Chapter 2

Scarlett's POV

"Clean it up." Father said to Sam.

Sam immediately grabbed my arm and dragged me up from the floor. "You hear that? Mr. Pembroke wants you to clean this mess up!"

Vivian narrowed her eyes.

She stared at me for two seconds, then suddenly smiled.

"Since she's the one who broke it," Vivian tightened her grip on Father's arm, her voice becoming even sweeter, "let her pick up the glass pieces one by one with her hands. If I walk through here later and step on a single piece..."

She paused.

"You'll swallow one."

Father stroked her head, like praising a pet that had performed a clever trick.

"You heard her?" He looked at me. "Pick it up."

I bent my knees and knelt back down on the carpet.

The deep red wine had soaked through my pants. I reached out with both hands and began searching across the carpet.

The broken glass was embedded in the thick pile, hard to find.

I could only use my palms to sweep and press.

When the first shard pierced my palm, I didn't make a sound.

The second piece.

The third.

Blood mixed with red wine, spreading dark stains across the carpet.

Black leather shoes stopped in front of my eyes.

Father's voice came from above. "Pick it up clean."

The tip of his shoe kicked aside a glass fragment in front of me.

"This piece almost tripped Vivian."

I reached for it.

The black shoe came down.

Crushing over the back of my hand.

Grinding, pressing tight.

My bones made a faint cracking sound.

I didn't look up, didn't make a sound. I just waited for that foot to move away.

Then picked up the shard and gripped it in my bloody palm.

Father left with Vivian in his arms.

Sam cursed and walked away too.

The hallway emptied.

I continued picking up the pieces.

One.

Two.

Three.

Until my palms were full of glass shards, until blood dripped between my fingers forming a small pool.

I stood up.

When I returned to the shabby rental apartment, it was already 1 AM.

I pushed open the door.

Father was collapsed on that second-hand sofa in the living room, clutching his chest, face pale as ash, breathing rapidly.

"Scarlett..." he gasped weakly, "medicine... my medicine..."

I stood in the doorway, unmoving.

Memory sliced through me like blades.

When I was ten and running a 104-degree fever, Father drove me to the hospital through the night, running three red lights. When he carried me into the emergency room, his hands were shaking.

On my twelfth birthday, he cancelled all his meetings to bake me a cake with his own hands. The cake burned, but we laughed and ate every bite together.

But now.

He used those same hands that had wiped my tears to stroke Vivian's hair. Those same hands that had once shielded me from everything now stepped on the back of mine.

"Scarlett..." Father started coughing again, violent coughs that tore at his lungs, "medicine... in the drawer..."

I walked over.

Opened the drawer.

Took out that bottle of imported medication.

One bottle cost three thousand dollars.

One pill was worth three hours of my begging on my knees.

I shook out a pill and handed it to him.

He swallowed it eagerly, downed half a glass of water, then collapsed back on the sofa, gasping.

"Where were you?" He caught his breath and looked at me. "Why are you so late?"

I raised my hand.

Palm up.

The wounds gaped open, glass shards still embedded in the flesh, blood congealed into dark red crusts.

Father froze.

"How did this happen?" He struggled to sit up, grabbing my wrist. "Who hurt you?"

I stared into his eyes.

Word by word.

"Someone who looks a lot like you hurt me."

His fingers went rigid.

"Right in the hallway of the Hilton hotel ballroom."

Father suddenly burst into violent coughing.

He released my hand, clutched his chest, his eyes beginning to dart away.

"What... what are you talking about..." his voice was weak, "Dad's been home all day... how could I possibly go to a place like that..."

I said nothing.

I just watched him.

Watched this man who had once been my entire world, now performing like a poor actor in a play that had already been exposed as fake.

For the first time in five years, I could see how fake this performance really was.

He was accustomed to luxury, yet willing to live in this bug-infested hovel for Vivian and her mother.

He changed into three custom suits a day, yet willing to wear cheap thrift store shirts in front of me, pretending to be sick.

He was severely germophobic, yet willing to endure the moldy smell filling the house, lying on this sofa that countless people had slept on, coughing until his face turned red.

All of this.

Just to punish me.

Just to make Vivian happy.

Father grew panicked under my stare. He avoided my gaze and grabbed the water glass for another sip.

"Scarlett," he lowered his voice, pleading creeping in, "did you... see something?"

I didn't answer.

I just pulled my hand back and walked toward the kitchen.

"I'll make dinner."

"Scarlett!" he called after me.

I stopped at the kitchen doorway.

"That person..." Father's voice was trembling, "it wasn't me, right?"