Patricia stood over them, a towering figure of meticulously curated elegance. She wore a silk emerald blouse and designer slacks, her hair perfectly blown out—the very image of the sophisticated, loving partner she had presented to me and my social circle. But her face, stripped of its performance, was a mask of cold, calculating disdain.
"If you cry," Patricia’s voice hissed through the hidden audio receivers, sharp and venomous, "I will tell your father that you broke the antique vase in the hallway. You know what he does to liars, don't you? He sends them away."
A physical wave of nausea hit me. I had never, in my entire life, raised a hand or a voice in anger to my daughters. I had never threatened to send them anywhere. Since their mother passed away from illness four years ago, my only goal had been to build a fortress of love and security around them. Patricia was twisting my authority, weaponizing my image to turn my own children against me, creating a phantom monster out of their father.