Chapter 2

I didn' t sleep. The numbers on the contracts burned behind my eyelids all night. Millions. All while I was counting pennies for bus fare.

The sun rose, casting a gray light into the cramped apartment that I now knew was a stage. Around seven in the morning, I heard the key turn in the lock.

My parents walked in, their faces etched with fake weariness. They had changed back into their "struggling artist" costumes-faded jeans for my dad, a paint-smeared tunic for my mom. They looked like they had just pulled an all-nighter in a dusty studio, not like they' d been dining at a Michelin-star restaurant.

"Olivia, we' re home," Sarah said, her voice a soft, tired murmur. She was carrying a greasy paper bag. "We brought you breakfast from the corner deli."

She placed the bag on the table. Inside were two plain bagels. My breakfast for the past ten years.

I didn' t move from the living room couch. I just watched them. I felt a strange detachment, like I was watching a movie I' d seen before.

My eyes drifted to the trash can where they' d just tossed their empty coffee cups. They were from a high-end organic cafe miles away from their supposed studio. Then, my gaze landed on the refrigerator. They' d forgotten a detail in their elaborate set dressing. A carton of premium, grass-fed organic milk sat on the top shelf, the kind that costs ten dollars a carton.

"Looks like you guys got a big bonus," I said, my voice flat. "That milk is expensive."

They both froze. My mother' s hand, which was reaching for a mug, stopped mid-air. My father stared at the refrigerator as if it had betrayed him.

"Oh, that?" Sarah laughed, a high, nervous sound. "A client gave it to us. A little holiday gift. You know how it is."

"A very generous client," I said, my voice dripping with an irony they didn't seem to catch.

They exchanged a quick, worried glance.

"Eat your bagel, sweetie," David said, his voice a little too hearty. "You must be hungry."

I looked at the cheap, doughy bagel. The thought of eating anything they provided made my stomach turn. "I' m not hungry."

"Are you feeling okay?" Sarah asked, walking over and placing a hand on my forehead. Her touch felt alien. I flinched away. "You don' t have a fever." Her concern was a performance, and I was the unwilling audience.

"Just tired," I lied, pulling a blanket over myself. "Didn' t sleep well."

That seemed to satisfy them. Their shoulders relaxed. They probably thought I was just being a moody teenager, upset about New Year' s Eve. They had no idea I was a spectator to their play.

Just then, my mother' s phone rang. She looked at the screen, and her entire demeanor changed. The fake weariness vanished, replaced by a genuine, beaming smile.

"Julian, honey! Happy New Year!" she chirped into the phone. Her voice was warm, dripping with affection. "Did you sleep well? Yes, your father and I are home. We were just thinking about you."

David moved closer to her, his face also lit up with a smile. I watched them, a coldness spreading through my veins. It was the same adoring look they' d given him outside the restaurant. A look I had craved my entire life.

Sarah walked into the kitchen, thinking I couldn' t hear her. "Don' t worry about her," she whispered into the phone. "She doesn' t suspect a thing. We' ll keep it a secret, just like we always have. It' s for your own good, sweetheart."

A secret. For his good.

The words echoed in the silent apartment. I was the secret. My poverty, my struggle-it was all for his good.

I felt like I was living in a different reality from them. Like I was the star of my own Truman Show, where everyone was an actor and the whole world was a set designed to deceive me. The thought wasn't just sad; it was terrifyingly absurd. My own parents were the directors of this cruel production.

I pulled the blanket tighter around me, but it couldn't ward off the chill that had settled deep in my bones. It was a cold that had nothing to do with the winter morning. It was the cold of absolute betrayal.