Miranda Prescott’s voice cut like a knife. She strutted into the kitchen, heels clicking, hair styled perfectly. Her icy elegance was shattered by fury.
Harper knelt, picking up shards of glass, her small hands bleeding.
“I’m sorry… I’ll clean it up. Please don’t be mad,” she whispered.
Miranda scoffed. “Clean it up? You useless girl. All you do is cause trouble.” She lunged, yanking Harper and scattering the glass again. Mason screamed. Miranda shoved him roughly into Harper’s arms.
“Take this noisy brat!” she hissed.
Before Harper could steady herself, Miranda dragged her down the hallway, shaking the children like objects. “Please, no!” Harper cried.
The back door flew open. Miranda shoved them toward the doghouse, threw them inside, slammed it, and locked it. In the darkness, Harper clutched Mason as their cries echoed. Miranda mocked them through the door: “Filthy and useless. One word to your father, and you’ll regret it.”
Harper whispered, “Please, don’t hate my brother. I’ll do everything… just don’t hurt him.”
The iron gate screeched. A luxury car rolled in. Grayson Langley, 42, mogul of hotels and restaurants, stepped out. He rarely saw his children due to constant travel.