Too Much Cream
Too Much Cream
Maggie inhaled sharply.
“Once she’s out of the picture,” the voice continued, calm and persuasive, “you’ll have the life you want with your son. You’ll have him all to yourself.”
Her feet hit the cold marble floor as she rose abruptly from the bed.
“But she’s pregnant,” Maggie whispered, her voice trembling just slightly as she stood upright. “Won’t that be too cruel?”
She began pacing slowly.
“Grow up, girl,” her mind snapped back instantly, almost scoffing. “A lot of pregnant women die every day. You killing one that’s making your life miserable is not too much of a big deal if you ask me.”
Her steps slowed.
“Hmmm.”
She walked across the room, past the plush armchairs, past the tall mirror that reflected her expression—tight lips, narrowed eyes, a woman at war with herself. The thought lingered, sinking in, settling uncomfortably but firmly.
She stopped suddenly.
Her brows lifted as another question surfaced.
“But won’t that make Joseph more angry than he is right now?” she asked aloud, turning slightly as if someone stood behind her.
“That’s if he ever finds out you did it,” her mind replied smoothly. “You won’t leave clues. You’ll be smart about it. There’ll be no way her death will ever be traced back to you.”
She resumed walking, slower now, deliberate. Her arms folded across her chest as she circled the room, every step echoing her internal debate.
“Maybe I should just chill till after the baby is born,” she said quietly. “Before I finish her off. That way, Joseph would have already gotten the child he truly wants. Since I can’t give him any myself.”
“That’s a good plan,” the voice responded instantly. Then it sharpened. “But how certain are you that after the child is out, he won’t shift all his love and attention to the kid and continue to ignore you?”
Maggie stopped walking.
“Now is the time,” the voice pressed. “You’ve got the shot to kill two birds with one stone.”
Her jaw tightened.
“Tell me,” it continued, relentless, “when last was he intimate with you? It’s been ages. What shifted?”
She swallowed.
“Even with the initiations you’ve made,” the voice went on, “nothing changed. It’s the child. As soon as the child and her mother are gone, your problems are gone.”
She nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly.
“It’s true,” Maggie said softly, her agreement heavy with resolve. “I have to get rid of her and her child. Ever since she stepped foot into this house, everything hasn’t been the same.”
Her eyes hardened.
“I have to make some calls to finish the job.”
She turned and walked back to the bed, her movements decisive now. Sitting down, she picked up her phone again. Her fingers moved with purpose as she dialed a number.
The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Then a voice answered.
“Hello.”
Maggie straightened.
“Hello. Do you know who is speaking?”
There was no hesitation.
“I’d recognize your voice in my sleep, Mrs. Anderson.”
A faint, satisfied smile touched her lips.
“Good,” she said. “I want you to finish the job. You helped me the other time. I want you to kill her for good this time around.”
There was a brief pause.
“You want us to kill the First Lady?” the man asked, confirming.
“Yes,” Maggie replied instantly, her tone cold, unwavering. “I want you to kill my son’s wife. And I want it done ASAP—before she gives birth to the demon of a baby she carries inside her womb.”
She didn’t blink.
“I will pay you handsomely this time around,” she continued. “Times ten of what I paid you for breaking her legs.”
“Say no more,” the man responded.
Maggie exhaled slowly.
“Okay. I’ll send you the details of her next doctor’s appointment so you can do it then.”
“Okay, ma’am.”
The call disconnected.
Maggie lowered the phone and leaned back against the pillows. A deep breath filled her chest, then escaped her lips as she stared ahead.
Quietly, firmly, she said,
“You shouldn’t have married my son.”
\----------
'SHORTLY AFTER'
The knock was barely audible, a polite tap against the towering mahogany door.
“Who’s there?!” Maggie’s voice sliced through the silence, sharp and impatient.
“It’s me, Mary,” came the muffled reply.
“Ohhh, come in,” Maggie drawled, not lifting her eyes from her phone.
The door creaked open. Mary stepped in, her black shoes silent on the Persian rug. The room was a cathedral of wealth— silk drapes, gold-accented furniture. Maggie lounged on a mountain of pillows, her silk robe slipping off one shoulder, legs crossed, phone in hand, face bathed in the glow of the screen.
“Good morning, Mrs. Anderson,” Mary said, bowing slightly, her hands steady on the silver tray.
“Morning,” Maggie muttered, her thumb still scrolling.
“I brought your morning coffee,” Mary continued, stepping closer. “Cream, just like you like it.”
Maggie’s eyes finally flicked up, cold and assessing. “Not blind. I can see for myself. Drop it somewhere and leave.”
Mary’s smile faltered, but she nodded, placing the cup gently on the carved stool beside the bed. She turned, steps measured.
“On second thought,” Maggie’s voice rang out, “I’ve changed my mind. Bring the coffee to me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mary pivoted, retrieved the cup, and approached. Her hand trembled slightly as she extended it.
Maggie took it without a glance. “Bye.”
“Okay, ma’am.” Mary dipped her head and exited, the door clicking shut behind her.
Maggie sipped. “Too much cream,” she hissed, her lips curling in a faint grimace as she held the cup away like it had personally offended her.