The world slowed down as I stumbled back. The shock of the impact reverberated through my skull like a tuning fork struck against metal. For a brief moment, the room blurred, the faces around me dissolving into vague smears of color. But in that haze, the camera light—steady and unblinking—cut through like a beacon, anchoring me to the moment.
As I hit the wall, pain flashed white-hot in my vision. The sharp edge met my head with a sickening thud, and I felt an involuntary gasp escape my lips. My hand went to the back of my head, fingers coming away wet and red. This wasn’t just a familial disagreement; this was violence. The crowd gasped collectively, a shocked wave rippling through the ballroom.
My father, Gregory, stood frozen for a split second. His eyes, wide with disbelief and rage, flickered to the phone capturing every second of this disaster. The guests, who moments ago were reveling in the opulence of the evening, were now silent witnesses to his unmasking. The air was heavy with the shock of what had just transpired.
