Chapter 4

The anger started as a slow burn, then it caught fire.

I was done. Done being humiliated, done being isolated, done being Susan Carter's puppet.

If she wanted to monitor my messages, if she wanted to see me interacting with a boy, then I'd give her something to see.

I opened my laptop, went to Facebook, and created a new profile.

No pictures of me. I used a stock photo of a brooding, artistic-looking guy with a guitar slung over his shoulder, maybe early twenties, a hint of a tattoo peeking from his sleeve.

Name: Ryder Stone.

Occupation: Musician.

Interests: Poetry, late nights, freedom.

He was everything Susan would hate.

Then, from Ryder Stone's account, I started sending messages to my own Emily Carter Facebook profile.

"Hey Emily. Saw you around campus. You have this vibe... different. I dig it. -Ryder"

I'd wait a few hours, then reply from my account.

"Oh, hi. Thanks. I've seen you too."

Ryder's messages became more intense, more personal, hinting at a secret connection.

"You get stuck sometimes, don't you? Like you're in a box. I get that. I live to break out of boxes. -R"

"We should talk. Really talk. Somewhere no one can hear. -R"

I made sure the timestamps were believable, spread out over a few days.

I knew Susan. She wouldn't be able to resist checking my Facebook messages eventually, especially if I started acting a little more distant, a little more secretive on our nightly calls.

And I did. I kept my answers short. I looked away from the camera. I smiled vaguely at my phone sometimes, as if reading a text.

It didn't take long.

A week later, during our video call, her eyes narrowed.

"Emily, you seem distracted. Is something going on?"

"No, Mom. Just tired. Lots of studying."

"Are you sure? You're being very quiet. Who are you messaging on Facebook? You've been on it a lot."

The bait was taken.

"Just... people from class," I said, trying to sound casual.

"Let me see," she demanded. "Share your screen. Or give me your password again. I seem to have misplaced it."

She hadn't misplaced it. She just wanted to assert her power.

"Mom, that's not necessary."

"Emily Ann Carter, do not argue with me. I am your mother, and I have a right to know who you are associating with. Now."

I sighed, a dramatic, put-upon sound. "Fine."

I "reluctantly" gave her my password, the one she already knew.

I could almost hear her typing it in on her end.

A few moments of silence. Then, her voice, sharp as glass.

"Who is Ryder Stone?"

I feigned surprise. "Ryder? He's... he's a friend."

"A friend? These messages don't sound like 'just friends.' 'You have this vibe... I dig it'? 'We should talk somewhere no one can hear'? What is this, Emily?"

"He's a musician, Mom. He's really cool. He gets me."

I let a dreamy look cross my face.

"Gets you? What does that mean? He sounds like trouble. A musician? What kind of future is that?"

"He thinks I'm creative," I said, twisting the knife. "He said maybe pre-law isn't for me. Maybe I should do something with art, or writing."

That was her worst nightmare. My pre-law track was her dream, her vicarious ambition.

"Absolutely not!" she shrieked, her face mottling with red. "You are not throwing away your future for some... some guitar-playing degenerate! I forbid you to see him!"

"You can't forbid me, Mom," I said, injecting a note of defiance. "I'm falling for him. He understands me in a way you never could."

The line went silent for a beat.

Then, "If you don't stop this nonsense right now, Emily, I will pull you out of that college so fast your head will spin. Do you understand me?"

The threat hung in the air.

But this time, instead of fear, I felt a surge of cold resolve.

This was it. The breaking point.