Chapter 2
Andrew Whitaker stepped into the room, holding Lucy’s pink monogrammed preschool backpack over one shoulder. At thirty-two, he wore an expensive poplin dress shirt, pressed charcoal trousers, polished Italian leather shoes, and a gold wristwatch that glinted under the fluorescent bulbs. His fair, handsome face was relaxed, carrying the effortless, unearned confidence of an heir who had spent his life cushioned by inherited wealth.
"There you two are," Andrew said, his American accent smooth and breezy. "Traffic on the boulevard was ridiculous. The preschool called asking why she missed morning circle—"
He stopped mid-sentence as his eyes caught the examination table.
Lucy flinched, shrinking back against Maya's silk skirt. Her small hand reached out and gripped her mother's fingers with desperate strength.
"Dad said, 'Good,'" Lucy whispered quietly into the silence.
Maya’s gaze did not leave her husband’s face. "Did you, Andrew?"
Andrew adjusted the strap on his shoulder, clearing his throat with an awkward, dismissive scoff. "Maya, come on. Don't make a scene in front of Dr. Cole. My mother called me an hour ago. Lucy threw an absolute tantrum over her hair ribbons. She wouldn't sit still, she spilled milk on the rug—"
"So your mother pinned our three-year-old daughter down and shaved her scalp?" Maya’s voice dropped into a register so cold it seemed to freeze the air in the room.
"It’s hair, Maya! It grows back!" Andrew snapped, though his eyes darted nervously away from hers. "Mother was trying to teach her structure. You spoil the girl rotten. You let her dictate the morning schedule, and she acts like a wild animal. Mother said a reset would do her good."
Before Maya could reply, the door clicked open again.
Elaine Whitaker strode into the room like a matriarch inspecting her servants. At sixty-four, she wore a pristine ivory silk blouse, tailored trousers, three strands of cultured pearls, and designer heels that clicked sharply against the floor. Her fair, rosy cheeks were flushed with righteous indignation, her styled silver-blonde hair unmovable under layers of spray. In her right hand, she casually carried a high-powered electric hair clipper, its black cord dangling across her handbag.
"I see the little delinquent ran straight to her mother," Elaine announced, her voice dripping with venomous entitlement. She stepped past Andrew, ignoring Dr. Cole completely, her gaze locking onto Lucy with pure spite.
"Look at her," Elaine sneered, waving the clippers. "Still sulking like an ungrateful brat after all the trouble she caused this morning."
"Elaine," Dr. Cole warned, stepping forward. "You need to step outside right now—"
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"Stay out of this, Hannah," Elaine barked, taking another aggressive stride toward the examination table. She thumbed the switch on the side of the clippers. The motor roared to life with a harsh, metallic buzz that filled the small room.
Elaine reached directly for Lucy’s head, her eyes flashing with cruel malice. "If she keeps acting like a baby, I’ll finish it properly."
