Chapter 3 - The Trembling Hands
Arthur reached out, gently wrapping his strong, muscular hands around Eleanor's frail arms.
He didn't just see the bruise on her cheek. With the cinematic realism of a man trained to notice every detail, Arthur saw the red, blistering burn marks around her wrists, consistent with being tightly bound by zip-ties. He saw the sheer, unadulterated terror vibrating through her frail body.
"Who did this to you?" Arthur asked. His tone wasn't just concerned anymore. It was deadly, serious, and intensely lethal.
Eleanor looked up at him. Thick tears spilled over her wrinkled cheeks, dropping onto the white collar of her navy dress. She reached out with shaking, bruised hands, desperately grabbing the lapels of his black suit jacket.
She looked past his broad shoulder, her terrified eyes darting toward the table where Victoria sat in her red silk gown.
"Please," Eleanor sobbed quietly, her voice cracking with profound, humiliating desperation. "Please, Arthur, don't make a scene. Just take me home. I'll sign the papers. I promise I'll sign them. Just don't let her hurt me again."
The entire ballroom seemed to go dead silent in Arthur's mind.
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He looked down at his grandmother's trembling hands. The woman who had raised him, the woman who had single-handedly built the empire he now controlled, was begging for mercy like a beaten dog.
👉 The horrifying reality of her words crashed down on him, and the monster inside Arthur was about to violently wake up.
