Water glistened across the Persian rug. A straw cup lay crushed beside a broken glass. Anya sat on the floor, clutching her teddy bear so tightly her knuckles were white, blinking fast as if she could force the tears back inside. Her crutches lay abandoned near the sofa. Victoria stood above her, perfectly composed in a cream dress, irritation flickering briefly across her eyes before smoothing into concern.
“Oh, you’re early,” she said lightly. “It’s nothing serious. Anya spilled her drink. I was just teaching her to be careful around valuable things.”
Mark knelt in front of his daughter and took her hands. They were warm. They were shaking. Faint red marks circled her wrists—too even, too deliberate to be accidental. Something inside him went very still.
“Pack a bag,” he said as he stood. His voice didn’t rise. “You have one hour.”
Victoria’s smile cracked. “Mark, you’re misunderstanding this. She cries to manipulate. You can’t let a child turn you against your wife.”
He lifted Anya into his arms, pressing her teddy between them. “My daughter is not a problem to be managed,” he said quietly. “And you will never speak to her like that again.”