Chapter 3 - The Strike
Clara fell to her knees on the hard stone, completely unconcerned as the rough edge of the paved path tore through her pale beige dress.
"Lily, baby, look at me!" Clara choked out, her hands trembling uncontrollably as her fingers scrambled over the rusted padlock binding her daughter's tiny wrists. "Look at Mommy. You are mine! Do you hear me? You are Julian’s daughter! Don't listen to them!"
"She's nobody's daughter, Clara," a cold, dripping voice sneered from above.
Clara stopped. Slowly, she lifted her head.
Walking down the brick path with slow, regal steps was Margaret Sterling. At sixty-five, the Sterling matriarch looked like an emperor surveying a conquered province. She wore an exquisite cream-colored lace dress, a triple-strand of south-sea pearls draped over her withered throat, her short blonde hair styled to perfection. Her face was twisted into a look of absolute, triumphant disdain.
"Get the key, Margaret," Clara whispered, her voice dangerously quiet, vibrating with a feral, terrifying rage that made the lawyer, Arthur, take a half-step back. "Unlock this chain right now."
Margaret folded her hands over her pearls, her cold blue eyes shining with sadistic delight under the warm yellow glow of the string lights above.
"This party isn't for bastards, Clara," Margaret said softly, taking a slow step closer, her voice laced with pure poison. "And neither is this family. I won't have a child of unknown blood embarrassing my son's memory in front of our peers. She stays at the gate until the transport arrives to take her to the asylum."
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Clara didn't argue. She didn't cry.
In one explosive motion, Clara stood phat up from the ground. Her right hand flew back and swung forward with the full force of her body, her palm striking Margaret full across the face with a sound like a pistol shot echoing through the garden.
