Chapter 1 - THE GRAVITY OF THE CARPET
An indoor residential setting at night.
A pregnant Caucasian woman in her late 20s with long light brown hair, wearing a cream-colored silk nightgown and matching robe, is captured mid-fall onto a light-colored carpeted floor.
Her face is contorted in fear and shock.
To the right, a Caucasian man in his early 30s with dark hair, wearing a black button-down shirt, stands over her, partially visible in the frame.
The background features a modern, upscale living room with a beige sofa, a glass coffee table, and a warm table lamp casting a soft glow.
The camera is positioned at a low angle, capturing the dynamic motion with a shallow depth of field and slight motion blur.
The slap echoed like a dry branch snapping under a heavy boot.
The kinetic force of his hand twisting against her cheekbone sent her center of gravity spiraling.
Her bare heels slipped against the thick fibers of the light-colored rug.
The cream silk of her robe flared outward, catching the warm amber light of the table lamp.
She did not reach out to break her fall.
Both of her hands instinctively darted down, wrapping tightly around the pronounced swell of her pregnant belly.
She hit the floor hard.
The impact sent a violent shudder through the floorboards, rattling the crystal coasters resting on the glass coffee table.
Her right shoulder took the brunt of the collision.
A sharp, breathless gasp tore from her throat.
Her long, light brown hair whipped across her face, sticking to the sudden sheen of cold sweat on her skin.
Above her, the leather soles of the man’s black shoes shifted.
They dug into the carpet, planting firmly just inches from her trembling fingers.
The fabric of his black button-down shirt stretched tight across his chest as he breathed in heavy, jagged pulls.
His knuckles were bone-white, the veins pushing against the skin of his forearm.
He didn't look at her swollen stomach.
He didn't look at the way her jaw vibrated as she fought for air.
He only stared at the red mark rapidly blooming across her left cheek.
A small shadow darted from the edge of the hallway.
Seven-year-old Claire hit the carpet on her knees.
The friction burned the bare skin beneath her denim shorts, but she didn't flinch.
Her white t-shirt glowed like a flare in the dim, warm light of the living room.
She threw her small body over her mother’s chest.
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She buried her face into the smooth, cold cream silk.
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