When my husband's secretary struck my six-year-old child across the face and coldly remarked,
Whenever friends hinted that she and my husband acted too familiar, my response was always:
“I trust Ethan.”
Perhaps I had mistaken naive trust for willful ignorance.
But hurting me was acceptable in their eyes.
Hurting my daughter was an unforgivable war.
I pulled out my mobile device.
Vanessa smirked mockingly.
“Calling Ethan? Be my guest. He knows how professional I am.”
I bypassed Ethan's number entirely.
I dialed my father instead.
He picked up on the second ring.
“Claire.”
I looked down at the blood trickling over Sophie's brow.
“Dad.”
“What's wrong?”
I exhaled a steady breath.
“Activate the Whitmore Group exit protocol.”
Absolute silence followed on the other end.
My father knew the weight of those instructions.
“Are you certain?”
I stared at Vanessa.
She was still smiling smugly.
“Completely.”
