My father drives into the estate, the massive wrought-iron gates swinging silently open to admit us. The crunch of gravel under the tires is the only sound in the suffocating quiet of the car. He glances at me, his hands gripping the steering wheel tight, his face drawn and looking worried.
"Tyr," Leif starts, his voice rough with paternal concern.
"Dad, don't say anything," I cut him off sharply, staring straight ahead at the looming mansion. "I don't want to hear it."
I have been strong ever since I was bailed out of the jail cell. I have erected a wall of ice around myself, refusing to let the humiliation penetrate.
The world outside this car is burning with my name. Even when I saw my face plastered on blogs and news articles, I didn't flinch. The headlines were screaming in bold, black text: "TCF Champ Beats Up Woman on the Street." Others were more legalistic but equally damning: "Assault Charges for TCF Champ and Brand Ambassador of Luxury Lingerie Brand."
