If you disobey, you will never see our faces again. The jazz quartet was playing a lively tune out on the terrace, the faint, joyful notes bleeding through the thick oak doors. Inside the kitchen, the silence was deafening. Richard puffed his chest out, clearly satisfied with his wife’s ruthless handling of the situation.
Britney let out a soft mocking laugh, already turning her attention to her flawless reflection in a polished metal cabinet. They waited for my submission. They waited for the tears to well up in my eyes. They waited for my shoulders to slump in defeat, for the obedient, invisible daughter to quietly resume her station at the sink and accept her financial execution.
But I did not cry. My heart rate, which had spiked when the phone was snatched from my hands, slowed to a calm, steady rhythm. The suffocating heat of the catering kitchen no longer bothered me. A profound, absolute coldness washed over my entire being. The pathetic attempt at intimidation did not break me.
