Chapter 2

My father's hand clamped down on my arm, his fingers digging into my skin.

"Smile, Chloe," he hissed, his voice low and threatening. "These are important men. Don't you dare embarrass me."

He pulled me off the stage and began to lead me through the small crowd. It was a parade. Frank Miller, a man known in the area for his money and his nasty reputation with women, stepped in front of us. He was paunchy and balding, and his eyes were small and piggy.

"Let's see if she can dance, Robert," he said, not to me, but to my father. He grabbed my other arm without asking.

"Of course, she can!" my father boomed, shoving me toward Frank.

Frank's hands were sweaty as he pulled me into a clumsy dance. His breath smelled sour. I tried to pull away, but his grip was tight. I looked past his shoulder, searching for my mother. She was watching, her face a blank mask. She saw my silent plea for help and deliberately turned away, busying herself by straightening a stack of paper napkins.

The other men in the room started to laugh. It wasn't a kind laugh. It was a coarse, ugly sound that filled the hall. They pointed, they jeered. I was the evening's entertainment. The smart girl being put in her place.

Shame burned my face, hot and prickly. It was a physical thing, a weight pressing down on me, stealing the air from my lungs. I couldn't take it anymore.

I wrenched my arm out of Frank Miller's grasp with a strength I didn't know I had.

"I need some air," I mumbled, and I ran.

I didn't stop until I was outside, gulping in the cool night air. I leaned against the cold brick wall of the town hall, my body trembling. The laughter from inside was muffled, but I could still hear it in my head.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open. It was my father. His face was dark with fury.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he snarled, grabbing my elbow. "You get back in there right now. You just insulted Frank Miller!"

"I'm not going back in there," I said, my voice shaking but firm. "It's horrible. You're selling me."

"Don't be dramatic," my mother said, suddenly appearing behind him. "Your father worked hard to put this together for you. You should be grateful."

The car ride home was silent and heavy with their anger. I stared out the window at the dark, empty streets, my mind racing. When we walked through the front door, the first thing I saw was my cousin, Kevin.

He was sprawled on our worn-out sofa, playing a game on his phone. A plate with a half-eaten piece of pie, my mother's special apple pie that she only made on holidays, sat on the end table beside him. He didn't even look up when we came in. Kevin was lazy, entitled, and had a gambling problem just like my father. He also had a slight limp from a childhood accident, which my parents used as an excuse to spoil him rotten. He was their golden boy.

"Did you have a good time, sweetie?" my mother cooed at him, completely ignoring me. "Do you want me to warm up some more pie for you?"

"Nah, I'm good," Kevin grunted, his eyes glued to his phone.

The contrast was a slap in the face. Their fury at my "disobedience" vanished the second they saw him. I, the scholarship winner, was treated like a criminal. He, who did nothing but take, was treated like a king.

I stood in the middle of the living room, feeling like a ghost in my own home. I needed to understand. I needed them to look at me.

"Dad," I started, my voice small. "We need to talk about what happened tonight."

He turned on me, his face contorted with rage.

"There's nothing to talk about!" he shouted. He took a step toward me, and I flinched. He didn't stop. He shoved me hard. "Go to your room. I don't want to see your ungrateful face."

I stumbled back, catching my balance on the arm of a chair. My mother just watched, her arms crossed, her expression cold. The message was clear. I was not welcome. I was not important. My only value was what I could bring them.