My 78-year-old father recoiled in terror the moment I reached for the buttons of his heavy winter coat.

“Elena, you have to leave before Julian realizes I told you.”

“I’m not leaving without you.”

I photographed every bruise, every rope burn, and the injuries across his ribs. Then I quietly pulled out my phone.

Julian had destroyed Dad’s phone.

He should have taken mine more seriously.

I sent the photographs, along with three words:

I need a team.

Dad stared at me.

“Who did you send that to?”

Before I could answer, someone tried the bathroom handle.

“Elena?” Julian called through the door. “Everything okay?”

I covered Dad with his coat.

“Perfectly fine.”

We walked downstairs ten minutes later.

Chloe was drinking wine while Julian sat beside the Power of Attorney, smiling as though he owned everything.

Then headlights swept across the living-room curtains.

One vehicle.

Then another.

Then three more.

Julian stood.

“Who’s here?”

I looked at my father.

For the first time that afternoon, I saw hope in his eyes.

A hard knock shook the front door.

Chloe’s wineglass froze halfway to her lips.

Julian opened it.

And his face went completely white.