“Daddy,” I whispered, and my composure finally broke for one second. “They hurt me. Sylvia pushed me. I’m bleeding. I think… I think the baby—”
Silence. A silence so complete it felt like the whole house held its breath.
Then my father’s voice returned, and it wasn’t gentle anymore. It was wrath with a title.
“David Miller,” he said.
David flinched. “Y-yes?”
“This is Chief Justice William Thorne.”
The words hit the kitchen like a physical force. David’s face drained of color so fast it was almost comical. Sylvia’s mouth fell open.
David swallowed hard. “That’s—no. Anna said—”
“My daughter is bleeding on your floor,” my father cut in, each word measured and lethal. “You will not touch her again. You will not move. You will remain exactly where you are.”
“This is a misunderstanding,” David stammered, panic cracking his arrogance. “She fell—”
“You are nothing,” my father said, and the contempt in his voice made David shrink. “If my daughter dies, you will wish the law was the worst thing that finds you.”
The line went dead.