Chapter 1 - THE DRIVE OF DESPAIR
The air conditioning in my sedan was blasting, but my skin burned as if I were locked inside a furnace. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. On the passenger seat, my phone rested with the nursery livestream still active, though I could no longer bear to look at the screen. I could only hear the lingering echoes of my mother’s voice—shrill, venomous, and entirely devoid of the warmth a grandmother should feel.
What was she holding?
That single question tore through my thoughts like jagged glass. The small, hidden object she had slid from beneath Jonah’s blanket hadn’t looked like a toy or a baby monitor. It had a dark, metallic glint, something heavy and deliberate. My mother didn't just disapprove of Brooke; she was orchestrating something malicious under our own roof.
My mind raced back to the past two weeks. The subtle changes in our household. The way Brooke had been constantly apologizing for things she hadn't done. The strange, crushing exhaustion that seemed to drag Brooke down even on days she rested well. Could my mother have been giving her something? Tampering with her postpartum medications?
"Not my son. Not my wife," I muttered through gritted teeth, slamming my foot down harder on the accelerator as I blew past a yellow traffic light, earning a chorus of blaring horns from surrounding drivers.
Phoenix traffic felt like it was moving in slow motion. Every red light stretched into an eternity. I punched my steering wheel, the sharp pain in my knuckles doing nothing to dull the white-hot panic surging through my veins.
My phone vibrated violently against the console. It was a text message.
From: Mom Text: "Take your time coming back, Travis. Your precious wife is finally learning how a real woman maintains a home. Though, honestly, some damage can't be undone."
A cold sweat broke across my neck. She knew I was watching. She had known about the camera the entire time, or worse—she wanted me to see it. She wanted me to squirm. She wanted to break Brooke down piece by piece while I stood helpless miles away.
May you like
Not anymore.
I swung the car off the highway ramp, tires squealing against the asphalt, hurtling down the final residential stretch toward our neighborhood. Our house—a place meant to be a sanctuary for our newborn son—was about to become a battleground.
