September 4, 2026

I barely stepped through the door when my husband slapped me hard enough to make my ears ring.

I glanced up. Her lips pressed tighter.

“Help is already en route,” Grant said.

My heart jolted. “How—”

“I made a call,” he said. “Two, actually.”

Cole’s cheeks reddened. “You called the cops?”

“I called emergency services,” Grant corrected softly. “And I called people whose job is to respond when someone decides they can trap my daughter in a kitchen.”

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