Chapter 1
My parents were infamous in the biz for babying me to death.
When I scraped a big fat F on a math quiz, they booked a five-star table to "celebrate my effort."
When my younger brother, Samuel, pulled an A-, he was grounded all night to "reflect on the minus."
When I punched a classmate, Mom cut the kid's folks a check, and the problem disappeared.
When Samuel strolled in two minutes late, Mom and Dad made him write a two-page apology to the doorknob.
Tabloids called my parents "goals" for spoiling me. And the same rags called me a trashy brat who got knocked up by a punk and drove Mom and Dad to the ER with "stress."
I bled out on the delivery table in the end.
Last thing I heard was Dad's stage-whisper: "She's finally done. Time to retire the daddy's-girl arc for the fans."
Samuel couldn't care less. "That's what she gets for not giving me her endorsement deals. Good riddance."
Then I blinked, and I was thirteen again, red F at the top of the page, cameras flashing while Mom and Dad kept the doting act.
*****
"Our Sophie's happiness is all that matters. Her grades don't mean a thing," my mom Helen gushed.
"An F? Hey, you showed up. Daddy's taking my princess to steak," Dad added, flashing his whitest smile.
He was a background extra, never more than a blur on screen, and my mom was forever the sidekick who never got the guy.
They were both cruising in the slow lane, career-wise, before the wedding and long after. Then I showed up: a lucky mash-up of their best features.
When I turned thirteen, we got cast on Family Stars Live. One "we-love-our-princess" montage later, the internet lost its mind, sponsorships poured in, and Mom and Dad finally tasted the A-list off my face.
Back then, when I brought home my report card and they still took me out for steak, I figured school was optional. I tanked the SAT, scored under 800, and the internet roasted me as the poster child for clueless celebrity spawn.
Now that I'd rewound the tape, I wasn't letting their fake applause derail me again. I glanced at them and said, "Skip the celebration. I flunked. I'm going to study."
They froze, smiles slipping. No fancy restaurant, no footage of "cool parents" cheering on their kid. Just me and a textbook? That meant zero spotlight for them.
"Honey, grades don't change how proud we are," Mom smiled, voice syrupy. "We only want you happy."
Dad jumped in, stung. "Seriously, homework beats hanging with us?"
I wasn't playing their game. I kept my voice flat. "Right now? Yeah, way more important."
The live chat was instantly flooded with compliments.
Netizens showered my parents with praise, gushing about how they'd raised such a thoughtful and sweet daughter.
[If my kid were half this mature, I'd skip the cardiologist bill.]
[Mine got an F on his quiz and still demanded a nice dinner. He got a real lecture.]
[Two Ivy League grads here, and our son's score sucks. Maybe we should just give up.]
[An F is nothing, honey. Keep grinding. You got this.]
Mom and Dad watched the praise roll in, corners of their mouths twitching. Off-camera, their managers shot them a death glare and mouthed, "Stay in character."
They swallowed the bitterness, forced the cameras back on, and beamed like the world's proudest parents.
My mom, ever the actress, listed every fruit and veggie she could think of, then announced she was heading straight to the kitchen to cook her precious daughter a healthy meal.
Then, my dad jumped in and insisted he'd be the one to tutor me. No way he was letting her steal the spotlight.
I slumped at my desk and turned my back to the camera.
No one saw the ache crushing me inside. All the sweet stuff they used to feed me curdled into something toxic, stuck in my throat.
The moment I died, that so-called love turned into a sword straight through my chest. Only at the end did I realize I'd been trapped in a world built on lies.
Their footsteps closed in. I squeezed my pen until my knuckles went white, half a second from jabbing it at their eyes and yelling, "Was any of that love real? Did you two set me up with that spiked drink?"
Mom handed me the cup; Dad stood there till I chugged it. No way they were totally innocent.
Old acting habits saved me. The second Dad said my name, my face snapped back into the old clueless-kid smile, like I was still buying their sugar-coated BS.