I never told my in-laws that I am the daughter of the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. When I was seven months pregnant, they forced me to cook the entire Christmas dinner alone. My mother-in-law even made me eat standing up in the kitchen, claiming it was ‘good for the baby.’ When I tried to sit down, she pushed me so hard I began to miscarry. I reached for my phone to call the police, but my husband snatched it away and mocked me: ‘I’m a lawyer. You won’t win.’ I looked him straight in the eyes and said calmly: ‘Then call my father.’ He laughed as he dialed, unaware that his legal career was about to end.”

He unlocked the phone. “What’s the number?”

I recited it from memory. It wasn’t a Florida area code. It was a Washington, D.C. area code. A specific prefix used only by high-ranking government officials.

David paused as he typed it. “202? That’s D.C.”

“Just dial, David.”

He pressed call. He put it on speaker, holding it out mockingly.

The phone rang once. Twice.

Chapter 4: “This is the Chief Justice”

The phone didn’t go to voicemail. It didn’t go to any secretary.

It clicked open.

“Identify yourself,” boomed a powerful, authoritative voice.

It wasn’t a casual greeting. It was an order. The voice was deep, gravelly, and carried the weight of absolute, unquestionable authority.

David blinked. “Uh… hello? Is this Mr. Thorne?”

“I said identify yourself,” the voice repeated, colder this time. “You’ve dialed a restricted federal line. Who is this?”

David’s arrogance faltered slightly. “This is David Miller. I’m Anna’s husband. Look, your daughter is causing a big scene here, and…”