The card moved across the wood like an offer.
Or a threat.
“You’ll need me,” he said quietly.
The fake surprise that had colored his face earlier was gone.
Replaced by something colder. More strategic.
He understood I had survived. He understood I wasn’t helpless anymore.
But he also believed I would eventually need access to his power network.
His influence. His resources. He assumed leverage always returns.
I picked up the card between two fingers.
Held it up briefly.
Studied it.
Then I flicked my wrist and tossed it back at him.
It hit his chest. Bounced off.
Dropped to the floor.
“Fuck you,” I said calmly.
“If I didn’t need you for twelve years, what makes you think I’ll need you now?”
His jaw tightened.
Then — without warning — his hand moved.
The slap came fast.
Open palm.
Direct.
It cracked across my left cheek with enough force to snap my head slightly to the side.
The sound cut through the bass of the music.
Sharp. Audible. Immediate.
A few people nearby turned.
Heads rotated.
Phones paused mid-record.
Some strangers froze — unsure whether they had witnessed a father disciplining a disrespectful daughter or something far more dangerous.
My cheek burned.
My skin tingled from impact.
