“You trailer trash gold digger,” he spat. “You think the Sterling name makes you somebody? You are nothing without it. A temporary distraction my son took pity on.”
That was when Lucas finally came over.
Willow had thought, for one foolish heartbeat, that he had come to defend her.
Instead, he looked at her with fury.
“How dare you speak to my father that way?” he snarled.
“Lucas, he—”
“I don’t care what he said.” Lucas stepped close enough that she could smell scotch on his breath. “You do not disrespect the head of this family. Not in private. Not in front of everyone we know. Apologize. Now.”
Willow looked from her husband to Richard, then out across six hundred staring faces.
For five years, she had swallowed comments. Corrected her posture. Changed her clothes. Softened her opinions. Laughed when things were not funny. Stayed silent when Richard treated her father like an embarrassment and Lucas treated her silence like loyalty.
“No,” she said.
Lucas blinked. “What?”
“I will not apologize. Your father has spent twenty-five minutes insulting me, my work, my family, and my worth. I have taken it for five years. I am done.”
A gasp moved through the crowd.
Lucas’s face hardened into something ugly and unfamiliar.
“You will apologize,” he said, voice trembling, “or I will make you.”
“Or you’ll do what, Lucas?” she asked. “What exactly will you do?”
His hand moved before anyone could breathe.
The slap turned her head sideways. Pain burst across her cheek and jaw. Her glass shattered at her feet.
Then came the laughter.
Willow did not cry in front of them. She would not give them that final piece of her.
She looked at Lucas. He stared back, already blaming her with his eyes.
She looked at Richard. He smiled.
Without a word, Willow turned and walked through the parted crowd. Helena called her name, but Willow kept moving until she reached the terrace doors. Cold Chicago air struck her bare shoulders. The city glittered below, indifferent.
Her hands shook as she opened her clutch and found her phone.
She did not call a lawyer.
She did not call the police.
She called the only number she had memorized when she was eight years old.
It rang twice.
“Hey, sweetheart,” her father said warmly. “How’s the party?”
The sound of his voice broke her.
“Daddy.”
The warmth vanished. “Willow. What happened?”
She tried to speak, but the words came broken. “Lucas hit me. In front of everyone. They laughed.”
For three seconds, the line was silent.
Then Michael Donovan’s voice returned, low and frighteningly calm.
“Where are you?”
“The Peninsula. The terrace.”
“I’m on my way. Don’t move. Don’t speak to anyone. Look at the city lights and count them until I get there.”