Chapter 3 - The Scissors and the Floor
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The interior of the mansion smelled of expensive floor wax, white lilies, and fresh blood.
“Dad!”
The scream came from the upper floor—a high, ragged sound of pure agony that tore right through my soul. I threw myself up the grand double staircase, taking three marble steps at a time, following the echoes down a long, carpeted hallway lined with oil paintings of dead Whitmore ancestors.
At the end of the corridor, the master bathroom door stood wide open.
I rounded the frame and froze.
My daughter was on her knees against the cold white tile floor. A heavy-set housekeeper was pinning Emily’s wrists behind her back, pressing her face down against the porcelain. Kneeling directly over her was Margaret Whitmore.
Margaret wasn't wearing her signature pearls or charity-gala smile. Her eyes were wide, bloodshot, and wild with an unhinged, sadistic fury. In her gloved right hand, she held a heavy pair of silver dressmaking shears.
Long, beautiful strands of Emily’s brown hair covered the pristine tile floor like fallen leaves.
“This is the price of disobedience!” Margaret hissed, pulling another clump of hair taut and opening the blades.
“Get off her!” I roared.
Before the housekeeper could even look up, I grabbed her by the collar of her uniform and hurled her backward into the glass shower enclosure. She hit the frame with a heavy crash and crumpled to the floor.
I lunged forward, catching Margaret by the forearm before the blades could touch Emily again. I didn't care about her age, her status, or her fragile social standing. I shoved her back with enough force to send her sliding across the slick tile until her back slammed hard against the marble vanity.
“Dad…” Emily sobbed.
I dropped to my knees and gathered my daughter into my arms.
May you like
She was shaking violently. When she raised her face to mine, my breath caught in my throat. Her left eye was swollen shut, her bottom lip was split wide open, and red, inflamed welts stretched down her neck under her torn shirt. Her skin was burning to the touch—she was radiating a dangerous, terrifying heat.
“I’m here, baby,” I whispered, pulling her head against my chest, wrapping my jacket around her trembling shoulders. “I’ve got you. Nobody is touching you again.”
