Chapter 8 - Lock the Doors
Seeing the photographer, Frank’s eyes flared with anger. He pointed a thick, ugly finger at the young man's face, roaring: "You! Delete whatever the hell you just took!"
The photographer swallowed hard, stepping back, clutching his expensive camera tightly to his chest. "Sir, I... I was just doing my job..."
"I said delete it right now!" Frank stepped forward, raising his fist.
But before he could take a second step, Daniel spun around. He looked directly at the photographer, his voice calm, clear, and carrying absolute authority: "Don't touch a single thing on that camera."
That was the first clue for my father that he had targeted the wrong person. Frank froze, staring at the son-in-law he had assumed was a weak pushover who only knew how to use money.
And the second clue arrived immediately after.
From the four corners of the massive ballroom, men in dark suits wearing earpieces—the Whitmore family's private security detail—moved in unison. They acted smoothly, silently, and as fast as lightning. The heavy metal locks clicked shut.
Click. Clack.
Every single door leading out of the ballroom was locked from the inside. Four massive security guards stood before the exits, arms crossed, ready to take down anyone who made a move.
My father spun around, his eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and panic as he realized he was trapped. "What the hell is this? What are you doing?" he screamed, his neck veins bulging.
"Safety protocol," Daniel replied, his voice as cold as ice. "No one leaves the premises without permission."
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My mother scoffed, trying to salvage the authority of a mother-in-law. "You think these fancy guards scare us? Open the doors. We’re family!"
Hearing that word, I almost laughed, but the pain in my chest and nose only let out a bloody cough.
