnant
Edward’s fists clenched as he stood outside the heavy oak door, the veins in his hands throbbing like angry serpents under his skin. He rapped sharply on the wood, each knocks echoing through the silent corridor with the weight of desperation. The study was a sanctum of power, where destinies were altered with a single word from the old man seated within.
“Come in,” came the gravelly voice from the other side.
“Father!” Edward exhaled, pushing the door open. His heart pounded against his ribs, each beating like a drum of war in the quiet study.
The old man sat ensconced behind a massive desk, a fortress of mahogany and leather-bound books. His gaze, sharp as a blade, cut through Edward. He slowly and deliberately removed his glasses, letting them dangle from one hand, a silent command for Edward to speak.
“I have been trying to get Finn out of jail, but I can’t seem to get through the authorities,” Edward said, his voice a tightrope of control.
“Why?” The syllable was a bullet, quick and piercing.
“Father, he will die in there.” Edward’s plea broke through the room like a cracked whip.
The old man’s smile was a slash in the air, cruel and knowing. “Well, didn’t he want his uncle to die in there?”NôvelDrama.Org owns this text.
“Father, Finn is young; he didn’t know what he was doing. Please show mercy,” Edward implored, sinking to his knees. The carpet dug into his skin, but he barely felt it; his focus was on the old man’s inscrutable face.
“Well, the person you should be kneeling to is your younger brother, not me.” The words were a cold slap, sending a shiver up Edward’s spine.
“Father, please talk to him; that boy would die in there,” he begged, his voice hoarse and raw with fear and anger. The thought of groveling to Xavier, that bastard, was acid on his tongue.
“Well, he hasn’t died yet, at least,” the old man said, his tone flat and dismissive. “Talk to Xavier.”
Edward rose, a surge of loathing twisting in his gut. His eyes blazed with the fury of a thousand suns, but he swallowed back the scorching words that threatened to spill forth.
Meanwhile, at the Jackson house, Avery’s entrance was a hurricane, words spilling out of her like shards of glass. “Mother, Mother, I am finished. That witch, Cathleen, is pregnant. Mother, how could she be sleeping with my man? Xavier is supposed to be mine.”
Dora’s eyes burned with the fire of a thousand wrongs as Avery’s voice pierced the silence of the living room. William, however, remained an island of calm in the storm, the rustle of his newspaper a taunt to the tempest around him.
“Mother, didn’t you say that the priest called her Avery during their wedding? I have the right to fight this.” Avery’s desperation clawed at the room, seeking an ally in her mother.
Dora turned sharply, her gaze slicing through the commotion and landing on her daughter. “What do you mean Cathleen is pregnant?” The words were a whip crack in the quiet.
Avery, seizing on her mother’s attention, pushed on, “It’s all over the news, and people want to know who her husband is. She’s the celebrity lawyer, Mother!” Accusations laced every syllable, painting a picture of betrayal and usurped rights.
Dora’s face contorted in disbelief. “What? What do you mean that stupid girl has made a name for herself?” Her voice rose, tinged with venom. William, still engrossed in his paper, was a statue among the chaos.
“Wait a minute, William, did you know about this?” Dora’s pitch climbed, a crescendo of fury building within her. William, the stubborn mule, just continued his silent perusal of the daily news.
“William! Answer me,” Dora demanded, her voice a lash-seeking skin. Yet he sat, unmovable, an infuriating enigma wrapped in printed words. “First, you made me believe that that stupid daughter of yours was marrying a man from the farm while she was actually marrying a man fit for Avery. And now you’re here, not saying anything about your evil daughter’s pregnancy?”
The silence from William was deafening, each second ticking by stretching Dora’s patience thinner than a tightrope. With a snarl, she yanked the newspaper away from William’s grip and hurled it to the floor. “You will fucking talk to me when I’m talking to you!” Dora exploded the words a verbal slap across the face.
The newspaper lay crumpled and defeated, a casualty of domestic warfare. But William, ever the fortress, remained unaffected, his unreadable eyes locked on the space where his paper had been. It was a standoff, with electric tension humming between them, the air thick with unsaid words and unresolved battles.
William rose, his movement deliberate and unhurried. The cushions sighed in relief as he vacated the space next to his irate wife. He offered Dora a glance that spoke volumes of indifference, a silent testament to years of acclimation to her tempestuous outbursts. Without a word, he turned on his heel, each step away from the maelstrom a declaration of his refusal to engage.
“William!” Dora’s voice clawed at his back; her words barbed hooks, seeking to snag him back into the fray. But the door to William’s study became his shield, closing with a decisive click just as Dora’s shadow loomed over its threshold. The sudden barrier, so close it nearly kissed her nose, sent a jolt through her, a near-physical blow to her already inflamed pride.
Swallowing the surge of adrenaline, Dora spun around, her heels clicking ominously as she stalked back to the living room. Her eyes found Avery, gleaming with malevolent intent. “How far did the media say she is?” she queried, her voice laced with venom.
Avery shrugged, her own schemes flickering behind her eyes. “They didn’t say.”
Dora leaned in conspiratorially. “It must be about 2 to 3 months,” she mused, a smirk playing on her lips. “It will be easy to make her eat something; then we will pretend she miscarried.”
“Um, Mom,” Avery interjected, her hesitance tinting her tone. “I think she’s about to give birth because her baby bump is too big.”
The words were like a detonation in Dora’s mind, shattering her wicked fantasies. A visceral scream tore from her throat, raw and savage-a feral cry for ruined plans and thwarted desires.