Chapter 3

The first notification pinged on my phone as I walked to my car in the student parking lot. Then another. Then a flood of them, each vibration against my palm like a tiny electric shock.

I fumbled with the screen, my hands still trembling from the confrontation. The first message was from Madison: "OMG Bellia what happened?? Everyone's talking about a video??"

My stomach dropped. Video?

I clicked on the link she'd sent, and my world tilted sideways. There I was, captured in crystal-clear HD, my hand connecting with Sherry's face in a moment of rage that looked even more brutal on screen. The angle made me look towering and menacing, while Sherry appeared small and defenseless on the cafeteria floor.

But it was the title that made bile rise in my throat: "Princess Bellia Attacks Helpless Friend."

The comments were already pouring in. "What a psycho." "Rich girl thinks she can do whatever she wants." "Poor Sherry, she didn't deserve that."

None of them knew. None of them understood what she'd done to my family, what she'd confessed to me just hours before. All they saw was violence without context, cruelty without cause.

My phone buzzed again. Another notification. Another cruel comment. Another person who thought they knew the whole story based on thirty seconds of footage.

I drove home in a haze, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. The familiar tree-lined streets of our neighborhood blurred past, but nothing felt familiar anymore. Everything was contaminated now—the coffee shop where Sherry and I used to study, the park where we'd spent countless afternoons, even the corner where she'd taught me to parallel park.

The Valentine estate loomed ahead, its perfectly manicured gardens and elegant facade a mockery of the rot festering inside. I pulled into the circular driveway, noting Dad's BMW was already there. He usually didn't come home until evening.

The front door felt heavier than usual as I pushed it open. The marble foyer, which had sparkled with celebration just twenty-four hours ago, now felt cold and unwelcoming. My footsteps echoed in the silence.

"Bellia."

Dad's voice cut through the quiet like a blade. He stood in the doorway to his study, his usually immaculate appearance disheveled. His tie was loosened, his sleeves rolled up, and his face—God, his face was thunderous with rage.

In his hand, he held his phone, the screen still glowing with that damning video.

"Care to explain this?" His voice was deadly calm, the kind of quiet that preceded explosions.

I opened my mouth, but no words came. What could I possibly say? That I'd lost control? That seeing him with my best friend had driven me to violence? That the girl in the video had just told me she was pregnant with his child?

"One hour," he continued, his voice rising with each word. "One hour, and the entire city has seen my daughter behaving like a common thug. Do you have any idea what this does to our family's reputation? To my business?"

His business. Of course. Not our family's pain, not the betrayal that had driven me to that moment—just his precious reputation.

"Dad, if you'd just listen—"

"Listen?" He laughed, a harsh sound that made me flinch. "Listen to what? Your excuses for assaulting an innocent girl?"

Innocent. The word hit me like a physical blow. Sherry, innocent, while I was painted as the monster.

"She's not innocent," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "You know she's not."

Something flickered in his eyes—recognition, perhaps, or fear that I might say more. But it vanished quickly, replaced by cold fury.

"You ungrateful little brat," he snarled, taking a step toward me. "After everything I've given you, this is how you repay me? By humiliating our family in front of the entire school?"

The injustice of it made my vision blur with tears. "I'm humiliating the family? What about what you—"

"What about what?" His voice was dangerously low now.

I wanted to scream it, to throw his betrayal in his face, to make him acknowledge what he'd done. But the words stuck in my throat, choked off by the memory of Mom's gentle smile at breakfast, her trusting questions about the party.

"Nothing," I whispered.

"That's what I thought." His hand moved faster than I expected, gripping my arm with bruising force. "You've embarrassed me for the last time."

The slap came without warning, his palm connecting with my cheek in a crack that echoed through the foyer. The force of it snapped my head to the side, and I tasted blood where my teeth cut my lip.

Stars burst behind my eyelids. The sting radiated across my face, sharp and immediate, but it was nothing compared to the shock. He'd never hit me before. Never.

"Dad—" I gasped, pressing my hand to my burning cheek.

"You will not speak unless spoken to," he said, his voice deadly calm once again. "You will not leave this house without my permission. And you will certainly not continue this pathetic tantrum."

He released my arm and moved to the side table where I'd left my laptop bag that morning. My heart lurched as he picked it up, his intentions clear in the way his fingers tightened around the strap.

"No, please—" I started forward, but he was already raising it above his head.

The crash was deafening. My laptop—my connection to friends, to the outside world, to any semblance of normalcy—shattered against the marble floor. Pieces of plastic and metal scattered across the pristine surface like broken bones.

"You're grounded indefinitely," he said, surveying the wreckage with satisfaction. "No phone, no computer, no friends. Maybe isolation will teach you some respect."

Footsteps on the staircase made us both freeze. Mom appeared at the top of the landing, her face pale with worry, one hand pressed to her chest in that unconscious gesture that always preceded her heart episodes.

"Richard? Bellia? What's all the shouting about?" Her voice was breathless, strained. "I heard something break..."

Panic flooded through me. If she saw my face, saw the destruction, if she learned the truth about Dad and Sherry—the shock could trigger a cardiac event. Dr. Morrison had been clear about avoiding stress.

I turned away from Dad, angling my body to hide my reddening cheek, and forced my lips into what I hoped resembled a smile.

"It's nothing, Mom," I called up to her, my voice artificially bright. "Just a silly argument about a boy at school. Dad thinks I'm too young to date."

The lie tasted like ash in my mouth, but Mom's worried expression softened slightly.

"Oh, sweetheart," she said, making her way carefully down the stairs. "You know your father only wants what's best for you."

She reached the bottom and moved toward me, her arms outstretched for one of her comforting hugs. I met her halfway, pulling her close and burying my face against her shoulder to hide the evidence of Dad's violence.

Her familiar scent—lavender and vanilla—should have been soothing, but instead it made my chest tight with guilt. She felt so fragile in my arms, so breakable. The silver ring she'd given me for my sixteenth birthday pressed against my palm as I held her, and I found myself twisting it nervously, a habit that had developed whenever I was forced to lie to her.

"There now," she murmured, stroking my hair. "Whatever boy has caught your attention, I'm sure your father will come around. He's just protective of his little girl."

Over her shoulder, I could see Dad watching us, his expression unreadable. The broken laptop lay between us like a declaration of war, its shattered screen reflecting the overhead light in jagged fragments.

"I love you, Mom," I whispered against her shoulder, the words heavy with all the truth I couldn't tell her.

"I love you too, darling," she replied, pulling back to cup my face in her hands.

I turned my head slightly, keeping the worst of the bruising in shadow, and smiled at her with all the warmth I could muster. She smiled back, completely unaware that her perfect family was crumbling around her, held together now only by lies and the desperate need to protect her fragile heart.