But before I could complete the call, Ms. Collins lunged forward, wrenching my hand away and yanking the phone out of my pocket.
She stared at the lit-up screen showing the emergency number, then handed the phone to Mrs. Brown.
“Mrs. Brown, she tried to call the police!”
All eyes turned on me.
A man kicked me hard in the back.
One of the fathers snatched the phone, smashed it to the ground, and stomped on it until the screen went black.
“You bitch! You dare call the cops? I’ll deal with you right here!”
Clutching my torn shirt, I screamed with everything I had left:
“My husband is John Foster!”
“If anyone lays another finger on me or my son, my husband will make sure none of you walk away from this!”
The crowd froze.
The man about to hit me stopped mid-motion, his face twitching.
The pressure on my body eased slightly.
Mrs. Brown’s smirk faded. She looked me up and down like I’d lost my mind, then burst out laughing.
“John Foster? You mean the John Foster? The most powerful man in New York City—the man who controls politics and business with one hand?”
She laughed so hard she nearly doubled over, tears in her eyes.
“Oh, please. That’s the best lie you could come up with?”