Stars burst across my vision.
I tried to shove him away — but his strength outweighed mine.
His soldiers watched.
Unmoved.
Harris walked closer slowly, observing.
His face hovered inches from mine — rage etched into every line, breath hot and furious against my skin.
“What a rebellious bitch.”
His hand stretched out.
One of his men stepped forward and shoved something heavy into his palm.
An iron baton.
Black.
Thick.
Ridged with reinforced steel designed to fracture bone.
Vasquez wrapped his fingers around it slowly — testing its weight — as if he were assessing a weapon before execution.
My pulse went into overdrive.
He advanced.
Each step deliberate.
Predatory.
I scrambled backward along the marble wall, palms slipping against cold stone as my body tried to create distance that didn’t exist.
“Dad... please...”
My voice sounded foreign — small, terrified.
He stopped.
Not out of mercy. But calculation.
The baton lifted slightly.
Pointed at my chest like a judge delivering a sentence.
“I loved your mother,” he said suddenly.
The words cut through the chaos like broken glass.
Everyone in the room paused.
Even Harris.
Even the soldiers.
