Chapter 2 - The Birthday Song Above the Cellar
The gate alarm changed Grant before my eyes.
Until that moment, he had been angry.
Now he was afraid.
He shoved the belt onto a barrel and pulled out his phone.
No signal.
The cellar walls were stone, and Grant had always bragged that the room was naturally insulated.
Tonight, it was a cage for him too.
“Celeste,” he snapped. “What do you know?”
“Nothing.”
“You knew her brother’s name.”
“I’ve heard it.”
“Where?”
She folded her arms. “People talk.”
“About my wife’s family?”
Vivian’s heels clicked on the stairs before Celeste could answer.
She pushed through the cellar door.
“What is that alarm?”
Grant pointed at me.
“She called someone.”
Vivian looked annoyed rather than frightened.
“Then turn it off.”
“I can’t.”
“Grant, this is your house.”
That sentence almost made me laugh.
His house.
The Ashfords had said those words so many times that everyone forgot to question them.
I did not.
Not anymore.
Vivian came closer.
“Who did you call, Claire?”
I said nothing.
She slapped me.
Grant stared at her.
“Mom.”
Vivian looked at her own hand as if surprised.
Then she lowered her voice.
“You have ruined enough tonight.”
I tasted blood again.
“Upstairs,” I said, “is my daughter.”
“Your daughter is having a beautiful birthday.”
“She’s having a birthday while her father beats her mother below the floor.”
Vivian’s face twitched.
“Lower your voice.”
“Why? Afraid the children might hear the truth?”
Grant grabbed his mother’s arm.
“Go upstairs.”
She pulled free.
“You don’t give me orders in this family.”
Celeste looked toward the staircase.
The alarm had stopped.
That frightened her more than the noise.
I watched her.
“You knew they were coming.”
“No.”
“You knew Nathan.”
“I know the name.”
“From who?”
She looked at Grant.
That told me the answer was not Grant.
Vivian interrupted.
“Enough. Untie her. Fix her face. We will say she fell.”
Grant looked at me.
Something almost human crossed his expression.
He had gone too far, and now that consequences were approaching, he wanted the old version of reality back.
“Claire,” he said, “if I untie you—”
“No deal.”
His jaw tightened.
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“I know you.”
That landed.
He turned away.
Upstairs, I heard applause.
Then Lila’s voice:
“Daddy?”
Grant froze.
Our daughter’s small feet crossed the floor above us.
“Daddy, where’s Mommy?”
Vivian moved toward the stairs.
“I’ll handle her.”
“No,” I said.
She stopped.
“You do not go near her.”
Vivian looked down at me.
“You are tied to a pillar.”
“And somehow I am still the only adult in this room thinking about what she needs.”
Celeste’s face changed.
For the first time, shame.
Real shame.
It lasted only a second.
Then the cellar door opened.
A teenage babysitter named Emma stood there.
She went pale.
“Mrs. Ashford?”
Grant moved fast.
“This is private.”
Emma looked at me.
At the ropes.
At the belt.
At the blood on my lip.
She backed up.
“I’m calling the police.”
Vivian reached her first.
“Emma, sweetheart, you don’t understand what you’re seeing.”
“I understand enough.”
Vivian grabbed her wrist.
Emma screamed.
Grant released her immediately.
“Mom!”
The sound carried upstairs.
Now guests were moving.
Adults asking questions.
Children being gathered.
The perfect party was cracking.
I looked at Emma.
“Take Lila to the upstairs playroom. Lock the door. Do not leave her with Vivian.”
Emma nodded.
Grant pointed at her.
“You work for us.”
Emma looked at him.
“No. I babysit your kid.”
Then she ran.
I nearly cried from relief.
Grant turned toward me.
“This is your fault.”
“No.”
The answer came from Celeste.
Everyone looked at her.
She swallowed.
“This is not her fault.”
Grant stared.
“What?”
Celeste looked at the ruined wrap.
Then at me.
“I cut it.”
The room stopped.
Vivian’s mouth fell open.
Grant’s face emptied.
“What did you say?”
Celeste’s voice shook.
“I cut the wrap.”
“Why?”
She looked at Vivian.
Not Grant.
Vivian’s expression changed.
There it was.
Another thread.
Celeste whispered, “Because she told me Claire needed to be discredited before the custody papers were signed.”
Grant slowly turned toward his mother.
Vivian did not deny it.
Instead, she said, “Celeste, you stupid girl.”
That was worse.
Grant looked sick.
“You planned this?”
Vivian lifted her chin.
“I planned to protect Lila from instability.”
I laughed once.
My wrists were tied.
My dress was torn.
My daughter was upstairs asking for me.
And Vivian had the courage to use the word instability.
Then we heard engines.
More than one.
Heavy vehicles coming up the drive.
Vivian moved toward the wine-cellar window.
It was narrow and high, level with the snowy ground outside.
Headlights swept across it.
One pair.
Then another.
Then another.
Grant whispered, “Who did you call?”
I looked at him.
“Five men who spent most of my life teaching me never to beg anyone to choose me.”
The cellar door rattled.
Someone upstairs shouted.
The house intercom clicked on.
A male voice, deep and controlled, filled every room.
“This is Nathan Moretti.”
Celeste closed her eyes.
Grant stared at the ceiling.
Nathan continued.
“Grant Ashford, open the cellar door and step away from my sister.”
May you like
Grant looked at me.
For the first time in seven years, my husband realized he had never asked the right questions about where I came from.
