Chapter 2 - The Coldest Whisper
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The toys were still lying abandoned in the hallway, the stuffed unicorn staring blindly at the ceiling. Richard ignored the mess, his entire universe narrowing down to the shivering, fragile weight of his daughter on the cold marble floor.
He pulled her small hands away from her face, his thumbs gently wiping away the salty tracks of her tears. Her skin was freezing.
"Sophie, baby, look at me," Richard pleaded, his voice breaking as he brushed the tangled hair from her eyes. "Why are you eating this? Where is Maria? Where is the chef?"
She wouldn't look up to meet his gaze. She kept her eyes pinned to the scattered dog food on the floor, her chest heaving with silent, terrifying hiccups.
"When did you last eat?" Richard asked, struggling to keep his voice steady, masking the sheer, violent panic that was beginning to rise in his throat.
Sophie sniffled, her tiny fingers twisting the fabric of her wrinkled yellow dress. "Yesterday morning."
The words hit him like a physical blow to the stomach. Yesterday morning. Over thirty hours ago. In a mansion with three walk-in pantries, two industrial refrigerators, and a staff paid to ensure every whim was catered to.
He pulled her fiercely into his arms, burying his face in her messy hair. She felt incredibly light, her small ribs pressing sharply against his chest through the thin fabric of her dress.
Then she leaned into his neck—pressing her mouth close to his skin so the vast, echoing walls of the kitchen wouldn't hear her—and whispered the sentence that turned his heartbreak into something infinitely colder.
"Please don't tell her you gave me food, Daddy," Sophie whispered, her breath hot against his collar. "She says bad girls don't get to eat."
Richard stopped breathing. The sorrow evaporated instantly, replaced by a sudden, glacial stillness. It was a coldness that would not stop spreading until it was completely finished. Because someone had decided his daughter should starve in his own home.
And that someone was already walking toward them.
The rhythmic, sharp clicking of designer heels echoed down the hallway leading to the kitchen.
Richard slowly pulled back from his daughter. He looked up.
Eleanor, his fiancée of eight months, stepped into the arched doorway. She was wearing a perfectly tailored crimson silk blouse and black trousers. A diamond tennis bracelet caught the chandelier light on her wrist. Her blonde hair fell in a flawless, smooth cascade over her shoulders.
She looked down at the scene on the floor, and a look of manufactured, theatrical horror immediately washed over her beautiful face.
"Oh my God!" Eleanor gasped, pressing her manicured hands to her cheeks. "Richard! What is she doing on the floor? Why is she eating that?"
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Richard stared at the woman he had promised to marry. He saw the flash of panic in her eyes, the desperate attempt to seize the narrative before the child could speak.
He felt the old, dormant monster inside him wake up, stretching its claws.
