Chapter 2 - The Tiara in the Grass
I wanted to ask Camille what she meant.
I wanted to ask in the tone people associated with my surname.
That was precisely why I did not.
My daughter had just been hit.
She came first.
I turned.
Livia stood with one hand against her cheek.
Her tiara was still lying in the grass.
“Come here.”
She stepped into me.
I crouched.
“Look at me.”
Her eyes were wet.
“Does your head hurt?”
“No.”
“Jaw?”
She shook her head.
“Can you see okay?”
“Yes.”
A red patch had already formed on the left side of her face.
No cut.
No swelling yet.
Enough.
My security chief, Owen Keller, approached from the patio.
He had seen only the end.
“What do you need?”
“Keep Camille away from Livia.”
Camille laughed behind me.
“As if I want to be near that—”
I stood.
Owen moved between us before I did anything stupid twice.
Good.
“Ms. Arden,” he said, “please remain on the other side of the patio.”
“This is a Vale family party.”
“It is Mr. Vale’s property.”
Her eyes cut toward me.
I lifted Livia.
She was seven and technically capable of walking.
I carried her anyway.
The birthday party ended without an announcement.
Parents collected children.
My staff boxed food.
The cake remained half cut.
Someone found the tiara and placed it on the kitchen counter.
I did not put it back on Livia.
She did not ask.
Her pediatrician’s office recommended urgent evaluation because the strike involved a child’s face and there had been broken glass nearby during the adult confrontation.
No glass had touched Livia.
Still.
We went.
The doctor found a mild facial contusion.
No jaw injury.
No dental injury.
No eye involvement.
No concussion symptoms.
Physically, she would be fine.
The doctor asked:
“Who struck her?”
“A family acquaintance.”
“Relationship to the child?”
“None.”
That word mattered.
Camille had never been Livia’s caregiver.
Never lived with us.
Never had authority over her.
She was a guest who decided a child needed correcting.
The police report came later that evening.
Several witnesses had seen the slap.
The outdoor security system had captured part of the incident.
Not ideal audio.
Clear enough images.
I gave my statement with my lawyer, Elena Park, present.
Then I told the officer about my own slap.
He looked up.
“After you moved your daughter behind you?”
“Yes.”
“Was Ms. Arden threatening the child physically at that moment?”
“No.”
“Did she strike you?”
“No.”
“Why did you slap her?”
“Anger.”
No:
I was protecting my daughter.
I had protected Livia by putting myself between them.
The champagne and the slap came afterward.
Separate.
The officer wrote it down.
Livia sat on the sofa in the next room with my housekeeper Maria, watching a cartoon and eating crackers.
Eventually she came looking for me.
“Daddy?”
I stepped out of the interview.
She held the tiara.
Someone had brought it from the kitchen.
“Can I throw away?”
I looked at it.
“You can.”
She hesitated.
Then:
“Maybe later.”
I took it from her.
“Later.”
She nodded.
Then asked the question I had been avoiding since the garden.
“What secret about Grandma?”
I looked at my seven-year-old.
“I don’t know yet.”
That was the truth.
May you like
I hated it.
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