Chapter 2: The Call That Changed Everything
Chapter 2: The Call That Changed Everything
The moment I pulled away from the curb, my hands started shaking.
Not because I regretted leaving.
Because I hadn't left soon enough.
Chicago traffic rolled past in a blur while my cheek continued to throb. Every stoplight reflected the faint outline of Preston's hand across my face.
I ignored the tears threatening to fall.
Instead, I pressed my father's contact.
He answered before the first ring finished.
"Maya?"
His voice carried the calm confidence that had steadied me since childhood.
"Dad..."
That single word was enough.
"I'm coming," he said.
"No questions?"
"I don't need any."
Twenty-five minutes later, I pulled into my condo's underground garage.
Dad's black Range Rover was already waiting.
He stood beside it in a charcoal overcoat, silver hair perfectly combed despite the early hour.
The second he saw my face, every trace of warmth disappeared.
"Who did this?"
"Preston."
Silence.
My father rarely raised his voice.
He didn't have to.
Power looked different on some people.
He gently touched my bruised cheek.
"Did he hit you once?"
"Yes."
"In front of witnesses?"
I nodded.
"His parents watched."
"And?"
"They said I deserved it."
Dad closed his eyes for a brief moment.
When he opened them again, the kindness was gone.
"Then this isn't just a marriage problem."
"What is it?"
"It's a legal problem."
Within an hour, I was sitting inside Northwestern Memorial Hospital.
Photographs.
Medical notes.
Measurements of the swelling.
Every bruise documented.
Dad insisted on everything.
"Evidence disappears," he reminded me.
"The truth shouldn't."
When we left the hospital, he handed me a folder.
"Today, you don't speak to Preston."
"I wasn't planning to."
"You don't answer his texts."
"I won't."
"You let me handle the rest."
For the first time all day...
I felt safe.
By noon, Preston had called thirty-seven times.
Voicemail after voicemail filled my phone.
Baby, please answer.
You embarrassed everyone.
Mom didn't mean it.
Let's talk.
You overreacted.
Come home.
Then the messages changed.
You flipped my parents' table.
Do you know how much that cost?
You owe my mother an apology.
The last message simply read—
You're making a huge mistake.
I smiled.
May you like
No.
He was.
