Chapter 118
Chapter 118:
Cailin sat up, gasping. Her hip throbbed with a deep, heavy ache. She looked down the street — and spotted the red sports car caught at a red light half a block away.
The vanity plate was unmistakable: CHARLA 1.
Rage flooded through her, washing away the fear, the pain, and the exhaustion in a single surge. This was no accident. This was attempted murder. Charla had just tried to kill the mother of Hilliard’s children.
Cailin got to her feet. Her leg nearly buckled beneath her, but she forced it to hold.
She didn’t call the police. She didn’t call Hilliard.
She ran.
She ran toward the red car, limping heavily, driven by pure maternal fury.
“She’s coming! Go!” Charla screamed, her eyes locked on the rearview mirror.
“It’s a red light!” Tiffany shrieked. “There’s traffic everywhere p>
Cailin reached the car and grabbed the door handle. Locked.
𝖸𝗼𝗎𝗋 ո𝗲х𝗍 𝘧𝗮𝘷𝗼𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗲 𝗋𝘦аd 𝘪ѕ o𝗻 𝗀𝖺𝘭ոо𝗏е𝘭𝗌.с𝗼𝗺
She drove her fist against the window. “Get out!” she screamed. “Get out right now p>
Cailin drove her fist against the driver’s side window again. The impact sent a sharp pain up her arm. She ignored it.
“Open it, or I break the glass!” she yelled. Her hood had fallen back, her hair wild around her face.
A crowd was gathering on the sidewalk. Phones were out. Filming.
Charla saw the cameras and panicked — she feared bad press far more than physical confrontation. She unlocked the door and stepped out, already composing herself to play the victim.
“You jumped in front of me! You psycho! You’re trying to frame me p>
Cailin didn’t answer. She grabbed Charla by her long, expensive hair extensions and dragged her away from the car, spinning her around.
Slap.
Cailin’s hand connected with Charla’s cheek. The sound was crisp, loud, and sharp. Charla stumbled back, shock written across her face.
“That is for the car,” Cailin hissed.
She stepped forward again. Charla raised her hands, but Cailin was faster.
Slap. A backhand. Harder this time.
“And that is for myself. Stay away from me p>
Charla wailed, clutching her face. “Help! She’s crazy p>
Inside the car, Tiffany locked the doors and shrank into her seat, too terrified to move.
A siren wailed somewhere in the distance. Then Hilliard’s black Maybach rolled up behind the sports car, boxing it in. He stepped out immediately. He had been following Charla — he had placed a tracker on her car after the necklace incident, increasingly suspicious of her erratic behavior.
He took in the scene in a single sweep: Cailin standing over a weeping Charla, spilled coffee soaking her hoodie, her weight shifted unmistakably off her left leg.
“What is going on?” Hilliard demanded, pushing through the ring of onlookers.
Charla spotted him and threw herself in his direction. “Hilliard! She attacked me! She pulled me out of the car — look at my face!” She staged a faint, sliding down his chest with theatrical precision, her knees buckling dramatically beneath her.
Hilliard caught her on instinct, his arms closing around her waist before she could hit the ground.