The following morning, the festive decorations seemed to mock the previous night’s horror. I woke up to a throbbing pain in my side, a vivid reminder of the violence I had endured. I could hear hushed whispers outside the guest room door, but I felt too weak and too humiliated to face anyone, even my daughter, who was thankfully asleep through the chaos.
It wasn’t long before I received a call from my father. “Emma, I need you to be strong today,” he said, his voice steady and composed. “Someone will be at the door soon. Let them in. Trust me.” I nodded to myself, trusting him more than I had trusted anyone in a long time.
True to his word, an hour later, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to find a group of men dressed in impeccably tailored suits, their expressions stern and unreadable. At their helm was Marco, my father’s most trusted aide. “We’re here to ensure your safety,” he said, his voice gentle yet firm. I nodded, allowing them inside.
