My father stared at me in disbelief, seemingly unable to understand how the daughter who had always lowered her head before him had dared to stop him.
I slowly tightened my fingers around the whip, feeling the rough leather press against my palm as I looked directly into his eyes.
For twenty years, I had allowed this man to frighten me.
I had endured his insults, his anger, his beatings, and the constant reminder that I was nothing more than an unwanted daughter he had been forced to keep.
I had accepted everything because I believed I had no other choice.
But I had spent enough of my life surviving.
If I truly had only six months remaining, then I refused to spend those months hiding in fear.
“Old man,” I said calmly, surprising even myself with how steady my voice sounded, “I think I’ve put up with you for far too long.
Don’t you think you’ve become a little too much?” His face immediately darkened.
The silence that followed was heavy enough to make the servants nearby lower their heads and quietly retreat from the entrance, none of them willing to remain close enough to become involved.
My father stared at me as though he were seeing me for the very first time, and perhaps, in a way, he was.
I was no longer the frightened girl who had spent twenty years accepting every cruelty thrown at her.
Knowing that my life was already running out had changed the value I placed on his approval, his anger, and even his threats.
For the first time in my life, I had nothing left to prove to him.
And I had no intention of spending whatever time remained to me being afraid.
I needed this body to survive long enough for me to live whatever remained of my life on my own terms.
I couldn’t afford unnecessary injuries, and I certainly couldn’t allow someone else’s anger to shorten a life that was already running out.
For the first time in twenty years, I had refused to let my father decide how much pain I had to endure, but perhaps I had forgotten something important.
My father wasn’t simply an angry man standing before me with a whip in his hand.
He was one of the most powerful men in the city, surrounded by people who obeyed his every command without question, while I was still the illegitimate daughter who had no authority, no wealth, and no one willing to stand behind her.
His expression twisted with fury as he stared at me, clearly unable to believe that I had dared to challenge him.
His eyes dropped briefly to the hand still wrapped around the whip before shifting toward the two guards stationed near the entrance.
“You think you can defy me now?” he demanded.
Then, without taking his eyes off me, he barked, “What are you waiting for?
Come over here and hold her down!” The guards didn’t hesitate.
They rushed toward me, and before I could react, one seized my arms from behind while the other grabbed my shoulder and forced me down onto my knees.
The whip was ripped from my grasp, and before I could even struggle free, it came crashing down against my back.
Pain exploded through my body, and I clenched my teeth, refusing to scream as another strike followed almost immediately, then another.
The sharp crack of the leather echoed throughout the entrance hall while the thin fabric covering my back tore beneath the repeated blows, leaving a burning pain spreading across my skin with every strike.
For a brief moment, I had foolishly believed that catching the whip meant something.
I had thought that perhaps, after twenty years of enduring everything in silence, I had finally found enough courage to stand up for myself.
But as the guards held me down and the blows continued falling across my back, I realized that courage alone wasn’t enough when I had spent my entire life with nothing while my father had spent his building a world where everyone obeyed him.
He had money, influence, and people willing to carry out his orders without question, while I had nothing—no power, no money, and no one who would stand beside me if I fought back.
I wasn’t even treated like a daughter in this house; I was a servant who happened to share my father’s blood.