The momentum caught me off guard, and my back met the wall with a force that sent shockwaves through my body. I felt a sharp, immediate agony slice through my head, followed by a warm, sticky sensation trickling down the side of my face. The room gasped collectively, a sound so unified it was as if they shared a single set of lungs.
For a moment, everything blurred—the lights, the faces, the extravagant decor. But through the haze, something remarkable happened. My vision cleared enough to lock eyes with Olivia. She sat frozen, her perfect façade cracked by a deep fissure of shock and guilt. Her eyes, usually so confident, were wide and uncertain. I could see recognition in them—she knew what the house meant to me.
It was then that I noticed the red light blinking from a guest’s phone, capturing every detail of this violent betrayal. In that instant, my father’s public persona—a well-crafted image of benevolence and charm—was forever fractured. He had forgotten the world we lived in, one where every moment could be shared with millions in the blink of an eye.
I struggled to steady myself as I stood, feeling the weight of the room’s silence pressing down on me. My breath was ragged, but my resolve, now visible to everyone, was solid as steel. The truth was out, and although it was a truth stained with blood and humiliation, it was liberating.
I didn’t need to say anything more. The room, those 280 witnesses, had seen enough. They had seen the truth buried beneath years of family illusion and false narratives. Conversations in hushed tones began to ripple through the crowd. Faces turned to my father, eyes now filled with suspicion and judgment.