Chapter 3 - The Coward's Grip
Heavy, hurried footsteps pounded against the floorboards, breaking the trance of the onlookers.
A man in a sharp, charcoal-grey suit pushed past a bewildered waiter.
His tie was swinging wildly, his face flushed.
He smelled of expensive scotch, cedarwood cologne, and sudden, nervous sweat.
He was looking at the crowd, at the staring eyes of the wealthy guests, before he even looked at his daughter bleeding on the floor.
He reached down, his large hand clamping firmly and aggressively around the mother’s upper arm.
His fingers dug deep into the blue silk, pulling her upward, trying to drag her away from the crying child.
"Stop embarrassing my mother."
His voice was a low, furious hiss, meant only for her ears, completely devoid of empathy.
He didn't look down at the red, swollen lump on his daughter's forehead.
He looked straight at the gold-sequined woman, offering her a subtle nod of apologetic solidarity.
The mother looked down at the large hand bruising her arm.
She looked up at the face of the man she had married.
The air in her lungs turned to absolute ice.
She didn't pull away.
She didn't try to pry his fingers off.
She simply rotated her torso, drawing raw momentum from the floor up through her shoulder.
Her palm struck his cheekbone with the devastating force of a swinging vault door.
The slap cracked like a bullwhip across the silent banquet hall.
His head snapped violently to the side.
His grip on her arm vanished instantly as his brain short-circuited from the impact.
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He stumbled backward, his polished leather shoes slipping on the slick floor.
He caught himself heavily against the cake table, his hand leaving a massive, ugly dent in the golden fondant.
