Daniel ignored his aunt entirely, turning his full attention to Lily, whose small shoulders were shaking now with quiet, overwhelmed sobs. The red mark on her cheek stood out sharply against her pale skin, and her tear-filled eyes carried an expression that broke something in Daniel's chest more thoroughly than any accusation Marguerite could have leveled at him directly.
"Hey," he said softly, gently tilting her face toward his, checking the mark with careful, controlled hands even as fury continued to build beneath his composed exterior. "Look at me, sweetheart. You didn't do anything wrong."
Lily's lower lip trembled violently, tears spilling faster now. "Daddy," she whispered, so quietly he had to lean in to catch it. "Am I bad?"
The question landed with devastating simplicity, four small words carrying the full weight of a child trying to make sense of being struck for something that had never felt, to her, like it deserved punishment at all.
Daniel felt something in him go very still and very cold. He looked up slowly from his daughter's tear-streaked face toward his aunt, toward his mother at the head of the table who had said nothing at all through the entire exchange, toward the assembled guests who had watched a child get struck and offered no protest beyond stunned silence.
"No," he said, his voice steady despite the fury vibrating beneath it, directed as much at the silent room as at his daughter. "You are not bad. Not even a little bit."