Chapter 2 - THE WHISPER IN THE CHANDELIER
The woman raised her right foot.
Her shoe was a towering stiletto, the heel encased in sharp, glittering rhinestones that caught the overhead light like crushed ice.
She brought the heel down with deliberate, agonizing slowness.
The metal tip of the stiletto drove directly into the center of the crude drawing on the floor.
It pierced the stick figure with the yellow hair.
The thick construction paper tore with a dry, ripping sound.
The woman ground her heel into the marble, twisting her ankle left and right.
The paper shredded, blending with the red wax dust.
The little girl’s chin began to tremble.
Her chest hitched, a sharp intake of air that got trapped in her throat.
The woman leaned down, the heavy diamond necklace around her throat swinging forward like a pendulum.
She brought her face agonizingly close to the child’s ear.
The scent of heavy, expensive jasmine perfume washed over the little girl, suffocating and sharp.
The woman’s eyes widened, the pupils contracting into tiny, hostile black dots under the ballroom lights.
"After the wedding, you're going to an orphanage."
The words were spoken in a harsh, breathy hiss, entirely devoid of melody.
The little girl stopped breathing.
Her large eyes darted frantically toward the torn paper under the rhinestone heel.
Child logic snapped into place, cold and absolute.
If the paper family is broken, the real family is broken.
If she steps on my drawing, she will step on me next.
Ten feet behind them, a large man in a tailored black suit stopped walking.
The ice clinked softly in the crystal glass he held in his right hand.
His thick, greying hair was swept back, framing a face carved from decades of hard authority.
He slowly turned his head over his broad shoulder.
The muscle jumping in his jaw was the only movement on his stoic, weathered face.
May you like
He had heard the whisper.
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