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.”

David jumped. “Yes?”

“This is William Thorne, Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court.”

David froze. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He stared at the phone as if it had turned into a grenade.

Every lawyer in America knew the name William Thorne. He was the lion of the Court. The man who terrified senators. The man whose opinions shaped the essence of the nation.

“Justice… Thorne?” David squeaked. “But… Anna said…”

“You have touched my daughter,” my father continued, low and vibrating with rage so potent it seemed it could travel through the wire and strangle David. “You have harmed my grandchild.”

“It was an accident!” David shouted, panicking. “She fell! I’m a lawyer, I know—”

“You are nothing!” my father roared. “You are a speck of dust on my shoe! Listen carefully, you son of a bitch. Do not move. Do not touch her again. Do not even breathe too hard.”