Chapter 3

The car ride to my mother's new apartment was silent and tense. Sarah gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were white. She didn't look at me once. The apartment was smaller than our old house, clean and modern but lacking any warmth. It smelled of fresh paint and my mother's disappointment.

The moment the front door clicked shut behind us, her facade of composure crumbled.

Her hand shot out and grabbed my arm, her fingers digging into my skin with surprising strength.

"What was that, Chloe?" she hissed, her face close to mine. "What were you trying to pull back there?"

I didn't flinch. I just looked at her hand on my arm, then back at her face.

Before I could answer, her other hand came up and a sharp, stinging slap echoed in the quiet apartment. My head snapped to the side. The spot on my cheek burned.

So, this was how it was going to be. The mask was off already. In my past life, she had never been physically violent, just emotionally neglectful. But my unexpected choice had rattled her, pushed her past her carefully constructed image.

Good.

I turned my head back slowly, meeting her furious gaze without a tear in my eye.

"Are you going to hit me every time I do something you don't like, Mom?" I asked, my voice cold and steady. "Because if you are, I hope you have a lot of makeup. It's going to be hard to explain the bruises on your daughter's face at the next PTA meeting."

Her eyes widened in shock and fury. "How dare you-"

"I dare," I cut her off. "You're the principal of Northwood Preparatory. You give speeches about creating a 'safe and nurturing environment.' What would the parents, the teachers, the school board think if they knew you hit your own ten-year-old daughter the first day you had custody?"

I saw the calculation in her eyes, the war between her anger and her fear of exposure. Fear won.

She snatched her hand back from my arm as if it had been burned.

"You will live under my roof, and you will follow my rules," she said, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "You will not disrespect me."

"I'll follow the rules," I said calmly. "As long as the rules don't involve me being your punching bag."

She stared at me for a long moment, breathing heavily. She saw something in my eyes she didn't recognize, something that wasn't the timid, eager-to-please daughter she knew. She saw a stranger.

"Unpack your things," she finally said, turning away from me. "Your room is the first door on the left."

I walked to my new room without a word. The walls were bare, the furniture was basic. It was a blank canvas.

I unpacked my small suitcase, my movements methodical. Then I took out the new phone my mother had given me, a tool to "stay in touch."

I went back into the living room. Sarah was on the couch, staring blankly at the wall, probably replaying the scene in the lawyer's office, trying to understand where her perfect life had gone wrong.

I quietly took a picture of the red mark blooming on my cheek. It was clear, undeniable.

Then I took a picture of my arm, where the faint imprints of her fingers were still visible.

I opened a new, anonymous social media account. I uploaded the pictures. I didn't add any names yet. Just a simple caption.

"Day 1 with my new guardian. She said she loved me."

I put the phone down on the coffee table and walked to the kitchen. I poured myself a glass of milk, my hand perfectly steady.

I sat on a stool at the kitchen counter, sipping my milk, and waited.

The first part of my plan was in motion. The trap was set. Now, I just had to wait for her to walk into it.