He signaled without turning.
“Search the house.”
His men shifted instantly.
“Every room.”
“Every closet.”
“Find the child.”
His shoe still pinned me to the floor.
“And bring her to me.”
Boots thundered away — up the staircase, down the hallway, doors slamming open with violent force as the search began.
Wood splintered somewhere upstairs.
Glass shattered.
Drawers were dragged out and thrown across the floor.
I lay pinned against the cold marble, staring at the ceiling as dust drifted down like ashes from the chaos above. Tears slid sideways into my hair.
Please, Daphne.
Stay quiet.
Stay hidden.
Don’t cry. Don’t make a sound.
My chest burned from the pressure of his shoe still pressing into my abdomen.
“Dad...” I whispered, voice cracking into fragments. “You may not see me as your daughter anymore... but I still see you as my father. Please. Don’t do this.”
For a split second — just a flicker — something passed through his eyes.
Pain?
Memory?
Regret?
Then it vanished.
He smirked — cold, hollow, almost amused — before driving his heel deeper into my stomach.
The impact was devastating.
Air exploded from my lungs in a sharp, involuntary gasp.
White-hot pain detonated low in my belly, spreading outward like shards of broken glass grinding inside me.
My muscles seized. My spine arched instinctively — trying to escape the force — but the men holding my wrists forced me flat again.
He stomped.
