When I went to my daughter’s parent-teacher meeting, I came face-to-face with the man who bullied me all through high school. The next day, the school called—my daughter had collapsed during PE, her body covered in bruises.

I don’t remember the drive.

I just remember running.

The ambulance was already there when I arrived, lights flashing across the field.

I saw Lily on the stretcher.

Too still.

Too pale.

Her lips had a faint blue tint. Sweat soaked through her shirt.

“Lily!” I dropped to my knees beside her, grabbing her hand. “Baby, I’m here!”

A paramedic spoke quickly. “Severe heat exhaustion. Possible dehydration.”

Then his expression changed.

“…Ma’am, there’s something else.”

He lifted her sleeve.

And my world shattered.

Dark bruises—deep, finger-shaped bruises—covered her arm and ribs.

Not from falling.

Not from sports.

From being grabbed.

Hard.

“Who did this?!” I screamed.

And I already knew the answer.

A shadow fell over us.

Ryan Cole stepped forward.

“She tripped,” he said smoothly. “Clumsy kid. Happens all the time.”

The paramedic didn’t respond.

Neither did I.

Because I knew the truth.

As they loaded Lily into the ambulance, he stepped closer to me.