When my father’s hand struck my cheek, the sound echoed through the ballroom like a gunshot. Crystal glasses clinked, and then… silence. Only the slow hum of the chandelier filled the air before the whispers began.

“Did he just…?”

“Oh my god, he hit her.”

I could barely breathe. The room tilted, the floor spinning beneath my heels. My father, Richard Whitmore, real estate magnate, stood tall in his custom Italian suit, his gray eyes colder than the marble pillars around us.

“You think you can shame me, Harper?” he growled, his voice a low rumble of controlled fury. “A daughter who fixes old furniture instead of running the company? You’re nothing but an embarrassment.”