The autumn wind in Columbus was cold, carrying the smell of wet leaves and exhaust from the nearby highway.

I stood on the gravel driveway of my childhood home, my coat collar turned up against the chill.

My father stood three feet away from me, his face red and his breathing heavy.

In his right hand, he held a solid red clay brick he had pulled from the garden border.

“You are going to call Wyatt right now,” he said, his voice low and shaking.

“I am not doing that,” I said.

My mother stood on the front porch steps, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Beside her was my younger sister, Melanie, who was wearing a brand-new designer coat.

“Just do what he says, Sadie,” Melanie called out, her voice high and sweet. “Wyatt doesn’t belong with you anyway.”

“He bought you that coat, didn’t he?” I asked, looking at my sister.

Melanie smiled, smoothing the fabric over her hips.

“He has the money to buy me whatever I want,” Melanie said. “Once you’re out of the picture, he’ll realize who he actually needs.”

My father took a step closer, raising the brick to chest level.

“You will tell Wyatt the wedding is off,” my father said. “And you will tell him you want him to marry Melanie instead.”

“You’re insane,” I said, backing up a step. “Both of you. Wyatt loves me, and we are getting married next month.”

“Not if you’re too damaged to walk down the aisle,” my father said.

He swung his arm forward with sudden, violent force.

The rough edge of the brick caught me squarely on the left cheekbone.

The impact made a sharp, cracking sound that echoed off the garage wall.

I stumbled backward, my boots slipping on the wet gravel, and hit the ground hard.

Pain shot through my face, a blinding white light that made my vision blur.

I tasted copper immediately as blood poured from my cheek and began to drip down my neck.

“Get up,” my father growled, standing over me.

He still held the brick, which was now stained with my blood.