Chapter 3

With the guards closing in, I didn't have much time. I bent down and whispered to Lily, "Cover your ears, sweetie. It's going to get a little loud."

Then, I pulled out my phone again, my fingers moving quickly. I dialed a single number.

"Sarah," I said into the phone, my voice low and urgent. "It's me. Drop everything. I need you to enact Protocol Red. And I need you here. Now."

There was no hesitation on the other end. Sarah Jenkins, my head of PR and the most loyal person I knew, just said, "On my way, Mr. Miller."

I hung up just as a guard put his hand on my shoulder.

But before he could pull me away, Lily stepped out from behind me. Her face was tear-streaked, but her voice was clear and surprisingly loud.

"That's my mommy!" she cried out, pointing a small finger at Scarlett. "And that's my daddy! You're a liar!"

The crowd, which had been hostile, momentarily fell silent, surprised by the child's outburst. Then, a wave of cynical laughter rippled through the ballroom.

"Wow, the crazy guy even coached his kid," someone sneered.

"What a performance. Maybe he wants a part on the show too!"

Scarlett' s face hardened. This was not part of her script. Jake, however, seemed to find it amusing. He leaned down and whispered something to his son. The boy, who had been standing there smugly, suddenly grinned.

He ran to the edge of the stage, right above where Lily was standing.

"My mommy is a star," Jake's son taunted, his voice mimicking his father's arrogance. "Your mommy doesn't want you. You're a nobody, just like your loser dad."

Before I could react, the boy kicked out. His shoe struck Lily's leg. It wasn't a hard kick, but it was enough to make her lose her balance. She stumbled backward, falling hard onto the polished floor.

A sharp cry escaped her lips. I was at her side in an instant. Her knee was scraped, and a thin line of red blood was already welling up, a stark contrast against her pale skin and the white of her tights.

A white-hot fury, purer and more intense than anything I had ever felt, surged through me. I looked up at the stage, at the smirking boy, at Jake who was patting him on the back as if he'd done something clever, and at Scarlett.

My wife. The mother of my child.

She was just standing there. Watching.

I got to my feet, every muscle in my body tensed. I was ready to vault onto that stage and tear Jake Peterson apart with my bare hands.

"Ethan, don't!"

Scarlett' s voice was a sharp hiss. She finally moved, stepping forward to block my path, her face a mask of cold fury.

"It was just kids playing," she said through clenched teeth, loud enough for those nearby to hear. "Don't you dare make this worse."

Kids playing? My daughter was bleeding on the floor because of a deliberate act of cruelty, and she called it "playing." The last shred of any feeling I had for her died in that moment.

Jake Peterson laughed, a smug, ugly sound. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of cash. He peeled off a few hundred-dollar bills, crumpled them into a ball, and tossed them at my feet. They landed near Lily's tear-stained face.

"Here," he said with a dismissive wave. "For the kid's medical bills. Or buy her a toy. Maybe that will shut you both up."

The crowd erupted in laughter and applause. They saw a generous celebrity dealing with a classless extortionist. They had no idea what was really happening.

"Yeah, take the money and get lost!"

"Leave the happy family alone!"

"Someone call child protective services on this guy!"

The insults rained down on us. The guards were now grabbing my arms, trying to haul me away. I didn't resist them. My focus was on Lily. I gently picked her up, cradling her in my arms. Her small body was trembling with silent sobs.

I held her close, whispering, "I'm here, sweetie. I've got you. It's okay."

She buried her face in my neck. After a moment, she lifted her head. Her eyes, red from crying, met mine. The hurt was still there, but beneath it, something else was forming. A flicker of her mother's steel, but tempered with my sense of justice.

Her voice was just a whisper, for my ears only.

"Daddy," she said, her small hand touching my cheek. "Make them stop. Make them pay."

Her words weren't a plea. They were a command. And looking into my daughter's eyes, I swore an silent oath.

I would.