A white Ford glided into a grand compound, surrounded by sleek luxury cars that sparkled under the soft evening light. The mansion ahead stood like a crown jewel—tall, majestic, its architecture whispering old money and untouchable status.
The car came to a gentle halt near the marble steps, and the door clicked open.
Chloe stepped out, her black stilettos tapping against the pavement. She didn't spare a glance at the scenery—she'd grown used to it. To the outside world, this was her life: glamorous, perfect, rich. But inside, the illusion wore thin.
She strode into the house without a word, her expression unreadable. In the living room, her aunt and uncle lounged with glasses of wine, the air thick with cold silence.
"Good evening," she said flatly, not expecting a reply—and she didn't get one.
She moved past them, heading toward the staircase. Her designer handbag hung loosely on her arm like a badge of borrowed wealth. On her way up, a voice rang out from the side balcony.
"Always bragging about riches that aren't even hers."
It was Brian—her cousin.
His words hit like a punch to the chest. Chloe paused for a second but didn't turn around. She swallowed hard and kept walking.
The truth always found a way to sting.
At fifteen, she'd learned her life was a lie. The people she called "Mom" and "Dad" were her aunt and uncle. Her real mother—a single woman, struggling to make ends meet—had given her away, hoping Chloe would have a better chance at life. That better life came with its own price: pretending to be someone she wasn't, in a house where she was barely tolerated.
Brian's hate had only grown after the truth came out. He believed Chloe stole the spotlight, the affection, the life he deserved. And he wasn't alone. The other cousins resented her, too—except for Hillary, who kept her distance, rarely picking sides.
Chloe finally reached her room, shut the door quietly, and leaned against it. Her legs trembled. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks before she could stop them. School was the only place she felt seen—even if it was all for show.
She peeled off her school uniform and dropped it carelessly to the floor. Crawling into bed, she curled up beneath her blanket and cried until sleep took over.
***
By the time she woke, the sky had turned a soft blue-black. Distant city lights glimmered beyond the window.
She rushed through a shower and dressed before heading downstairs for dinner. The dining room was brightly lit, its long mahogany table set immaculately with silverware and crystal glasses. Chloe stepped in quietly, and all conversation stopped.
She could feel their eyes on her—judging, mocking, waiting for her to slip up.
She sat near her aunt, her posture tense, her appetite gone.
After a long silence, her aunt spoke.
"Chloe, you'll be going to stay with your mother this evening. She needs your help for the rest of the week."
Chloe's stomach twisted. Her hand tightened around her fork.
"But what if I don't want to go?" she asked, trying to keep her voice even.
Brian scoffed. "Still denying your mother because of your fake little life?"
"Proud bitch. Is your mom too poor for your taste?" Fedrick added, lips curled in disgust.
"Enough, boys," their mother said with a sigh, more out of habit than concern. "Chloe, your mother asked for you. And I expect you to go."
Chloe looked down at her plate. A sigh slipped out.
"Don't sigh when my mom speaks," Brian snapped, pointing a finger at her.
"Guys, that's enough," Hillary cut in, her voice calm. "Table manners, remember?"
But the tension remained. Chloe didn't touch her food. She had lost her appetite long before dinner began.
***
On the other side of town, Ashley stepped into her dim, cramped apartment and dropped her bag onto their faded couch.
"I'm home," she called softly.
No reply.
The apartment was quiet. Her mother had left for the bar hours ago, and her little brother was likely asleep. Whether her father was home or not was always a mystery.
Ashley sighed and headed into the kitchen. It smelled faintly of detergent and old oil. She tied her hair into a bun and opened the small fridge—almost empty, except for a carton of milk and a few eggs. She cracked the eggs into a pan and began to cook herself something simple: fried eggs and milk.
Her thoughts drifted back to the letter she'd found earlier that day—an invitation to work as a waitress at Alex's party.
The pay was good. Really good.
She needed the money—for textbooks, food, her savings plan. But it still felt... humiliating. Serving the same classmates who made fun of her every day? It was a bitter pill.
Still, she made her choice. She'd accept the job. But she wouldn't tell Sam. Her friend would only call her greedy and beg her not to go.
Just as she sat down with her plate, the front door slammed open.
Her father stumbled in, panting, sweat clinging to his skin.
"You got some cash?" he barked, heading straight for her.
Ashley tensed. "No," she replied softly. "I don't have any money with me."
He stepped closer, his breath heavy with frustration. "You sure?"
Ashley nodded, her hands shaking under the table.
With a growl, he slammed his palm against the dining table, making her jump.
Then he stormed off. She let out a breath, only to freeze again when she saw him return, now jingling a handful of coins—the emergency money her mother had hidden away for groceries.
Her heart sank.
"That's for groceries, Dad," she whispered, standing slowly.
He turned sharply, eyes cold. "What did you say?"
She opened the fridge and gestured to its emptiness. "We have nothing left."
"Mind how you speak to me!" he snapped, taking a threatening step toward her.
Ashley gripped her fork like a weapon, backing away slightly.
Her father stared at her for a long second, then spat out, "You're lucky I'm in a good mood, or I'd teach you some respect tonight."
With that, he walked out, slamming the door behind him.
Ashley's legs gave out as she dropped to her knees. The fork clattered to the floor. Tears spilled down her cheeks.
She wiped her face with trembling hands, staring into the dim kitchen.
If only her father had been different—if only he worked as hard as he demanded—maybe their lives wouldn't be so broken. Maybe they'd be okay.
But she knew better than to hope.