When I got home from a business trip, I found my daughter unconscious by the door. My wife shrugged and said she’d just disciplined her. I called an ambulance, but when the paramedic saw my wife, he went pale and whispered, “Sir, is that really your wife?”

I dropped my suitcase and rushed toward her, my hands trembling uncontrollably as I knelt beside her fragile body. Her pulse fluttered weakly beneath my fingers, uneven and faint, while a dark bruise bloomed across her cheek with unmistakable cruelty. Panic surged through me like electricity, because I had been gone only three days, attending yet another routine corporate conference in Denver.

“Monica!” I shouted desperately, my voice cracking through the unnatural stillness that now felt unbearable and suffocating. She appeared from the kitchen doorway moments later, a dish towel draped casually over her shoulder, her expression disturbingly calm. There was no shock, no fear, no urgency in her eyes, only mild irritation, as though this scene represented nothing more than an inconvenient disruption.

“She is exaggerating again,” Monica said coolly, glancing briefly at Maya before shifting her gaze toward me with unsettling indifference. “I disciplined her earlier, and she will recover once she stops seeking unnecessary attention.”