“No.” She moves toward Tyson, who puts his arm around her. “I want to stay with Mom.”
Something dangerous flashes in Evan’s eyes. He starts toward the kids, and I move without thinking, putting myself between him and them.
“You should leave,” I say, keeping my voice level even though I want to knock his teeth in. “Come back when you have real paperwork, not whatever your golf buddy rubber-stamped.”
“Stay out of this,” he snarls. “This is family business.”
“Dex is right,” Golda says, phone in hand. “I’m calling Jessica. And if you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the cops to report kidnapping.”
“I AM the cops,” he snaps, voice getting louder. “And I have temporary custody.”
“Show me the order,” she challenges. “The actual document.”
He hesitates, and immediately I know he’s full of shit. There is no emergency order. Just another mind game.
“The kids are coming with me,” he insists, trying to get past me.
I don’t move. “No, they’re not.”
“You don’t get a say,” he spits, face going red. “You’re nothing to them. Just another guy their mother’s screwing around with.”
“That’s enough,” Golda says, voice like a blade. “Leave. Now.”
“I’m not leaving without my kids.” He lunges around me, grabbing Blythe’s arm. She cries out.
“Dad, stop!” Tyson tries to pull his sister away.
What happens next feels like slow motion. Evan, pissed off and losing control, swings his arm to shove Tyson back. But it’s not a shove—it’s a backhand that catches Tyson across the face hard enough to drop him.
Everything stops.
Blythe screams. Tyson hits the floor, stunned, a red mark already blooming on his cheek. Golda drops to her knees, pulling him into her arms, her face a mix of shock and pure rage.
“You hit him,” she says, voice shaking. “You hit our son.”
Evan stares at his own hand like he can’t believe what just happened. “Tyson, I didn’t?—”
“Get out.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. Low and deadly. “Right fucking now.”
“This isn’t over,” he says, backing toward the door. “You turned them against me?—”
“GET OUT!” Golda screams, still holding Tyson. The mark on his face is already darkening. Blythe’s pressed against the wall, crying silently.
Evan looks at all of us, and something cold slides across his face. “This changes nothing,” he says. “Hearing’s still Wednesday. And after this? Your chances just got a lot worse, Golda.”
Then he’s gone.
The silence after the door slams is brutal. I move first, scooping up Blythe and carrying her over to where Golda’s kneeling with Tyson.
“You’re safe,” I tell them both. “He’s gone. You’re safe.”
“He hit me,” Tyson says, sounding lost. “Dad hit me.”
“I know, baby,” Golda whispers, voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”
We huddle together on the floor—all of us hurt and shaken but together. Golda checks Tyson’s face with gentle fingers.
“We need pictures,” she says after a minute, getting practical. “Documentation. I need to call Jessica.”
