I startled. My eight-year-old daughter, Lily, stood in the doorway. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with fear — not excitement, not joy… fear.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” I knelt beside her.
She didn’t speak. Instead, she glanced nervously toward the hallway, then pressed a crumpled piece of paper into my hand.
“Read it… and don’t let Dad see.”
My pulse quickened. I unfolded the page. The handwriting was rushed and shaky.
Pretend you’re sick. Leave now.
“Lily… is this a joke?”
She shook her head, tears forming. “Please, Mom.”
Before I could respond, Daniel stepped into the kitchen, smiling — but the warmth never reached his eyes.
“What are my girls whispering about?”
I hid the note behind my back.
“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Lily feels a little nauseous.”
Daniel’s expression darkened for a moment. “Then she can rest upstairs. We have guests coming. You need to stay.”
I looked at Lily. She was trembling.
This wasn’t sickness.
This was terror.
A deep instinct rose inside me — run.
“I don’t feel well either,” I said suddenly, pressing my temple. “I’m dizzy. I should visit urgent care.”
Daniel’s patience snapped. “Now? You’re abandoning twenty guests?”
“I’ll take Lily with me. We’ll be back soon.”