They weren't big, and a child didn't have much strength behind them, but they'd absolutely broken the skin on my neck.
I walked over, picked up the scissors, and threw them right back without hesitation. Elliot moved fast, lunging forward to shield the kid.
The scissors didn't touch his skin, though. Neither of them had so much as a scratch.
"Imogen! Have you lost your mind? He's a child!"
Gladys let out an ear-splitting shriek, throwing herself into Elliot's arms as she screamed.
"Elliot, are you okay? Are you hurt?"
She looked him over from head to toe, then dropped to her knees to inspect the kid.
Once she'd confirmed they were both fine, she stormed over to me and slapped me across the face.
I didn't see it coming. She actually landed it.
But I wasn't someone who took a hit lying down. I slapped her right back.
Elliot clearly hadn't expected that a woman reduced to working as a servant would still have the nerve to fight back. He swung his arm and shoved me to the ground.
"You psycho! What the hell do you want? I get it now. You knew I'd be at the Farley gala tonight, so you planted yourself here on purpose, waiting to hurt my child and my wife!"
Gladys's screaming had already drawn a crowd. Now, with this new commotion, people closed in around us, whispering among themselves.
"Isn't that Mr. Sanchez? Why is he getting physical with a servant?"
"I saw the whole thing. That woman tried to hurt Mr. Sanchez's child!"
"Exactly. His wife got upset and tried to discipline her, and she actually had the gall to hit back!"
"Shameless. Just because she works for the Farleys, she thinks she's one of them? She's not even fit to shine Mr. Farley's shoes!"
I sat on the floor where Elliot had shoved me, listening to every word.
I thought of my own child. The one who was gone.
The bitterness and the absurdity of it nearly choked me. All I'd done was throw a pair of scissors back at Gladys's kid, and Elliot flew into a rage, putting his hands on me.
But my child, my own flesh and blood, had been lying in a hospital bed dying of a terminal illness, calling out for Daddy over and over again.
And he hadn't batted an eye.
I clenched my jaw. My fists tightened until my nails bit into my palms.
A few seconds later, I let go.
Let it go. Pick your battles.