Chapter 6 - Cast Onto the Lawn
Behind the ruined buffet table, Julian let out a guttural, furious roar of pure humiliation.
He hauled his six-foot-two frame out of the broken porcelain and spilled sangria, his dark hair slicked with fruit puree and sweat.
His expensive navy-blue designer shirt was torn at the collar and heavily stained with dark wine, stripping away every ounce of his aristocratic dignity.
The humiliation of being flattened in front of his wealthy peers and business associates had utterly broken his rational mind.
"You're dead, old woman!" Julian bellowed, his face turning an apoplectic shade of deep purple.
Ignoring the stinging cuts on his palms from broken glass, he lowered his head and charged Eleanor like an enraged, wounded bull.
His heavy dress shoes pounded across the marble patio, his large hands reaching out like claws intended to grab his mother by the throat.
Several female guests screamed, turning their heads away from what they expected to be a horrific act of matricide.
Eleanor did not panic, nor did she brace to take the brunt of his massive weight directly.
She stood her ground until Julian was less than four feet away, his frantic breath hot against the cool evening breeze.
Just as his fingers were about to brush the silk collar of her emerald dress, Eleanor executed a smooth, rapid lateral pivot to her left.
Julian’s momentum carried him forward into the empty space she had occupied a microsecond earlier.
As his body surged past her, Eleanor channeled her entire core strength into a second, devastating defensive side kick.
Her foot drove hard and clean into the side of Julian’s right hip and thigh, completely knocking his lower body off its center of balance.
Julian’s flailing limbs could find no traction against the slick stone edge of the terrace.
His massive body staggered uncontrollably off the polished marble patio, hurtling over the stone perimeter curb.
He crashed hard and flat onto the soft green lawn below, the turf absorbing his heavy impact with a deep, muffled thud.
Julian rolled three times across the manicured grass, coming to a halt on his stomach with his face buried in the freshly cut turf.
He lay there groaning, the wind once again completely driven from his lungs, his expensive tailored trousers caked in dark garden mud.
Eleanor did not pursue him onto the grass to inflict further damage; she had neutralized the immediate threat, and her priorities lay elsewhere.
She turned her back on her defeated son without a second thought, her maternal instincts pulling her inexorably toward the iron cage.
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Her heart hammered violently against her ribs, not from the physical exertion of the defense, but from the unbearable agony of hearing her daughter’s quiet sobs.
She stepped over the scattered strawberries on the marble, her low heels carrying her straight toward the metal mesh door.
