[Emily's POV]
Thirty minutes.
That's all it took to piece together what's been happening in my own home, right under my nose. I sit on Holly's bed, surrounded by the evidence of her betrayal, her laptop open beside me, her phone unlocked in my hand.
The sedative I gave them was strong but measured. They'll be out for hours, both of them slumped at my dining table like abandoned marionettes. I had time. Time to search, time to understand.
Getting into Holly's devices was child's play. My sleeping daughter's face pressed against the phone's scanner, her limp finger guided to the laptop's fingerprint reader. Her Chrome passwords autofilled, opening her digital life to me like a book I never wanted to read.
And what a terrible story it tells.
The video plays silently on her laptop screen. Danny, my Danny, his hands around my daughter's throat while he fucks her. But something's wrong with the image. His fingers are splayed wide, practically hovering above her skin, applying no pressure at all. Holly's face is contorted in what looks like terror, but her eyes keep darting toward the camera, checking the framing, the angle, the performance.
I've been in the sex industry long enough to recognize staged content when I see it.
My stomach churns as I dig deeper, clicking through her folders until I find it, the original. The unedited version shows Holly setting up the camera herself, carefully arranging the scene. There's audio here, her voice clear as she instructs Danny.
"Just keep your hands there. Close your eyes, pretend to be mad, and pound hard into me."
The words hit me like a physical blow. My daughter's voice, clinical and instructional, echoes from the laptop speakers. I press my hand to my mouth, fighting the wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm me.
I scrub through the footage again, each frame making my blood boil hotter. The truth is undeniable, my daughter drugged us both that night with the wine. She waited for me to pass out, then somehow convinced my Danny she was me. My poor, sweet boy, too intoxicated to know the difference.
My hands shake with rage as I watch her manipulate him, using his love for me as a weapon against him. Against us both.
"You bitch," I whisper, tears burning my eyes.
I take a deep breath, then another, forcing the fury into something cold and controlled. This isn't the time for emotional outbursts. This requires precision.
I start with her cloud accounts. Email by email, password by password, I methodically delete everything I can find. Photos, videos, backups, I hunt them down like vermin, erasing them from existence. Each deletion feels like reclaiming a piece of our violated privacy.
Her Google Drive comes next, then iCloud, then the hidden folders on her laptop. I'm thorough. Years of managing my own digital footprint have taught me how to make things disappear.
When I'm satisfied the digital evidence is gone, I turn to her phone. With practiced efficiency, I factory reset it, watching as the screen flashes through the process of wiping itself clean. Not enough. It's not enough.
I wrap the device in a towel from her bathroom and take it to the kitchen. The meat tenderizer makes a satisfying crunch as it connects with the screen. Again. And again. Until there's nothing but shattered glass and twisted metal in my hands.
The physical destruction feels primal, necessary. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I stare at the ruined device. But destroying evidence isn't enough. I need to protect Danny from whatever sick game Holly is playing.
I reach for my work cellphone, the one I keep separate from my personal life. My fingers tremble slightly as I scroll through the contacts, stopping at one I haven't called in months. Dean Richard Hargrove. He's been a client for years, always discreet, always generous. And now, I need something from him.
The phone rings three times before he answers, his voice muffled and cautious.
"Amber?"
I swallow hard, shifting into that professional persona I've perfected over the years. "Yes, Richard. It's me."
"I'm with my family right now," he whispers urgently. "Can this wait?"
"No," I say firmly, my voice colder than I intended. "It cannot."
I hear shuffling on his end, a mumbled excuse to whoever's with him, then the sound of a door closing. When he speaks again, his voice is clearer but tense.
"What's so urgent? We don't have an appointment scheduled."
"I need a favor," I say, pacing the kitchen floor, careful to avoid glancing at the dining room where my drugged daughter and fiancé remain slumped at the table. "It's about your school's housing situation."
The conversation that follows is a masterclass in negotiation. Ten minutes of careful words, veiled reminders of our past encounters, and finally, when pleasantries fail, a gentle threat about his wife discovering certain photographs from our sessions together. I hate using this leverage, but my Danny's safety leaves me no choice.
"Fine," Richard finally relents, his voice tight with resignation. "I'll find housing for Holly at the college. I'll have it so she can move soon."
"Tomorrow," I specify, glancing at my unconscious daughter. "She needs to move in tomorrow."
"Yes, fine."
As I hang up, a cold certainty settles over me. My plans are already in place. Holly is done here. I'm kicking her out of this house as soon as she wakes up. There's no room under my roof for someone who would betray me like this, who would rape the person I love most in this world.
I walk back to the dining room, staring at my daughter's unconscious form. Part of me wants to shake her awake, to scream in her face and demand explanations.
But I need more than just getting Holly out of our lives.
I reach for my phone again, scrolling past the usual clients to a name I rarely see, Victor. My finger hovers over it for a moment before I press call. This isn't a line I cross lightly.
"Amber," he answers on the second ring, his voice like gravel. "Been a while."
Victor isn't exactly a friend. He's a client I've had for about four years now, a man who barely discusses his work. The expensive suits, the security detail that waits outside, the careful way he speaks about "business associates" I know enough to understand he's connected. To which family or organization, I've deliberately remained ignorant.
"Remember last spring? That incident with your associates?" I say, keeping my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me.
His breathing changes, just slightly, a subtle acknowledgment of a memory neither of us has spoken of since it happened.
"Of course," Victor replies, his tone immediately shifting to something softer, almost apologetic. "That was... unfortunate."
"I'd like to cash in that favor now," I tell him, my fingers tightening around the phone.
"Whatever you need, Amber." The response comes without hesitation. "Consider it done."
I take a deep breath, watching Holly's unconscious form slumped over my dining table. My own flesh and blood. The child I sacrificed everything for.
"I have a woman I want roughed up," I say, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. "Nothing permanent, nothing that would require hospitalization."
"I understand. Who is this woman?"
"A young woman who's been... tormenting my fiancé," I say finally. "Someone who needs to understand there are consequences for her actions."
"Name and details?" Victor asks, all business now.
"I'll text you the details," I say, turning away from Holly's slumped form. "Just make sure nothing ties back to me."
"Of course," Victor responds smoothly. "My associates are professionals."
I pace the kitchen floor, my heels clicking against the tile. "Let's schedule it for sometime next week. After I've settled some other matters."
"No problem, Amber. Just send the information when you're ready." There's a pause, and when he speaks again, his voice carries a hint of genuine warmth. "So, who's the lucky man who finally melted the heart of the ice queen? Never thought I'd see the day."
A smile tugs at my lips despite everything. "Someone kind," I say simply, glancing toward the dining room where Danny sits unconscious, his head resting on the table. Even now, drugged and vulnerable, he looks beautiful to me.
"Well, congratulations, Amber," Victor says. "He must be quite special."
"Thank you," I reply softly, then end the call.
I place my phone on the counter and lean against it, suddenly exhausted. The weight of what I've discovered, what I'm planning to do, settles over me like a shroud. I've crossed lines tonight I never thought I would, made calls I can't take back.
But when I look at Danny, I know it's worth it. He deserves protection. He deserves justice.
The opposite of my Ex-Husband.