“No! I didn’t do anything!” I shouted, louder and louder, but no one was listening.
Tyson’s eyes were bloodshot. He hit me, knocking me hard to the floor.
Then, he shoved the phone in my face. “There’s proof. It’s all here! And you—you still dare deny it?!”
His voice trembled not with fear, but with fury. Like he could tear me apart right there.
I stared at the screen in utter disbelief.
Dozens of photos. Some videos too. All of them brand new. All of them—horrifying!
In the clips, my daughter was dressed in different outfits and in poses inappropriate for her age, her face innocent and pitiful.
“Sir! Sir! Sir! Please, send me more gifts,” she whispered to the camera. “If you don’t, Mommy… Mommy will hit me!”
Her eyes glistened with fake tears as she begged, and the comment section made my skin crawl.
[Don’t cry, baby girl. I won’t let your mommy hit you! Gifts are on the way!]
[Where are you, Niah? Want some lollipops? I will buy you some!]
I was trembling all over. ‘N-No… This isn’t… This isn’t real! It can’t be real!’
I had checked my phone just minutes ago. There was nothing. Not a single photo. Not a single video.