Chapter 4 - The Morning Routine
The first rays of dawn crept through the guest room blinds.
They painted thin, pale stripes across Clara’s exhausted face.
She had not slept a single second.
The sound of the master bedroom door opening sent a violent jolt through her spine.
Heavy footsteps moved slowly down the hallway toward the kitchen.
Clara closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath.
She had to perform the role of her life today.
She pushed herself off the small twin bed and smoothed the wrinkles from her red dress.
She unlocked the guest room door with agonizing slowness.
When she stepped into the kitchen, the smell of bitter coffee filled the air.
David stood by the counter, dressed in a fresh, perfectly pressed navy suit.
He looked entirely put together, completely erasing the monster from the night before.
He did not look at her as she walked in.
He poured his coffee into a sleek metallic travel mug.
"The dining room looks like a disaster," David said flatly.
His voice was calm and casual, as if discussing the morning weather.
Clara gripped the edge of the kitchen island to keep her hands from shaking.
"I will clean it up today," Clara replied, keeping her voice even and compliant.
"Make sure you do," he said.
He snapped the plastic lid onto his mug and finally turned to look at her.
His eyes scanned her bruised cheek and the messy state of her clothes.
There was no apology in his gaze, only a cold, calculating assessment.
"I have late meetings tonight," David announced.
"Do not wait up."
"Okay," Clara whispered.
He walked past her, his shoulder brushing heavily against hers.
The front door opened, and then slammed shut with a definitive thud.
The deadbolt clicked into place from the outside.
Clara stood completely frozen for a full minute.
She listened intently as the engine of his car roared to life in the driveway.
The tires crunched over the asphalt, the sound fading slowly down the quiet suburban street.
He was gone.
The suffocating pressure in her chest instantly vanished, replaced by a massive surge of pure adrenaline.
She did not have time to cry or process the trauma of the night.
The clock was ticking.
Clara hurried back to the guest room as fast as her pregnant body would allow.
She dragged the small canvas duffel bag from under the bed.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the burner phone.
Her hands were surprisingly steady now.
She pressed the green call button and lifted the cheap plastic to her ear.
The line rang twice before a soft, kind voice answered.
"Safe Haven Shelter, how can I help you?" the woman asked.
Clara let out a breath she felt she had been holding for years.
May you like
"My name is Clara," she said, her voice finally finding its strength.
"I need help."
