Chapter 3 - The Broken Recording
At the threshold of the living room, Clara’s mother, Eleanor, stood frozen. Dressed in an elegant pink floral silk dress meant for the estate’s afternoon lawn party, her hands were pressed over her mouth, her eyes wide with unadulterated shock as she took in the ruined room, the blood, and her husband's violent assault.
"Marcus, stop!" Eleanor gasped, her voice trembling. "Oh god... Clara!"
Marcus paid no mind to his wife or the bloodied man groaning on the floor. He dropped to his knees beside Clara, his massive hands instantly softening as he gathered his daughter into his arms.
"I've got you, baby. I've got you," Marcus rasped, his voice breaking as he pulled her trembling body tightly against his chest.
Clara buried her face into her father’s navy shirt, her whole frame convulsing with terrifying, violent sobs. Her tiny hands clutched at his collar as if he were the only solid anchor in a world that had suddenly collapsed.
"Dad... please..." Clara whimpered, her voice muffled against his chest. "Please take me home... it recorded everything..."
Marcus froze, his hand stroking her hair. "What?"
Clara reached down with a trembling arm toward the space beneath the edge of the sofa. Resting on the dark floorboards was her smartphone. The screen was severely cracked, spiderwebbed with fractures, but its red indicator light was still pulsing faintly in the corner.
Julian had forced his way into her room, unaware that her phone had been sitting on the lower shelf of the side table, its camera active and recording every strike, every threat, and every terrifying second of his abuse.
Across the room, Julian wiped a stream of blood from his chin, his breathing ragged. Seeing the phone, his eyes filled with a desperate, malicious panic. He pushed himself up from the fireplace mantle, lunging forward with his hand outstretched toward the device. "Give me that!"
Marcus didn't even stand up completely. He rotated his shoulder, launching his left boot sideways with brutal precision, catching Julian straight in the sternum.
THUD.
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Julian was thrown backward six feet, crashing heavily onto his back, gasping for air as his lungs seized up.
"Stay away from her!" Marcus growled, his voice dropping into a tone that was no longer just angry—it was executioner cold.
