Save Her, Abigail Osborne [ebook reader for surface pro txt] 📗

Her whole body vibrated with anger. She could hear her pulse in her ears. Unfiltered rage fizzed and before she knew what she was doing, she had leapt on to his legs and was pulling at the sock. She couldn’t get it off easily because his jeans were in the way.

Greg’s arm reached around her. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘Taking off your bloody socks,’ she screeched at him. She was like a harpy, completely out of control. She didn’t even recognise her own voice. She pulled and ripped at the sock, simultaneously batting away Greg’s large hands that were desperately trying to control her.

He tried to buck her off his legs, but she would not move, fury giving her a strength she didn’t know she possessed. He roared at her, trying to get her to stop. But she couldn’t even if she had wanted to. She had started pulling at the hole in the sock, making it bigger and scratching at his foot as she tried to rip it away.

A sudden pressure around her throat knocked all the fight from her. Her hands clawed at Greg’s as she tried to pull his hands from her throat. Her lungs screamed for air and black lights danced in her eyes. Sophie scratched at his hands and then the pressure was gone. She fell off his legs onto the floor, holding her neck as she greedily gulped in breath after breath. Sophie lay on the floor, dizzy and weak. Unable to move. In her peripheral vision, she saw Greg’s hairy toe walk away from her and out of the room.

What. The. Hell. Just. Happened.

23

This Friday Night Dinner was going to be different. Flora had a reason to celebrate and finally a reason to make Cecelia respect her. After all, not everyone gets approached and asked to write a book about what they do for a living. It was not a natural process for her, putting her thoughts and ideas down on paper. Having dyslexia also made it hard as she spent a long time staring at her computer not knowing how to transfer the ideas in her mind into written words and she couldn’t even spell half of the words that she wanted to use. Writing a book that people would read and judge made her feel vulnerable.

But Luke, one of the fathers at the centre had approached her. He was an editor at Education Press and he had convinced her people would want to read what she had to say; that other people deserved to know about the work that she did; that with this book she would be able to reach more people, to give them hope for their child’s future.

Now, at last she was holding her book in her hands. Her book! Hardcover, a beautiful picture on the front of Flora leaning over Isabel – Luke’s daughter – whilst she held a paintbrush over a piece of paper. It was a lovely photo and perfectly encapsulated the work she did at the centre. The concentration and focus on Isabel’s face was captivating. Flora didn’t look too bad either: her hair must have been photoshopped as it was never that glossy chocolate-brown colour in the mirrors she looked in. Flora kept stroking the cover of the book, unable to believe she had created something so professional.

Sam reached over and took her hand. ‘I’m so proud of you, Flo.’ He beamed at her. ‘My talented wife is now a famous author.’

Flora blushed with pleasure. Sam was her number one fan. He had patiently helped her fix the errors in her book, not once laughing at some of the crazy mistakes her dyslexic brain had made, not even when she had used the word incestuous instead of incessant. They pulled around the circular driveway. Flora was no longer overwhelmed with awe when she saw the manor. Cecelia’s malevolence had tarnished it. There seemed to be a correlation between how appalling the owners were and how attractive their house appeared. Flora had no respect for Cecilia so had no appreciation for anything she owned.

Reginald was there to greet them as usual, a silent spectator of the Cavendish family. Flora wondered at the secrets he must know. He took their coats and led them into the greeting room.

‘Samuel, darling.’ Cecelia flung her arms around Sam as if they’d not seen each other for years. ‘We’ll go straight through: your brother is already here.’

‘Is Sophie not coming?’ asked Flora, her heart racing at the thought of not having an ally at dinner.

‘Oh yes. She’s here too,’ replied Cecelia and she led the way into the dining room.

Alistair did not acknowledge either of them. She felt a pang of sympathy for Sam, as Alistair rarely spent time with him. She got the sense that Alistair felt Sam was beneath him. Sam did not share his ruthless thirst for business and was therefore not worth his time. If only Cecelia thought that, Flora might get some peace. Maybe Alistair resented the fact that Cecelia worshipped Sam like he was her only son. It was the only time Flora felt sorry for Greg. It was obvious to all that Sam was her golden boy. Alistair could be charming if he wanted to, but only if he thought you were worth the effort apparently.

Sophie rushed over, radiating excitement. ‘Is that it?’ She took the book from Flora, holding it like she would a painting by Da Vinci. She turned the pages delicately. ‘Oh, Flora,’ she breathed. ‘It’s amazing.’

‘Shall we eat?’ came Cecelia’s bored voice behind them.

Sam took the book out of Flora’s hand and walked over to his mother. ‘Mother. Flora’s brought you a present. A first edition of her book.’

Cecelia took the book from Sam, gave it a cursory glance and passed it straight to Reginald who, as always, appeared from nowhere. ‘How lovely,’ said Cecelia disingenuously. ‘I won’t read it of course. It would be simply