My father's hands were like vises around my wrists, his face contorted with rage inches from mine. The wedding reception had transformed into a battleground, with me at its center.
"You've always been nothing but trouble!" he snarled, spit flying from his lips.
I struggled against his grip. "Let go of me!"
Phones appeared everywhere, recording our family meltdown. Social media would be flooded with footage of respectable businessman Harold Shaw assaulting his daughter at his stepdaughter's wedding.
Perfect.
His fingers dug deeper. "I should have sent you away with your mother when I had the chance!"
The pain was familiar—a reminder of countless other times he'd grabbed me, pushed me, struck me. But something had changed. I wasn't afraid anymore.
"You're hurting me," I said loudly enough for nearby phones to capture. "Everyone is watching you, Dad."
His eyes darted around, suddenly aware of the audience. The pressure on my wrists eased slightly.
