I watched as Emma clenched his teeth and took off again.
I shook my head violently, crying out:
“Emma, you’re going to hurt yourself!”
But I couldn’t tell him to slow down.
If he stopped, these people might do something even more monstrous.
Slaps kept raining down on my face, but I hardly felt them anymore.
Some of the men in the crowd took the opportunity to grope at me where I was pinned, laughing crudely.
I managed to slip a hand into my pocket, pressing down on the power button to call 911.
But before I could complete the call, Ms. Collins lunged forward, wrenching my hand away and yanking the phone out of my pocket.
She stared at the lit-up screen showing the emergency number, then handed the phone to Mrs. Brown.
“Mrs. Brown, she tried to call the police!”
All eyes turned on me.
A man kicked me hard in the back.
One of the fathers snatched the phone, smashed it to the ground, and stomped on it until the screen went black.
“You bitch! You dare call the cops? I’ll deal with you right here!”
Clutching my torn shirt, I screamed with everything I had left:
“My husband is John Foster!”
“If anyone lays another finger on me or my son, my husband will make sure none of you walk away from this!”
The crowd froze.
The man about to hit me stopped mid-motion, his face twitching.
The pressure on my body eased slightly.
Mrs. Brown’s smirk faded. She looked me up and down like I’d lost my mind, then burst out laughing.
“John Foster? You mean the John Foster? The most powerful man in New York City—the man who controls politics and business with one hand?”
She laughed so hard she nearly doubled over, tears in her eyes.
“Oh, please. That’s the best lie you could come up with?”
“We had dinner with him last month—my father even sent him a gift!”
“John Foster is famously single! Everyone knows that. Where would he get a wife? Or a kid?”
She pointed at Emma, who was nearly collapsing, her voice venomous.
“No wonder your little brat has a heart condition! You’re just some crazy woman who had a kid with God knows who and now you’re trying to pass him off as John Foster’s son!”
“Pathetic!”
“Shut your mouth!” I roared, but she ignored me.
She tightened her grip on my jaw and made a call.
“If you want to see John Foster so badly, I’ll make that happen.”
Ten minutes later, a familiar figure arrived.
It was Mark Thompson, my husband’s driver.
He was wearing a perfectly tailored suit, two security men flanking him.
He carried himself like a man in power, mimicking John’s confident posture—though the greed and smugness in his eyes gave him away.
I had never seen those security men before.
