Later that night, a gnawing hunger pulled me from my room. The smell of the apple pie still lingered in the air. I hadn't eaten anything at the "celebration," my stomach too twisted with anxiety. I tiptoed into the kitchen, hoping to find some leftovers.
The pie was on the counter, covered loosely with foil. My hand reached for it, but another hand shot out and slapped mine away. Hard.
"What do you think you're doing?" my father's voice was a low growl in the dark.
"I'm hungry," I whispered.
"That's not for you," he said, moving to stand between me and the counter. "That's for Kevin."
"There's a whole pie," I pleaded. "I just want one slice."
"I said no!" His voice rose to a yell. "After the stunt you pulled tonight, you're lucky to be under this roof. You don't deserve a damn thing."
His words struck me, but it was what happened next that shattered everything. He lunged forward and backhanded me across the face. The force of it sent me stumbling backward. My head hit the edge of the kitchen table with a sickening thud. The room spun, and bright spots danced in my vision.
I crumpled to the linoleum floor, a sharp pain radiating from the back of my head. Through a dizzying haze, I saw my father look down at me. There was no remorse in his eyes, only disgust.
"Serves you right," he muttered, before turning his back on me and walking out of the kitchen.
My mother must have heard the commotion. She appeared in the doorway, a shadow in the dim light. She looked at me on the floor, then at the pie on the counter. She didn't move to help me. She didn't say a word. She just sighed, a sound of pure annoyance, then pulled the foil more securely over the pie and followed my father.
The darkness closed in, and I let it take me.
When I came to, the kitchen was cold and silent. A sticky patch of dried blood matted my hair. I pushed myself up, my body aching, my head throbbing. It wasn't the physical pain that consumed me. It was a profound, chilling clarity.
The people who were supposed to love me, to protect me, had left me bleeding on the kitchen floor over a piece of pie for my cousin. The idea of "family," of their "love," was a lie I had been telling myself for years. The blind hope that if I were good enough, smart enough, they would finally see me, finally care for me-it all died on that cold kitchen floor.
I was an object. A tool. A commodity.
Shaking, I pulled myself to my feet. I had to know the full truth. I crept down the hallway toward their bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. I pressed my ear against the cool wood, my breath held tight in my chest.
"...Miller is furious," my father was saying. "She made a scene. He said the price might go down if she's going to be difficult."
"Robert, we need that money," my mother's voice was sharp with worry. "Kevin's wedding is next month. His fiancée's family is expecting a big, traditional wedding. And you know how much you owe Vinny..."
"I know, Susan, I know!" he snapped. "I'll handle Chloe. She'll do what she's told. Frank wants to marry her. He's willing to pay a fifty-thousand-dollar 'dowry.' That's enough to cover Kevin's wedding and most of my debts. She just needs to be broken in a little."
A sham marriage. A "dowry." They weren't just auctioning me for a night. They were selling my entire life to a disgusting old man to pay for my cousin's wedding and my father's gambling debts.
"She'll come around," my mother said, her voice softening into a tone of cold calculation. "She's a good girl, deep down. She just needs to understand that this is for the good of the family. It's her duty."
My duty. My body went cold. They were planning to sacrifice my future, my body, my very soul, for their own selfish needs. And they were justifying it as my responsibility. In that moment, listening to their quiet, monstrous plotting, a new feeling took root in my heart, replacing the pain and the shock. It was a cold, hard resolve. They thought I was a good, compliant girl. They were about to find out how wrong they were.