PART ONE – THE FALL
He told everyone he was flying out of state for business. But in the dead of night, my neighbor hammered on my front door in our quiet Orange County cul‑de‑sac, his face a mask of panic, insisting I come see who was sitting casually in his living room. That is another story.
This one begins with a burning cheek and a plan that could have killed me. “Hello, everyone,” the cheerful voice on the video said. “Before we dive deeper, please hit that subscribe and like button so we can keep sharing compelling stories like this one.
Go ahead and write in the comments which city you’re watching from. I hope today brings blessings, good fortune, and deep happiness to us all. Amen.”
My left cheek burned, but my heart was a raging fire that morning.
Preston had just slapped me across the face because of a shirt collar he decided wasn’t crisp enough. Under a microscope, that shirt would still have passed inspection, but facts never mattered when he was in one of his moods. He stood there glaring at me with the same condescending eyes he used on his subordinates at the office, smoothing down the lapels of his designer suit—a suit that probably cost more than a decent used car.
It was funny in a bitter way. A man could look so dignified and commanding in tailored clothes, yet his behavior at home could be more primitive than anything you’d expect in a civilized country. I could only look down, cupping my throbbing cheek and fighting back tears that refused to fall.
They had been wrung dry too many times before. If you saw Preston out in the world, you’d probably ask for his autograph or a selfie. To the PTA moms at the elementary school and the dads at the Little League field, he was the very definition of a dream man.
In Orange County real‑estate circles, he was a star—a successful developer, a frequent donor to the local youth center, the man who always had a charming word for the security guard at the gate of our Southern California community. In public, his image was spotless, gleaming, and flawless, just like the marble floors of our sprawling mansion up on the hill. But no one knew that behind the high walls of our home, Preston turned into a cruel prison warden.
He had a set of rigid, nonsensical rules that had to be obeyed. If I deviated even slightly, his hands moved faster than his mouth. Sometimes I thought he had missed his calling as a professional fighter.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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