Page 64 of Kisses and Paperclips

He hit the floor hard.

My father wasn’t a small man, and drunk like this, he was dead weight. The two security guards strained to keep him up, but he squirmed like a child mid-tantrum, limbs flailing as he tried to crawl toward me.

They looked at me—waiting.

And I hated that. Hated that I had to be the one to make the call. That even now, in the middle of this glossy, perfect afterparty with music thumping and camera phones hovering, I was the one being asked to save face.

“Serena, baby—” His words slurred, his voice climbing. “Don’t you walk away from me—”

Then came the slap of his words, loud enough to silence the room:

“You little ungrateful bitch!”

The music kept playing, but everything else stilled—guests, staff, even the DJ paused mid-nod, a needle dragged across the vibe. Every molecule of oxygen vanished from the space between us.

And then—

“What did you just call her?”

The voice came from behind me, calm but lethal. I turned, slowly, and there was Julien.

Julien, who I hadn’t seen since the last model left the runway. Julien, in that black-on-black tux, sleeves rolled up, jaw hard as granite. His eyes weren’t soft anymore. Not warm or amused. They were ice. Unforgiving and locked on my father like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing—and was ready to do something about it.

I wasn’t sure if he looked taller, or if the man in front of him had just shrunk. My father was 5’9”, belly heavy with booze and bad decisions. But next to Julien, who stood easily 6’3”, straight-backed and steady, he looked small. Pitiful.

Julien stepped forward, and I swear, the whole room held its breath. Even my girls flanked me in silence now, Mika slipping her hand into mine, grounding me.

“I asked you a question.” Julien crouched to eye level, voice low but clear. “What did you just call her?”

My father blinked, tried to push himself upright, hands planted on the ground like he had any business standing. That gave Julien just enough of an opening to plant his foot squarely on his hand.

I flinched.

The pressure wasn’t subtle.

“I thought I heard you call your daughter a bitch,” Julien said, grabbing the collar of his rumpled shirt, bunching the fabric tight in his fist like it was nothing. “Let me make sure we’re clear.”

The security guards didn’t move. No one did. It was like everyone had decided, unanimously, to let Julien handle it.

Julien twisted his shoe, slow and purposeful, grinding into my father’s hand. My father yelped, the sound high and sharp. But Julien didn’t blink.

“Apologize to your daughter.”

Silence.

“I said apologize.” Another twist. Another groan.

“I—I’m sorry,” my father stammered, voice small.

Julien didn’t move. “Sorry to who?”

“S-Serena.”

Julien’s voice dropped an octave. “Sorry for what?”

“I’m sorry for ruining the party.”

Julien leaned closer, said something I couldn’t hear, something meant only for my father’s ears, and whatever it was drained the fight clean out of him.

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