Chapter 4

The hallways of Westfield Academy had become a gauntlet of whispered accusations and averted gazes. Each step I took echoed in the sudden silence that followed my presence, conversations dying mid-sentence as former friends scattered like startled birds.

"There she is," I heard Madison hiss to her lunch companions as I passed their table. "Can you believe she actually hit Sherry? Over some stupid drama?"

Their voices carried just loud enough for me to hear—a deliberate cruelty wrapped in false discretion. I kept my chin up, my expression neutral, but inside I was crumbling. These were girls I'd known since elementary school, who'd celebrated birthdays at my house, who'd borrowed my clothes and shared my secrets.

Now they looked at me like I was something toxic.

My locker felt like a fortress under siege. I fumbled with the combination, hyperaware of every glance, every whispered comment that followed in my wake. The video had spread beyond our school—I'd seen comments from students at rival academies, strangers who knew nothing about me except that thirty-second clip of violence.

"Bellia."

The quiet voice made me freeze, my hand still gripping the locker handle. I turned slowly, expecting another confrontation, another former friend ready to lecture me about my "behavior."

Instead, I found Allen Reid standing a few feet away, his dark eyes serious behind wire-rimmed glasses. Unlike everyone else, he wasn't maintaining a careful distance. If anything, he'd stepped closer, creating a small bubble of privacy in the crowded hallway.

Allen had always been on the periphery of my social circle—too smart for the party crowd, too genuine for the social climbers. We'd been friends since middle school, bonding over shared AP classes and a mutual appreciation for obscure documentaries, but I'd never paid him much attention beyond that.

Now, as students gave us a wide berth and shot disapproving glares in our direction, his presence felt like a lifeline.

"I don't believe what they're saying," he said quietly, his voice steady despite the hostile stares we were receiving. "I know you, Bellia. You wouldn't hurt someone without a reason."

The simple statement hit me harder than any of the cruel comments I'd endured all morning. Someone believed me. Someone looked past the video, past the gossip, and saw the person underneath.

My throat tightened with emotion I couldn't afford to show. "Allen, you don't understand. Everyone thinks—"

"I don't care what everyone thinks." He adjusted his backpack strap, a nervous habit I'd noticed over the years. "I care what actually happened. And I'm here if you need me."

Before I could respond, he melted back into the crowd, leaving me standing at my locker with tears threatening to spill. One person. In a sea of judgment and abandonment, one person had chosen to stand by me.

It was more than I'd dared to hope for.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of isolation and suspicious glances. Teachers who'd once smiled warmly now watched me with wary concern, as if I might explode into violence at any moment. My usual lunch table sat empty—my former friends had claimed a new spot across the cafeteria, pointedly excluding me from their relocated circle.

I ate alone in the library, picking at a sandwich that tasted like cardboard while trying to focus on homework that seemed suddenly meaningless. The librarian, Mrs. Chen, kept glancing over with poorly concealed worry, probably wondering if I was planning to assault someone among the reference books.

By the time I got home, my nerves were frayed to breaking point. The house felt different—not just emotionally, but physically. There was a heaviness in the air, a sense of being watched that made my skin crawl.

Mom was in her garden when I arrived, tending to her prized roses with the gentle care she brought to everything she loved. She waved when she saw me, her smile bright and trusting, completely unaware of the storm raging around our family.

"How was school, sweetheart?" she called out.

"Fine," I lied, forcing cheerfulness into my voice. "Just the usual teenage drama."

She laughed, that musical sound that had comforted me through countless childhood scrapes. "Well, you know what they say about high school. This too shall pass."

If only she knew how desperately I hoped that was true.

In my room, I pulled out the replacement phone Dad had grudgingly provided after confiscating my original. It was a basic model—no social media apps, limited internet access, clearly designed for punishment rather than communication.

But even basic phones could make calls.

I dialed Allen's number, needing to hear a friendly voice after the day's isolation. The phone rang once, twice—

Click.

The sound was subtle but distinct, like someone picking up an extension. My blood ran cold. I'd heard that sound before, during calls at Dad's office when his secretary would listen in to take notes.

Someone was monitoring my calls.

"Hello?" Allen's voice came through the line.

"Hey," I said carefully, suddenly paranoid about every word. "It's me."

"Bellia, hi. How are you holding up?"

Another click, so faint I almost missed it. My heart hammered against my ribs as the implications sank in. Dad wasn't just grounding me—he was surveillance me. Every conversation, every contact with the outside world was being recorded, analyzed, controlled.

"I'm... I'm okay," I managed, my voice sounding strange even to my own ears. "Listen, can we maybe meet up? I could use a friend right now."

There was a pause, and I could practically hear Allen thinking through the logistics. He knew about my grounding, knew Dad had essentially put me under house arrest.

"There's a coffee shop downtown," he said finally. "The Grind. It's kind of off the beaten path, not somewhere anyone from school would go. Tomorrow after classes?"

"Perfect," I said, already planning my escape route. "See you then."

I hung up quickly, my hands trembling as I set the phone aside. The device suddenly felt contaminated, like a snake coiled on my bedside table. How long had Dad been listening? What had he heard?

More importantly, what was he planning to do with the information?

I moved to my window, looking out at the perfectly manicured grounds of our estate. Somewhere in this house was a man who'd betrayed his family, who'd hit his own daughter, who was now spying on her every move.

And somehow, I had to find a way to fight back without destroying the one person I was trying to protect.

Mom's laughter drifted up from the garden, light and carefree. She was still out there among her roses, still believing in the fairy tale of our perfect family.

I twisted the silver ring on my finger—her gift from my sixteenth birthday—and made a silent promise. Whatever Dad was planning, whatever web of control he was weaving around me, I wouldn't let him win.

Not without a fight.