The room erupted into noise. That was when Prescott slapped me.
And that was how, blood on my mouth, I found myself making the call that changed everything.
After Prescott mocked my father for the room, a hand closed gently but firmly around my elbow. I turned and found Warren beside me. Up close, his expression was not outrage exactly. It was something more dangerous: controlled disgust.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, scanning my face with a doctor’s eyes.
Before I could answer, Prescott stepped toward us. “Back off, Warren,” he snapped. “This is family business.”
Warren didn’t move.
“You should be grateful we even let you sit at the main table,” Prescott went on. “Go do what you usually do and clean up after my wife.”
The room held its breath. There are moments when truth enters a room like a flame touching a gas line. Warren had spent years swallowing insults for the sake of peace, for the sake of his son, for the sake of not turning every holiday into war. But there are only so many times a man can be invited to his own degradation before he decides to stop attending.
He took one slow step toward Prescott.