You’ll ask him now.”
I stared at him, thinking I had misheard over the music. “At my reception?”
“At your reception paid for by people better than you,” Mom snapped softly. “Don’t embarrass us.”
I looked at Daniel. He came from money, yes, but he was not a wallet. He was the first person who had ever watched me speak without waiting to correct me. I said, “No.”
Dad’s face twitched.
Around us, cousins pretended not to hear. My brother Tyler, who had already borrowed twelve thousand from Daniel for a fake “business emergency,” smirked into his drink.
Dad’s fingers climbed into my hair.
“Frank,” Daniel warned.
The next second happened in flashes. My scalp tearing. My heels slipping. My father’s fist at the back of my head as he drove my face into the floor. Pain exploded white behind my eyes. Warm blood rushed over my lips.
Someone screamed. Maybe me.
I lifted my head just enough to see my mother smiling. Not shocked. Not horrified. Smiling, as if the broken girl on the marble was finally back where she belonged.
Dad crouched beside me. “Ask him now.”
But I had spent three years learning not to cry in front of wolves.
Daniel knelt, shaking with rage, his hands hovering because he was afraid to hurt me more. I caught his sleeve and pulled him close.
Through blood and broken breath, I whispered four words.
“Send the packet now.”
His eyes changed.
Then he stood up and reached for his phone.
PART 2
Dad thought Daniel was calling an ambulance. That made him laugh harder.
“Go ahead,” he said, spreading his arms to the room. “Let everyone see what happens when spoiled daughters forget who raised them.”
Daniel’s jaw tightened, but he did exactly what we had practiced. No shouting. No threats. One call. One sentence.
“She said send it.”
Then he hung up.
My mother’s smile faltered for half a second. She had always hated silence more than yelling. Silence meant something was moving outside her control.
A bridesmaid pressed napkins to my face. Blood soaked through the lace cuffs of my gown. The photographer stood frozen near the cake, camera hanging from his neck.
Dad pointed at him. “Delete whatever you got.”
The photographer swallowed. “Sir, I—”
“Delete it!”
Daniel looked at the photographer and said calmly, “Don’t touch a thing.”
That was the first clue my father had targeted the wrong person.
The second came when Daniel’s head of security locked the ballroom doors from the inside.
Dad spun around. “What the hell is this?”
“Safety protocol,” Daniel said.
