“That is what happens when you embarrass me in front of a guest,” she spat, her voice dripping with venom.
I tried to move. Panic, primal and absolute, surged through my veins. I rolled onto my stomach, my bloody palms slipping frantically on the polished wood as I tried to crawl toward the doorway. I needed to get out. I needed to run.
But a shadow loomed over me, blocking the chandelier light.
It was my father.
For one agonizing, desperate second, the terrified child inside me thought he was going to help. I thought he was going to step in, yell at my mother, and call an ambulance. He was my father.
Instead, he knelt down beside me. His heavy, calloused hands clamped brutally around my wrists. With terrifying, calculated strength, he twisted my arms behind my back and shoved his knee into my spine, pinning me hard to the floor.
I screamed, a garbled, choking sound through the blood filling my throat.
“Hold still,” my father said calmly. His voice wasn’t angry. It was terrifyingly neutral. He spoke to me like a farmer holding down a sick animal. Like this was normal. Like I was nothing.
Chloe stepped out from behind the table. I saw her high heels clicking on the wood.
“One hit wasn’t enough,” Chloe sneered, her smile turning sharp and malicious. She looked at our mother. “She ruined my dinner.”
