Heavily pregnant Maeve Ellison was cornered in the kitchen when Rex Ellison drove a forceful punch straight into the side of her pregnant abdomen

The absolute betrayal in Jonas's voice hit Maeve harder than the physical blow to her stomach. She stared at the man she had married, the wedding ring on his finger a glittering, hypocritical joke. She was entirely surrounded. The bright, saturated colors of the kitchen felt like a suffocating cage.

"I will not put it down," Maeve swore, her voice trembling but filled with fierce, maternal defiance. "If any of you take one more step toward me, I swear to God I will smash your skull."

Rex laughed, a harsh, guttural sound that rattled in his chest. "You hear that, Jonas? Your wife is threatening me in your own house. You need to get your woman under control, or I will do it for you."

"I'm handling it, Dad," Jonas muttered nervously. He reached out, his polished shoes squeaking on the floor. "Maeve, give me the pan. Now."

Before Jonas could close the distance, the heavy oak front door at the end of the hallway swung open with a resounding, metallic click.

Fifty-nine-year-old Colonel Warren Shaw stepped into the bright foyer. Maeve’s father was a man composed entirely of discipline and steel. He wore his decorated U.S. Army dress uniform, the vibrant ribbons and polished insignia gleaming on his chest. His green tie was perfectly straight, his polished shoes immaculate. He had returned early from his deployment, intending to surprise his pregnant daughter.

Warren closed the door behind him, carrying a small leather travel case. "Maeve? I saw Jonas's car in the driveway—"

Warren stopped mid-sentence as he stepped into the archway of the kitchen.

His sharp, military-trained eyes took in the scene in a fraction of a second. He saw the cast-iron skillet raised in the air. He saw Jonas blocking the exit. He saw Pamela standing coldly by the fridge. And then he saw his daughter, her fair and rosy skin pale with terror, clutching her thirty-eight-week pregnant belly while Rex stood merely inches away from her.

The heavy leather travel case slipped from Warren’s hand. It hit the hardwood floor with a heavy, deafening thud.

"Dad," Maeve cried out. The moment she saw her father, the adrenaline that had kept her standing suddenly evaporated. The skillet slipped from her trembling hand, clattering loudly onto the granite counter. She slumped forward, both hands pressing desperately into her abdomen, her face contorting in sheer, blinding agony.

"Maeve!" Warren shouted, sprinting forward.