"He wants those shares because he knows Summer is our only daughter. He's trying to bleed us dry and take everything."
I watched the rims of my husband's eyes turn red, and my heart ached.
"Tonight, when Summer comes home, we sit her down and talk."
"We can't let her keep going on like this."
For the rest of the day, our phones didn't stop. Relatives, old friends, acquaintances, one after another, calls and messages flooding in.
Every single one had seen the video and wanted to know what was going on.
By then, the video had nearly a million likes.
I called Summer over and over, begging her to take the video down.
Her answer never changed: agree to transfer the shares, and the video disappears.
Then a loud crash came from the bedroom. I rushed in.
My husband was clutching his chest, sitting on the edge of the bed, gasping for air.
His phone lay on the floor where he'd thrown it.
I picked it up. The screen showed a single message from an unknown number.
"You sick old bastard, treating your own daughter like that. I hope you get hit by a car."
My blood ran cold. Before I could process it, seven or eight more messages poured in, every one of them cursing us.
We'd been doxxed.