CHAPTER SIX
JACOBY
I saw the video at my club.
Gerald Hutchinson showed it to me on his phone during our usual Thursday afternoon scotch, his face twisted with that particular expression of schadenfreude that wealthy men wear when discussing other people's misfortunes.
"Jacoby, isn't this your daughter?" he'd said, turning the screen toward me.
I'd watched the entire thing in silence, my scotch forgotten, my face burning with shame as every man at our table leaned in to watch my family's private catastrophe play out in high definition.
When it ended, I'd set down my glass with a hand that trembled with rage.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," I'd said, my voice tight. "I need to make a call."
I'd driven home in silence, my mind racing with a single thought: How could she do this to us?
Not to herself. Not to her marriage. To us. To the Parsters family name.
We didn't air our dirty laundry in public. We handled things discreetly, quietly, with dignity. We didn't create viral spectacles that made us the subject of gossip at every country club and boardroom in the city.
Karrie had humiliated us all.
I called her that evening. She answered on the third ring, her voice cautious.
"Dad."
"What the hell were you thinking?" I didn't bother with pleasantries. "Do you have any idea what you've done? That video has millions of views. Millions of people watching our family's private business—"
"My private business," she interrupted, her voice cold. "My husband cheating on me. My marriage ending. My life."
"And you decided to destroy it in front of the entire world?" My voice rose. "You couldn't handle this quietly? Couldn't have some dignity?"
"Dignity?" She laughed, bitter and sharp. "You want to talk to me about dignity? Bart fucked his assistant for months while I was home with our babies. He humiliated me every single day. But I'm supposed to protect his dignity?"
"That's not the point—"
"That's exactly the point." Her voice was steel. "He humiliated me first. I just made sure everyone knew about it."
"You've made yourself a spectacle. Made our family a laughingstock." I paced my study, fury making my hands shake. "Do you know what people are saying? What they're thinking about the Parsters family? You're supposed to protect the family's reputation—"
"I don't care what they're thinking about the Parsters family." Her voice was quiet now, deadly. "I care about protecting my children. I care about making sure Barthalomew pays for what he did. And if that embarrasses you, Dad, then I'm sorry. But I'm not sorry for what I did."
"You're a disgrace," I said, the words coming out before I could stop them. "Your mother and I raised you better than this."
The silence on the other end was deafening.
"Then I guess I'm a disappointment," she said finally, her voice hollow. "And if you can't support me, then don't call me again. Goodbye, Dad."
She hung up.
I stood in my study, staring at my phone, and felt something twist in my chest.
But I pushed it away. I was right. She'd been reckless, thoughtless, selfish.
She'd embarrassed the family.
That was unforgivable.
The longer I sat in my study, staring at my phone, I felt something I hadn't felt in decades: uncertainty.
My daughter—my brilliant, accomplished daughter—had just told me to go to hell.
And part of me wondered if she was right.
I didn't speak to Karrie for two weeks.
My wife—Karrie's mother—tried to convince me to reach out, but I refused. Karrie needed to understand the consequences of her actions. Needed to learn that there were better ways to handle these situations.
But the video kept playing in my mind.
I'd watch it late at night in my study, scotch in hand, and see things I'd missed the first time.
The way Karrie had walked into that conference room with her head high, her voice steady. The precision of her words. The strategic brilliance of choosing that moment, that audience, to destroy her husband.
The way she'd protected herself with evidence, with the prenup I'd insisted she sign, with a plan so thorough that Barthalomew had no defense.
She hadn't been reckless.
She'd been brilliant.
And I'd called her a disgrace.
The turning point came three weeks after the confrontation.
I was having lunch with my attorney, Richard—the same attorney who'd drafted Karrie's prenup, who was now representing her in the divorce.
"The Hillson case is proceeding smoothly," he'd mentioned casually. "Your daughter is one of the most prepared clients I've ever had. She documented everything. Every text message, every receipt, every piece of evidence. Barthalomew doesn't have a leg to stand on."
"She always was thorough," I'd said, trying to keep my voice neutral.
"More than thorough. Strategic." Richard had leaned back in his chair. "She waited until the perfect moment to confront him. In front of his boss, his colleagues, right before a major meeting. She knew exactly what she was doing."
"She made a spectacle—"
"She protected herself and her children.
" Richard's voice was firm. "Jacoby, I've been practicing family law for thirty years.
I've seen hundreds of women discover infidelity.
Most of them fall apart. They cry, they beg, they try to save marriages that aren't worth saving.
Your daughter? She got angry. She got strategic. And she won."
I'd stared at him. "Won?"
"Full custody. Complete financial settlement.
The prenup you insisted on is giving her everything—the house, the cars, the investments.
Barthalomew will be lucky to afford a box of rice.
" Richard had smiled. "She played this perfectly.
And that video? That wasn't recklessness.
That was insurance. No judge will side with a man who's been publicly exposed as an adulterer.
No employer will hire him. She didn't just end her marriage.
She made sure he could never hurt her again. "
I'd sat in silence, processing his words.
My daughter hadn't been reckless.
She'd been protecting herself. Protecting her children.
She'd used every tool I'd given her—the prenup, the family resources, the intelligence I'd always been so proud of—and she'd won.
And I'd called her a disgrace.
When I actually though about it. In that video, I'd seen Barthalomew. Desperate. Pathetic. Caught.
And I'd realized something that made my chest tight with shame: I'd been angry at the wrong person.
Karrie hadn't created this scandal. Barthalomew had. He'd betrayed her, humiliated her, destroyed their family. And when she'd fought back—when she'd refused to suffer in silence—I'd blamed her for making it public.
I'd blamed the victim for not protecting her abuser.
Christ, what kind of father was I?
That night, I sat in my study and thought about my own marriage.
Forty-two years with the same woman. Forty-two years of partnership, respect, and yes, love. We'd had our difficulties—what marriage didn't?—but we'd worked through them. Together. I'd never strayed. Never even considered it.
Because I'd made a vow. Because I loved her. Because the thought of hurting her that way made me physically ill.
Because we'd both been committed. Both been faithful. Both been willing to put in the work.
Barthalomew hadn't done any of that. Barthalomew had made those same vows to Karrie. And he'd broken them without a second thought.
If someone had done that to Margaret, if someone had betrayed her and humiliated her the way Bart had betrayed Karrie, I would have destroyed them. Publicly. Brutally. Without hesitation.
So why was I angry at Karrie for doing exactly that?
Because it was messy? Because it was public? Because it made the Parsters family the subject of gossip?
Those were my priorities. My values. My obsession with appearances and reputation.
They weren't hers.
And they shouldn't have been.
He'd betrayed Karrie in the worst possible way. Had humiliated her, lied to her, risked her health by sleeping with another woman. Had prioritized his ego and his dick over his wife and children.
And when Karrie had fought back, when she'd used her intelligence and resources to protect herself, I'd shunned her.
I'd been so focused on appearances, on what people would think, that I'd failed to see what actually mattered.
My daughter had been wronged. Deeply, cruelly wronged.
And instead of supporting her, I'd abandoned her.
I picked up my phone and called her.
She didn't answer.
I called again the next day. And the day after that.
On the fourth day, she finally picked up.
"What do you want, Dad?" Her voice was tired.
"I want to apologize." The words came out rough, unfamiliar. I wasn't a man who apologized often. "I was wrong. About everything."
Silence.
"I watched that video again," I continued. "Really watched it. And I saw what you did. How strategic you were. How strong." I took a breath. "You weren't reckless, Karrie. You were brilliant."
"Dad—"
"Let me finish." I stood and walked to the window, looking out over the manicured lawn. "I was so focused on what people would think, on protecting the family name, that I forgot to protect you. My own daughter. And I'm sorry."
I heard her breath catch.
"You did what you had to do," I said quietly. "You protected yourself and your children. You used every advantage you had—including the prenup I made you sign—and you won. That's not disgraceful. That's honorable."
"You called me a disgrace, told me I embarrassed this family" she whispered.
"I know. And I was wrong." I closed my eyes. "I'm proud of you, Karrie. Proud of your strength, your intelligence, your courage. You're a better person than I gave you credit for."
The silence stretched between us.
"Thank you," she said finally, her voice thick with emotion. "That means more than you know."
"I want to help," I said. "With the divorce, with the custody case, whatever you need. I should have been there from the beginning. Let me be there now."
"Okay." I could hear the smile in her voice. "Okay, Dad."
Over the next few months, I became my daughter's ally.
I met with her lawyers, provided financial support, made calls to judges I knew. I used every connection, every resource, every advantage the Parsters name could provide.
Not to protect our reputation.
To protect Karrie.
I watched her navigate the divorce with grace and strength. Watched her build a new life for herself and her children. Watched her relationship with Summit Wilder develop into something genuine and beautiful.
And I felt pride. Real, deep pride in the woman she'd become.
She was stronger than I'd ever been. Braver. More willing to fight for what she deserved.
I'd raised her to be intelligent, strategic, resourceful.
She'd used every lesson I'd taught her.
And she'd won.
Six months after the confrontation, I sat in Karrie's living room—legally hers now, completely and permanently—and watched my grandchildren play.
Summit was there too, comfortable and natural with the children in a way Barthalomew had never been. He looked at Karrie like she was the most precious thing in the world.
"Dad?" Karrie sat down beside me, Danika on her hip. "Thank you for being here. For everything."
"Where else would I be?" I smiled at her. "You're my daughter. Those are my grandchildren. This is where I belong."
She leaned over and kissed my cheek. "I'm glad you came around."
"So am I." I looked at her seriously. "I'm sorry it took me so long to see what you were doing. To understand."
"You're here now. That's what matters."
Summit joined us, Marlow on his shoulders, and I saw the way he looked at my daughter. Protective. Proud. Loving.
"Mr. Parsters," he said, extending his hand. "Good to see you."
"Summit." I shook his hand firmly. "Take care of her."
"Always," he said simply.
I watched them together—Karrie and Summit, Marlow and Danika—and felt something settle in my chest.
My daughter had been wronged. Betrayed. Humiliated.
And she'd fought back with every weapon at her disposal.
She'd been strategic. Ruthless. Brilliant.
She'd protected her children and built a new life on her own terms.
That wasn't disgraceful.
That was honorable.
And I was proud to be her father.