Chapter 2 - Threw Out Into the Cold
Victoria placed the heavy metal scissors back onto the dresser with a calm, deliberate clatter, as if she had just finished tidying a desk rather than committing an act of pure psychological and physical violence.
"There," she said, her voice dripping with venomous satisfaction. "Now you match your worth."
I didn’t answer her. The shock had frozen my vocal cords, but beneath the horror, something inside me finally snapped. The tears stopped falling. That eerie silence seemed to disturb her far more than my previous screaming had.
She turned away, marched over to the closet, and hauled an empty leather suitcase out, throwing it violently toward my feet.
"Pack," she commanded.
"Ethan comes home tomorrow," I replied, my voice dangerously steady.
"Ethan will hear whatever I decide to tell him," Victoria retorted sharply. "And by tomorrow morning, my son will understand that marrying you was the most embarrassing mistake of his life."
She didn't give me a choice. She marched me down the grand staircase with the suitcase half-zipped, its broken wheel clicking loudly against the polished hardwood. Two members of the household staff stood rigidly in the corridor as we passed; neither dared to lift their eyes or offer a single word of support.
At the heavy front entrance, Victoria swung the door open, stepping close enough for me to choke on her expensive perfume. She gave me one last look of absolute triumph before shoving me hard across the threshold, sending me stumbling down the stone steps onto the sidewalk.
Across the street, our elderly neighbor, Mrs. Walsh, had frozen in place beside her mailbox, staring in disbelief at my appearance—my chopped hair, my torn sweater, and the battered suitcase in my hand.
Victoria saw her watching, but she didn't care. In fact, she raised her voice so it would carry clearly across the quiet Connecticut morning air.
May you like
"There’s a temple downtown that shelters strays," Victoria called out loudly, a cruel smile plastered across her face. "Go there."
The heavy oak door slammed shut behind me with a final, echoing thud. I stood stranded on the pavement, pieces of my childhood hair still clinging to my sleeves. Mrs. Walsh dropped her mail and started rushing across the street toward me, but before she could reach the curb, my eyes caught a small black device mounted above her garage—a high-definition doorbell security camera pointing directly across the street, capturing every single second of what had just unfolded at the Caldwell entrance.
