Part 2My Husband Returned His Daughter to Her Mother

She grabbed my arm and began to shake me wildly.

Liam’s face was stone. He clamped down on her wrist and physically yanked her away from me, throwing her several feet back.

Setlla stumbled, catching herself on the wall.

“That is enough, Setlla! You ever lay a hand on Harper again, I swear to God—” Liam’s voice was a low, terrifying growl of warning.

“I will! I’ll make her leave!”

Setlla spotted my coat and scarf hanging in the hallway—an expensive cashmere piece I’d bought myself as a treat. She flew at it, grabbing the fabric.

With a wild, guttural cry, she flung the beautiful, oatmeal-colored cashmere coat I’d saved three months of salary for, straight out the second-story window.

“Get out! Get all your trash out of this house!”

Unsatisfied, she rushed into my office, which also served as my art space.

A moment later, the sound of breaking glass and tumbling objects echoed through the house.

When we got there, my small sanctuary was a disaster. Lipstick tubes snapped in half, powder compacts pulverized, and my favorite perfume pooled on the floor, the sickly-sweet, destructive scent mixing with the rage.

But the worst was the small, framed charcoal sketch sitting on my bedside table.

It was a portrait of Liam and me—the first thing I’d ever truly drawn well, a birthday gift that had taken me weeks.

The glass frame was now shattered, and a thick, dark scarlet line of lipstick had been savagely smeared across the paper, slashing through my face.

“See this?” Setlla was holding the broken lipstick tube aloft like a weapon. “I’m going to destroy everything you care about! This house doesn’t want you!”

She even pulled out her phone, snapped a photo of the wreckage, and sent it to Victoria.

Mom! Look, I smashed all of that woman’s cheap stuff! I stood up for you! Come back, let’s kick her out, this house is ours again!

She looked up at us, a final, defiant look of expected approval on her face.

Liam looked at her, and the last flicker of warmth I'd ever seen him hold for her died in his eyes.

He didn't say a word. He walked out of the room, returning minutes later dragging an empty, wheeled suitcase—Setlla’s suitcase.

He opened her closet and began pulling her clothes out, dropping them into the bag one by one. His movements were swift, efficient, and devoid of emotion.

Setlla just stared, completely frozen.

“Dad? What are you doing?” A tremor of real panic entered her voice.