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.”

Sylvia was being dragged out in handcuffs, still in her festive red velvet dress, now torn. She was screaming about her rights.

They loaded me into the ambulance.

A black city car screeched to a stop right beside the ambulance. The rear door flew open.

My father stepped out.

He wore a trench coat over pajamas. He looked older than I remembered, but his eyes were fierce.

“Anna!”

He ran to the stretcher. He grabbed my hand. Tears streamed down his face—the face that once terrified politicians.

“Dad,” I whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I ran away.”

“Shh,” he kissed my forehead. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

He turned to the lead marshal.

“General,” my father said.

“Yes, Mr. Chief Justice?”

“That man inside,” my father pointed toward the house, “will be taken into federal custody. No bail. Flight risk. Danger to society. I’ll sign the order myself.”