Mark: Isabella! Drop those bags right now!
Victoria startled violently, her head snapping toward the driveway as her sunglasses slipped slightly down her nose.
Isabella instantly released the heavy plastic bags, letting them slide down to the bottom step with a thud.
Mark rushed forward and dropped to his knees right on the hard marble beside his shaking daughter.
He wrapped his strong arms around Isabella's frail frame, pulling her tightly against his chest.
Isabella: Dad... you came back early...
Mark: I am here, sweetheart. I am right here with you.
Mark gently held her small hands and noticed red, raw scrapes across her delicate fingers.
Her face was streaked with dust and dried tears, her eyes swollen from hours of silent crying.
A cold, fierce anger surged through Mark's entire body as he stood up slowly between them.
He positioned himself directly in front of Isabella, shielding her completely beneath the American flag hanging above.
Victoria tried to regain her composure, smoothing down her white silk robe with trembling fingers.
Victoria: Mark, darling! You frightened us! You were not supposed to be home until tomorrow night!
Mark: I saw everything, Victoria. Every single painful second of it.
Victoria: You are misunderstanding the whole situation, my dear!
Victoria: She is a spoiled brat who needs strict discipline when you are away!
Mark: She is a ten-year-old child, and you are treating her like a servant!
Mark marched up the remaining steps until he was standing inches away from Victoria's pale face.
His voice shook with a powerful, commanding rage that made the woman instantly back away toward the door.
Mark: How dare you ever speak to my daughter in that horrific manner?!