Chapter 3

A cold resolve settled over me. If they wanted a scene, I would give them one they wouldn't forget.

"Fine," I said, my voice ringing out in the suddenly quiet room. "You all think I'm a thief and a bully. Let's settle this properly."

I pulled out my phone.

"I'm calling the police. This house is covered in security cameras. We'll have them review the footage from the entire evening. Then we'll see who the real liar is."

Panic flashed in Melody's eyes. It was a tiny flicker, but I saw it. She grabbed David's arm, her knuckles white.

"No, Mr. Sterling, please! We don't need to involve the police. It's just a misunderstanding. I probably just misplaced it. I don't want to cause any more trouble for Chloe."

David looked relieved. The last thing he wanted was a police investigation and a potential scandal that could reach the tabloids. A Sterling family dispute would be front-page news.

"Chloe, put the phone away," he ordered, his voice sharp with warning. "You've done enough damage for one night."

"I'm not the one who should be worried about damage," I said, my thumb hovering over the call button.

Before I could press it, Ryan lunged. He wasn't aiming for me this time. He smacked the phone out of my hand. It flew through the air, hitting the marble floor with a sickening crack. The screen spiderwebbed into a thousand pieces.

"You're not calling anyone!" he snarled, his face twisted with rage.

I didn't even hesitate. My own anger, cold and precise, took over. I slapped him. Hard. The sound was just as loud as when he had hit me, but this one was deserved.

"How dare you!" he roared.

He grabbed my shoulders and shoved me, hard. I stumbled backward, losing my balance. My heel caught on the edge of the rug, and I fell.

But I didn't hit the floor.

I landed directly in front of the multi-tiered birthday cake, the centerpiece of the ruined party.

Before I could react, Ryan was on me. He grabbed the back of my head with both hands, his fingers tangling painfully in my hair, and shoved my face down into the cake.

The world exploded in a soft, suffocating wave of vanilla frosting and buttercream. The sweet, cloying smell filled my nose and mouth. Cream smeared across my face, blinding me, clogging my throat. For a moment, I couldn't breathe. The guests gasped in collective horror.

He held me there, grinding my face into the sugary confection, until he was satisfied. Then he let go.

I pushed myself up slowly, sputtering, wiping a thick glob of pink frosting from my eyes. My cheek throbbed from his first slap, my scalp ached where he had grabbed my hair, and my dignity was in tatters, smeared with cake. Blood from a cut on my lip mixed with the white cream, turning it a pale, sickly pink.

I looked up at him, this boy I had grown up with, this person my father called a son. His chest was heaving, his eyes wild with a triumphant fury.

A memory flashed through my mind, so clear it was painful. I was seven years old, and I had fallen off my bike, scraping my knee badly. I had been crying, scared of the blood. My mother, Evelyn, had rushed out. She didn't scold me. She knelt, wiped my tears with her thumb, and cleaned the wound with a gentle touch. "There now, my brave girl," she had whispered, her voice a fortress of safety. "Mama's here. I'll always protect you."

Where was she now?

I looked at my father, David. He stood frozen, his face a mixture of shock and something else... hesitation. Sarah had her hand on his arm, her grip tight, holding him back. He was watching his daughter, covered in cake and blood, be humiliated, and he did nothing. Her hold on him was stronger than any paternal instinct he might have had left. In that moment, the last shred of hope I had for him died. He was not my protector. He was one of them.