Chapter 2
The heavy leather travel bag slipped from Arthur’s fingers, hitting the polished hardwood floor with a deafening thud that temporarily drowned out the wails of the infant. He didn't bother to remove his suit jacket or loosen his tie. He sprinted across the dining room, his expensive dress shoes skidding slightly on the Persian rug as he dropped to his knees beside the bassinet.
Inside the small, padded crib, newborn Leo was thrashing wildly in his cotton onesie. His tiny face was bright red from exertion, his small fists clenched as he screamed for a mother who could no longer answer him. Arthur reached in and lifted the tiny boy, pulling Leo tightly against the crisp fabric of his dress shirt. The baby’s cries muffled slightly against his chest, but the frantic, panicked energy remained.
Holding his son securely in his left arm, Arthur pivoted on his knees to reach his wife.
"Elena," Arthur gasped, his hand trembling violently as he reached out to touch her.
Her cheek was shockingly cold and slick with a clammy, unnatural sweat. The radiant, rosy complexion that Arthur loved so dearly had been completely drained away, leaving behind a pale, ghostly pallor. She was thirty-one years old, only a week postpartum, and she looked as though she had been drained of her very life force. Her breathing was dangerously shallow, a ragged, uneven flutter that barely moved the fabric of her sleepwear.
"Elena, baby, please look at me. Open your eyes," Arthur begged, the panic finally breaking through his controlled fury. His voice shook, a raw, vulnerable sound that echoed loudly against the clinking of crystal glasses as the relatives nervously shifted in their seats.
At the touch of his hand and the sound of his voice, Elena’s dark eyelashes fluttered. Her eyelids felt as heavy as lead, but she forced them open. Her eyes, usually so bright and full of life, were bloodshot and glazed over with a profound, terrifying exhaustion. She looked up, her vision swimming in the bright, unforgiving light of the dining room chandelier, until she finally focused on Arthur's face.
"Arthur?" she whispered, her voice barely a breath.
"I'm here. I'm right here. I've got Leo," Arthur reassured her, his thumb gently stroking her clammy cheek. He could feel the violent trembling running through her entire body. He looked up at the massive feast spread across the table—the roasted chicken, the multiple side dishes, the freshly baked bread. Then he looked back at the mother of his child, collapsed in a heap of exhaustion.
“Elena, what did she make you do?” Arthur asked, his voice a dangerous, trembling mix of heartbreak and boiling rage.
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"Arthur, don't encourage this hysterical behavior," Margaret interrupted from the head of the table, her American accent dripping with condescension. She set the carving knife down and picked up a crystal wine glass. "I simply asked her to prepare a modest welcome home luncheon for the family. If she couldn't handle a few hours in the kitchen, she shouldn't have agreed to marry into this family. We expect a certain standard of hospitality."
Arthur didn't even look at his mother. He kept his eyes locked on his wife, waiting for her answer, praying that his mother's twisted version of reality was a lie.
