There was an emergency with the fake snow turning to ice. A horse-drawn carriage almost went down. And there was a disaster where someone had brought their purse dog and then let him loose. The miniature chihuahua had climbed six feet high in the central Christmas tree and then barked until someone climbed through the needles to pull him out.

Then my mother whispers those words, urgent, pained, and I know this is the emergency now.

I search the ballroom. The dining tables. Outside.

A group of people are caroling, drunkenly singing the refrain to Hallelujah.

The discordant notes send shivers down my spine.

I find my father in an antechamber off the art gallery smashing glasses of champagne against the painting of our family as if they were baseballs in a batting cage.

Waitstaff hover outside the room, unable to stop him. Just as well that they don’t get in his way. We don’t need another ambulance called to the house.

Waitstaff get ambulances. Guests get ambulances.

Family? We get a first aid kit in an upstairs bathroom. We’re used to Bryant Morelli’s rampages, used to the shouting and the shoving and the bruises that inevitably follow.

I’m used to it. At least, that’s what I tell myself as my father shakes me in anger, as he grasps my wrist. As I flinch away from his slap. He doesn’t hurt me often, not anymore, but it still happens sometimes. The old desperation takes hold of me. Along with the fear.

Then the door swings open.

We freeze, my father in fury, me in shock.

Any number of people could have wandered back here. Everyone knows about the antechambers. The cleaning staff regularly has to pick up used condoms from the ten-thousand-dollar rugs after these galas. If it’s a guest, they’ll probably sense we’re in a conflict and find another room. They might gossip, but at least they’ll go away.

It’s not a random guest that stands there.

It’s Finn Hughes. My heart thuds against my ribs. I barely have time to register him standing there, austere in his bespoke tux, his usually affable expression made dark.

Then he crosses the room in hard, floor-eating strides. He does something too fast for me to see, a blur, and then my hand is released. My father recoils with a grunt of pain. He pulls back, holding his arm against his side, snarling with indignation.

Then I can’t see him anymore, because Finn steps between us.

My father is not a small man. He’s solid. Strong for a man in his sixties. Terrifying when he’s in a rage. The idea of Finn—charming, elegant Finn—being hit by his fists makes me cry out.

Except he doesn’t get the chance.