Chapter 4
Cornered and realizing that the polite veneer of the party was rapidly disintegrating, Bethany’s panic morphed into aggressive defense. The color returned to her cheeks in angry, blotchy patches. She couldn't let the narrative slip away from her. She couldn't let the extended family see her as a monster.
"Give her to me," Bethany demanded, her voice dropping its mocking tone, replaced by an ugly, desperate authority.
She lunged forward, her high heels clicking rapidly. She reached out with both hands, her manicured fingers grasping like talons, aiming straight for Rosie’s small, trembling shoulders. "Give her to me right now! You're scaring her, you're making this worse than it is!"
"Don't touch her!" the Father bellowed.
As Bethany's hands came within inches of the child, the Father reacted with blinding speed. He didn't just step back; he drove his free forearm upward in a brutal, sweeping block. His arm collided heavily with Bethany’s wrists, batting her hands away with enough force to send a shockwave up her arms.
Bethany cried out, stumbling backward, her heavy gold bracelets clattering loudly against each other as she grabbed her wrist in shock. "You hit me! You crazy son of a bitch, you hit me!"
"I deflected you," the Father said, his voice dropping back to that terrifying, ice-cold register. "If I wanted to hit you, you'd be on the floor."
He didn't wait for a response. The room was no longer safe. It was a den of predators, and he needed to get his cub out. He pivoted on his heel, wrapping both arms securely around Rosie, and began walking purposefully toward the grand double doors of the foyer.
"Stop him!" the Grandmother screamed, rushing forward, her flats slapping against the wood. "Don't let him leave with her! He's unstable! He's going to hurt her!"
The sheer audacity of the projection made the Father sick to his stomach, but he didn't break stride. He kept his eyes locked on the heavy mahogany doors at the end of the hallway. Rosie buried her face into his neck, her small hands clutching the drawstrings of his hoodie as if they were lifelines.
"Just keep your eyes closed, Rosie," he whispered into her hair, his breath warm and steady against her ear. "We're almost out. Daddy's got you. Nobody is going to stop us."
A few of the male relatives—uncles and older cousins—stepped hesitantly into the hallway, blocking the path to the door. They looked uncomfortable in their suits, torn between the authority of the Grandmother and the terrifying, righteous fury radiating from the Father.
"Move," the Father commanded. It wasn't a request. It was a promise of violence.
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"Look, man, let's just calm down," one of the cousins muttered, holding his hands up defensively. "Let's go into the kitchen and talk this out."
"There is no talking," the Father said, stepping right up to the cousin, forcing the man to look at the bruises on Rosie's arm. "Move out of my way, or I will put you through that wall."
