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.”

“I… I…”

“I have activated the U.S. Marshals Emergency Response Team,” my father said. “They are two minutes from your location. They have orders to secure the asset. That asset is my daughter.”

“Marshals?” David looked out the window. “They can’t do that! It’s a domestic dispute!”

“This is an assault on the family of a Protected Federal Official,” my father said.

Pray to whatever god you believe in, David. Pray she’s alive when they arrive. Because if not, I will skin you myself.

The line went dead.

David dropped the phone. It clattered to the floor beside me with a metallic clink.

He looked at me with pure terror. He looked at Sylvia, who was pale as a sheet.

“Your father… is the Chief Justice?” David whispered.

I smiled. My teeth were stained with blood from biting my lip.

“I told you, David,” I whispered. “You don’t know who wrote the laws.”