"He hates that he can't control me," I shot back. "And he hates that he still needs me for something. Otherwise, I'd be dead already."
Donna glared at me, her hands balling into fists. Then, she spun around and marched to the door.
"Enjoy your soup, Mrs. Caldwell," she sneered. "I'm going back to bed. With your husband."
She slammed the door. The key turned in the lock.
The night dragged on, a sleepless blur of shadows and pain. But when the sun finally broke through the heavy curtains, the lock turned again.
George walked in.
"Good morning, Eliza," he said, placing a fresh cup of coffee on the bedside table as if he hadn't held me prisoner for the last twelve hours.
I sat up, pulling the duvet to my chin. "George?"
"I trust you've calmed down," he said, adjusting his cufflinks. "You were quite hysterical yesterday. It was… concerning."
"I… I was upset," I said carefully, testing the waters.
"Understandable. Losing the baby… it’s hard on a woman’s mind," he said dismissively. He checked his watch. "Look, Grandfather’s 80th birthday dinner is tomorrow night. It’s a milestone. We need to make an appearance, and we need to bring a gift."
He looked at me, his eyes hard.