Margaret sniffed loudly, dabbing at her eyes with a linen handkerchief. "It was a joke! A harmless, traditional lighthearted prank to welcome a girl into our social circle. Nora completely overreacted, threw a tantrum, and humiliated my son in front of our closest business associates!"
My father walked to the center of the grand room, stopping ten feet from Richard. He placed his briefcase on a long oak dining table, flicked the brass latches open, and pulled out a sleek silver tablet.
"A joke," my father repeated smoothly. "Let's review the tape."
He tapped the screen.
Connected wirelessly to the ranch house's high-end audio-visual setup—a system Richard used to show off marketing videos for Pembroke Beef—a sixty-inch display mounted above the fireplace flared to life.
Crystal-clear, high-definition audio and video filled the room.
There was Margaret’s face, sharp and cruel in the flickering candlelight of the previous evening.
There was the black leather collar, glittering with its tiny gold bell, held high above my newborn baby’s head.
“She needs to learn where she belongs,” Margaret’s recorded voice boomed through the speakers, resonant and unmistakable. “Since my son was generous enough to bring you into this family, I thought the baby should have something to remind her where she came from.”
The video played the roaring, cruel laughter of the sixty guests. It captured Wesley standing by, staring at his boots. It captured my calm, firm refusal, Margaret’s aggressive advance, and the terrifying moment she reached toward my crying infant.
The video paused on a freeze-frame of Margaret’s face—snarling, entitlement dripping from every feature.