I stumbled back. My hip hit the counter.
And pain—hot, sudden, terrifying—flared low in my abdomen.
I looked down and saw red blooming through my leggings.
My breath turned thin. “No… no, no—”
Evelyn’s eyes narrowed, not with concern, but irritation. “Don’t you start acting.”
I reached for my phone. My thumb barely touched the screen before Cole snatched it away and flung it across the tile. It skidded under the table and vanished.
My knees threatened to fold. The room tilted. Panic rose like bile.
“Please,” I whispered, staring at him, then her. “Call 911.”
Cole’s smile was small and cruel. “You’re not ruining my night with drama.”
Something in me steadied—clean, cold, surprising.
“Call my father,” I said.
Cole laughed once. Evelyn scoffed.
They had no idea who he really was.
Cole’s phone rang.
The ringtone cut through the kitchen like a siren. He glanced at the screen, rolled his eyes, and smirked like the universe existed to amuse him.
“Great,” he muttered. “Your dad.”
He answered on speaker without moving. “Yeah?”
A man’s voice came through—calm, low, precise. Not loud. Not emotional. The kind of voice that made people listen.
“This is Grant Mercer,” the voice said. “Who is this?”
Cole snorted. “Cole. Hannah’s husband. It’s after midnight—she’s being—”
“Put Hannah on,” Grant Mercer said, cutting through Cole’s words like they were background noise.
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