The bright light from the crystal chandelier shone down on the long mahogany dining table, making the polished silverware sparkle. Outside, the rain poured against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the executive penthouse. Clara sat quietly in her simple beige blouse, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Across the table, her husband, Mark, adjusted his blue designer shirt and the small American flag patch pinned over his chest.
Mark: I asked you a simple question, Clara. Are you going to sign the release for the trust fund or not?
Clara: I told you no, Mark. My father's estate stays right where it is.
Mark: How dare you say no?!
Before she could react, Mark grabbed a heavy ceramic dinner plate and hurled it directly across the table. The white plate flew through the air and shattered violently against Clara's forehead. A loud crack echoed through the dining room as sharp ceramic pieces exploded onto the hardwood floor.
Clara didn't scream. She sat completely still as a thick stream of blood trickled heavily down her forehead, running past her cheek and dripping onto her blouse. Across the room, Mark's mother, Evelyn, gasped loudly, her hands flying to her mouth in her elegant beige gown.
Evelyn: Oh my goodness, Mark! What did you do?
Mark: She asked for it, Mom! She thinks she can control my money!
Clara slowly reached down for her white cloth napkin. Her hands were steady, not shaking at all, as she pressed the fabric against her bleeding forehead. She let out a soft, painful breath, but her eyes remained icy cold. She reached into her purse, pulled out her smartphone, and rapidly typed a number onto the screen.
Mark: Who are you calling? Put that phone away right now!
Clara: My husband assaulted me.
Evelyn panicked, her high heels clicking frantically against the floor as she rushed forward, stepping between her son and the table.
Evelyn: Please! Don't call the police! Think about our family reputation!
Clara held the phone firmly against her ear, her face completely resolute as she stared directly into Mark's eyes.
Clara: You have no idea who you're dealing with.