Chapter Thirteen: The Storm
1168 Words
October arrived with rain and wind and the kind of cold that seeped into bones and stayed there.
Lena was eight and a half months pregnant, waddling more than walking, when the storm hit. She had been helping Margo in the bakery all morning, kneading dough and frosting cupcakes, her belly pressed against the counter. The baby was restless — rolling, kicking, pressing against her ribs like she was trying to escape.
Then the sky turned green.
Not gray. Not blue. Green. The kind of green that made old fishermen shake their heads and young ones check their boats twice. The kind of green that meant trouble was coming.
Margo looked out the window and went pale. "That's not a normal storm."
"What kind of storm is it?"
"The kind that takes roofs off." Margo wiped her hands on her apron. "Close the bakery. Now."
Lena moved as fast as her swollen body would allow. She flipped the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED. She pulled the curtains shut. She helped Margo bring in the potted plants from the windowsill, the ones that had been there for years, the ones Margo talked to like they were children.
By noon, the rain started. Not a gentle drizzle — a sheets of water, thick and relentless, hammering against the windows like fists.
By 2:00 PM, the wind joined in. It howled and screamed, rattling the doors, shaking the walls. The old building groaned like it was in pain.
By 4:00 PM, the lights flickered and died.
The bakery went dark.
Margo lit candles, one by one, placing them on every surface. Their flames danced in the shadows, casting strange shapes on the walls. The only other light came from the gas stove, where Margo was making soup — tomato bisque, Lena's favorite, thick and rich and warm.
"The power could be out for days," Margo said, stirring the pot. "I've got canned goods in the basement. We won't starve."
Lena sat at the kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket, her hands cupped around a mug of tea. The baby was still kicking. Harder now. More insistent.
"She knows something's coming," Lena murmured.
Margo glanced at her. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know. Just a feeling." Lena pressed her hand to her belly. "She's been moving all day. More than usual. Like she's scared."
Margo's expression softened. She came over and sat across from Lena, her weathered hands folded on the table. "Babies know things we don't. Trust her. Trust yourself."
At 6:00 PM, the hail started.
It pounded against the windows, loud as gunfire. The sound was terrifying — sharp and violent, like the world was breaking apart. Lena flinched with every impact. The baby flinched with her.
"I had a dream about you last night," Margo said suddenly.
Lena looked up from her soup. "What kind of dream?"
"The kind that comes true." Margo stirred her soup absently, her spoon scraping the bottom of the bowl. "I dreamed someone was coming. A man. Tall, dark hair, sad eyes. He was walking through the rain, carrying something in his hands."
Lena's heart stopped. Her blood turned to ice.
"A book," Margo continued. "And a flower. White. Falling apart."
No. No, no, no.
"He was crying," Margo said. "In the dream. The rain mixed with his tears. He looked broken, Lena. Completely broken."
Lena set down her spoon. Her hands were shaking. "Margo, that's not—"
Three sharp knocks on the bakery door cut her off.
Lena froze. Every muscle in her body locked. Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her throat, her temples, her fingertips.
Margo frowned. "No one's out in this weather."
Another knock. Louder. More insistent.
No, no, no.
"I'll get it," Margo said, reaching for the cast-iron skillet she kept by the stove.
"No." Lena struggled to her feet, one hand on her belly for balance, the other gripping the table. "Let me."
"Lena, you're nine months pregnant—"
"It's him." Lena's voice was barely a whisper. "I know it's him."
"Who?"
"My husband." The word felt foreign in her mouth. Poison. "Damian."
Margo's eyes narrowed. "The one who offered you fifteen million dollars to kill the baby?"
Lena nodded. Her throat was too tight for words.
Margo hefted the skillet. "Then I'm coming with you."
Lena walked to the door.
Her bare feet were cold on the wooden floor. The candles flickered as she passed, shadows dancing on the walls. The wind screamed outside. The hail pounded.
She reached the door. Paused. Took a breath.
Then she unlocked it.
Pulled it open.
Rain lashed her face, cold and sharp. The wind tore at her hair. The smell of salt and wet earth filled her nostrils.
And Damian Thorne stood on the doorstep.
He was thinner than she remembered. Paler. His expensive coat was soaked through, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, rain dripping from his chin and nose and eyelashes. He looked like he had walked through the storm for miles — no car in sight, no driver, no umbrella. Just him, alone, in the dark.
In his hand, he held a worn copy of Wuthering Heights and a single white chrysanthemum — crushed by the rain, petals falling apart, barely recognizable as a flower.
His eyes found her belly. Widened.
"Lena," he said. His voice cracked on her name.
She grabbed the doorframe to steady herself. The baby kicked — hard, as if she could feel her mother's terror.
"How did you find me?" Lena demanded.
"I hired three private investigators. The first two gave up." A pause. Rain dripped down his face. "Nadia told me."
Of course she did. Nadia had always been on his side, even when she pretended not to be.
"You need to leave," Lena said.
"I can't."
"Damian—"
"I read the book."
She froze.
"I read the book," he repeated. His voice was hoarse, raw. "Three times. And then I read it again. Heathcliff and Catherine. Two people who loved each other and destroyed each other because neither knew how to say I'm sorry before it was too late."
His hand shook. The chrysanthemum trembled.
"I'm not him, Lena. I don't want to be him. I don't want to stand on a moor forty years from now and realize I wasted every chance I had."
Behind her, Margo appeared in the doorway, the cast-iron skillet raised. "You the husband?"
Damian looked at Margo. At the skillet. At the fire in her eyes. "Yes."
"The one who offered her fifteen million dollars to kill the baby?"
A muscle in Damian's jaw twitched. Pain flashed across his face. "Yes."
Margo studied him for a long moment. The wind howled. The rain lashed. The skillet glinted in the candlelight.
Then she lowered the skillet.
"At least you're honest," she said. "Come in before you drown. But if she tells you to leave, you leave. No arguments."
Damian nodded.
He stepped inside.
- Writer
