Chapter 2
The sheer volume of the laughter seemed to press down on Josephine, shrinking her small frame until she looked incredibly fragile against the vastness of the ivory rug. She hugged the scratched, marker-stained rocking horse tighter to her chest, as if the ruined wood could somehow shield her from the piercing stares of her own flesh and blood. Splinters from the battered toy snagged against the soft wool of her holiday sweater, but she didn't let go.
All around her, the contrast was sickeningly clear. Clara’s children, with their perfectly combed fair hair and rosy cheeks, sat amidst a mountain of lavish presents. They were busy tearing the pristine silver and gold paper off expensive electronics, imported porcelain dolls, and custom-made toys that gleamed under the bright, white lights. The opulence surrounding her cousins only magnified the grotesque nature of the garbage Josephine had been handed.
Helen, sixty-five years old, sat elegantly on a velvet sofa nearby. Dressed in a silk blouse, a tailored cardigan, crisp trousers, and expensive flats, her heavy pearl earrings swayed slightly as she moved. She completely ignored the tears streaming down Josephine’s face. With cold, practiced indifference, Helen continued pulling brightly wrapped boxes from beneath the tree, reading the luxury gift tags in her sharp American accent and handing them out to everyone else, pointedly acting as though Bennett and his daughter did not exist.
Josephine’s bottom lip trembled violently. The cruel laughter of her aunt and the harsh sneer of her grandfather echoed in her ears, drowning out the faint crackle of the fireplace. She looked up, her tear-filled eyes bypassing the jeering faces of her relatives, searching desperately for the only source of safety she had ever known in this house.
Her gaze locked onto Bennett.
He was already moving toward her, his handsome face carved into a mask of restrained fury. The tailored vest he wore seemed to emphasize the broad, rigid set of his shoulders. As he closed the distance, Josephine looked up at him, her heart completely crushed by the weight of a humiliation she was too young to fully comprehend but old enough to feel to her core.
She held up the defaced, broken wooden horse, her small fingers white-knuckled around the splintered reigns. Her voice, when it finally broke through the sounds of Clara’s mocking chuckles, was tiny, hoarse, and devastated.
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"Daddy…" Josephine whispered, the word hitching on a sob that shattered whatever remaining patience Bennett had left. "Is this really for me?"
The question hung in the air, a devastating indictment of the people in the room. Bennett stopped dead in his tracks. Looking down at his daughter’s tear-streaked, rosy face and the piece of literal trash she was holding, something fundamental and terrifying shifted behind his icy eyes. The authoritative calm he had maintained all evening vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating darkness that the family was entirely too arrogant to notice.
