Chapter 4

The memories kept playing on the small screen, a relentless series of my personal hells.

The next scene opened at a grey, foreboding building with barred windows. The sign read: "St. Jude's Academy for Wayward Girls." It wasn't a school; it was a prison. My parents had sent me away to "fix" me.

The video was from a phone, shaky and cruel. It showed me in the school' s common room. A group of older girls had cornered me. One of them held up her phone, and on its screen was a grainy, humiliating video. It was a clip from my night with Mr. Henderson, the one my father had arranged. Brittany must have sent it to them.

"Look at the little whore," the lead girl sneered. "Thinks she' s something special."

They shoved me to the ground. Their laughter was a physical thing, sharp and painful. They kicked me, pulled my hair. I just curled into a ball, trying to disappear. Their attack was escalating when a door opened.

A man in a cheap suit, the school' s director, Mr. Gable, walked in.

"That' s enough, girls," he said, his voice deceptively calm. He helped me up, putting a hand on my shoulder that lingered too long. "Come with me, Chloe. My office. We' ll get this sorted out."

He led me away, and the video ended. But the photo frame immediately played an audio file. It was a voice message from Brittany, sent to me that same day.

"I heard you' re having a tough time at St. Jude' s," her voice was sickly sweet. "Just remember, Chloe, things can always get worse. Mr. Gable owes my father a favor. Be a good girl for him. Or maybe I' ll send that little video to everyone in our hometown, too. Your choice."

The threat was clear. She had set me up again, throwing me from one predator to the next.

My world, which I thought couldn't get any smaller or darker, collapsed into a single point of terror. There was no escape. Brittany' s control was absolute.

The next video showed me back home. I had run away from St. Jude's, a desperate, hopeless flight. I was standing in the living room, my clothes torn, my face bruised. I was trying to tell my parents about Mr. Gable, about Brittany' s message.

But they weren' t listening. My father was holding his phone, his face purple with rage. Brittany had already called him, fed him another story. That I had disgraced the family again, that I had been caught with Mr. Gable, that I had tried to blackmail him.

"You!" my father roared, advancing on me. "You are determined to ruin us!"

He grabbed my arm. I tried to pull away, screaming that it was a lie.

"I hate you!" I shrieked, the words tearing from my throat. It was the only truth I had left.

The rage in his eyes was terrifying. He thought I was screaming because of his accusations. He didn't understand I was screaming at the crushing weight of their betrayal. He twisted my leg until something snapped. The pain was white-hot, blinding. I collapsed to the floor.

"You ungrateful child!" my mother screamed, standing over me. "Look what you made your father do!"

They didn' t call a doctor. They dragged me out of the house and left me on the back porch, my leg bent at an unnatural angle.

Rex, my loyal Rex, was there. He limped over to me-I noticed for the first time he was older, slower-and laid his head on my chest, whining softly. He didn't leave my side all night.

The family was obsessed with appearances. The video feed jumped to a collection of receipts and bank statements displayed on the screen. My father had spent tens of thousands of dollars. "Public Relations Crisis Management" for the Henderson deal. "Generous Donation" to St. Jude's Academy to quiet Mr. Gable. All of it to protect the family name, which really just meant protecting Brittany. Not a single dollar for a doctor for my broken leg.

The final video in this chapter of my life was the breaking point. A new video had surfaced online, this one showing Brittany, drunk and laughing, keying a professor's car at her university. It was going viral amongst the students.

It was her mistake, her scandal. But I paid the price.

The video showed my father storming onto the back porch where I was still lying, unable to move. He held his phone in my face, showing me the video of Brittany.

"This is your fault!" he bellowed, his logic twisted by years of her manipulation. "You drive her to this! Your darkness infects everything!"

He started kicking me. My mother joined in. The pain was immense, but it was nothing compared to the emptiness inside me. They were punishing me for a sin I didn't commit, a sin committed by the daughter they adored. It was the moment I finally understood that in their eyes, I was not a person. I was just a place to dump all their problems, all their guilt, and all their rage.