Five Minutes with the Holloways
Chapter 03 - Five Minutes with the Holloways
Lorraine Holloway picked up the leather folder with two fingers, as though paper itself could be contaminated by Elena’s stubbornness.
“You signed the prenuptial agreement last month,” she said.
“Yes.” Elena kept her voice steady. “My lawyer reviewed it.”
“Your lawyer reviewed the polite version.”
One of the aunts, a narrow woman named Portia, stepped forward with a fountain pen. The other, Helene, stood near the door with her hand resting on the knob like a guard.
Elena stared at the document Lorraine held out.
“What is this?”
“A marital asset acknowledgment.”
“That sounds invented.”
Lorraine’s eyes sharpened. “It acknowledges that once married, you will not use Vale family influence to interfere with Holloway decisions, board appointments, investments, or private family holdings.”
Elena almost laughed. “I’m not signing anything tonight.”
“You will.”
“No.”
Lorraine tilted her head. “You have been indulged too long by a father who thinks money makes character unnecessary.”
Elena’s face warmed. “Do not talk about my father.”
“Why? Because he taught you to mistake defiance for dignity?” Lorraine’s voice remained low. That was the worst part. She did not shout. She peeled. “You humiliated Bennett at the altar with that little speech about belonging to yourself. Do you know how many people heard that?”
“My vows?”
“Your warning.”
Elena looked toward the door. “Bennett!”
Helene’s hand tightened on the knob.
Lorraine smiled again. “He is exactly where he needs to be.”
Outside the door, something moved.
A floorboard creaked.
Elena’s heart climbed into her throat.
“Bennett?” she called.
Silence.
Lorraine stepped closer. “Marriage is not a stage for childish speeches. Marriage is order. Loyalty. Obedience when discretion requires it.”
“I’m leaving.”
Elena reached for the door.
Portia caught her arm.
It happened so fast Elena did not understand it as violence at first. She understood pressure, then pain. Portia’s fingers dug into the inside of her upper arm. Helene moved in front of the door. Lorraine struck the folder against Elena’s chest hard enough to knock the air out of her.
“Sign,” Lorraine said.
Elena shoved the folder away. “No.”
Lorraine slapped her.
The sound was small. Almost elegant. That made it more unreal.
Elena lifted a hand to her cheek, stunned.
“You don’t get to hit me,” she whispered.
Lorraine hit her again.
This time Elena stumbled backward, catching the edge of the vanity. A crystal perfume bottle toppled and shattered on the floor. The room filled with the sharp, expensive smell of orange blossom.
Outside the door, a shadow shifted under the gap.
Elena saw it.
Shoes.
Men’s black shoes.
Bennett’s.
“Open the door,” she said, her voice cracking. “Bennett, open the door.”
From outside came nothing.
No protest.
No question.
No husband.
Lorraine followed Elena’s gaze, and something like satisfaction crossed her face.
“Now you understand,” she said.
Elena lunged for the door with all the desperate strength terror gives a person. Helene grabbed her veil. Lace ripped. Portia caught her shoulder. Lorraine seized her jaw and forced her face close.
“You will learn,” Lorraine hissed, “that a Holloway wife does not bring her father into this family.”
Elena spat blood onto Lorraine’s pearl-gray sleeve.
“I already did.”
For the first time, Lorraine lost control.
By the time the door opened, Elena was on the floor, one shoe gone, her bodice torn, her cheek swelling, her body shaking too hard to stand.
Bennett stood in the corridor.
He looked down at her.
Behind him, music from the ballroom drifted faintly through the hall. Laughter. Applause. Someone calling for the bride and groom.
Elena reached a trembling hand toward him.
“Help me.”
Bennett’s face did not change.
“Mother,” he said quietly, “this has gone too far.”
May you like
Elena sobbed with relief.
Then Bennett stepped over the torn edge of her gown and added, “The photographers are looking for us.”
