Chapter 3
Derek finally moved. The thirty-seven-year-old man, handsome with his fair skin and tailored dress shirt, adjusted his loosened tie. He did not look at his crying son. He kept his eyes fixed on his plate, radiating a cowardly, simmering irritation.
"The boy is confused, Vesper," Derek muttered, his American accent flat and unfeeling. "Just take him to the bathroom and clean him up. You are embarrassing us in front of the partners."
"He isn't confused, Derek," Vesper said, rising slowly to her feet, keeping Nash safely tucked behind her legs. "He is terrified. Because your mother just assaulted him."
"Look what you brought upon yourself," Martha interjected, her voice dripping with cold, satisfied contempt as she looked down at Vesper’s stained dress. "If you had simply been a cooperative wife and handled the legal matters in private, the child would be enjoying his dinner. But you insist on being stubborn."
Vesper did not reply. She felt the hot, pulsing pain of the betrayal settling deep into her bones. She locked eyes with Nash for a fraction of a second. She didn't speak, but she silently raised four fingers—a secret, silent signal they used when playing hide-and-seek. It meant run and don't look back.
Nash instantly understood. He wiped his rosy, tear-stained cheeks, his small body tensing for a sprint.
Vesper turned back to the table. Her eyes fell upon the massive, heavy ceramic bowl of marinara pasta sitting directly in the center of the spread, still steaming under the bright chandelier light.
"You want to talk about what I brought upon myself, Martha?" Vesper asked, her voice dead and hollow.
Before anyone could blink, Vesper lunged forward. She grabbed the edges of the heavy pasta bowl with both hands, hoisting it from the table with explosive force. She did not hesitate. With a primal, visceral surge of strength, she hurled the entire bowl directly into Martha’s face.
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The heavy ceramic struck the older woman’s shoulder with a sickening thud. A massive wave of thick, scalding red sauce and heavy pasta exploded across Martha’s face, neck, and expensive pearl necklace.
Martha let out an ear-piercing shriek of absolute agony and shock. She staggered backward, her arms flailing wildly as the hot sauce blinded her. Her designer heels slipped violently on the greasy pasta that cascaded onto the hardwood floor. With a terrifying crash, Martha’s feet went out from under her, and she slammed heavily onto her back, her wineglass shattering against the wall.
