“Dad, this isn’t the time,” I said quietly, ensuring my words carried to the front tables. But instead of stepping back, Charles descended from the stage, his expression shifting from curated charm to something sharper as he approached.
“Take them off,” he murmured, his voice low but firm, insisting that I was making a spectacle of both myself and him.
“I won’t,” I replied, my voice steady, setting a boundary with the simplicity of truth. The slap that followed was controlled, almost businesslike, yet its sound reverberated throughout the room, shattering the elegance of the evening.
Time seemed to pause as disbelief gripped the guests. It was Rowan who moved first, his precision and restraint a testament to his training. He intercepted Charles’s wrist, his grip a silent promise of protection.
“You will not touch her again,” Rowan said, his words a quiet command that echoed further than any shout could.
Charles struggled against Rowan’s hold, not with panic, but with the indignation of a man unaccustomed to resistance. Rowan released him, the message delivered, the power dynamic irrevocably changed.
Around the room, murmurs grew as guests recalibrated their understanding of the scene unfolding before them. Charles, attempting to regain control, turned to the audience. “You think a uniform intimidates me?” he blustered.
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