Philippa shrugged off Dorothy's hand, pouting with displeasure.

"I'm not joking. That car of hers has to be worth at least fifty grand, right? And this Louis Vuitton bag—" She clicked her tongue. "Spring collection. That's five or six thousand easy."

"I heard she bought a condo in a top school district downtown. Eighty grand just for the down payment. So tell me—if she's not working as an escort, where's all this money coming from?"

After she finished, the relatives' gazes shifted toward me, layered now with something uglier than curiosity.

My mother's hands trembled so badly she couldn't hold her chopsticks.

"Monica, you always told us that money came from your company. I never thought—"

"Mom, you don't believe me either?"

"You ungrateful girl!" My father's voice cracked like a whip. "You went and did something so shameless—how are we supposed to believe you? When did you become this kind of person?"

Worse than Philippa's lies was the look in my parents' eyes. Their distrust cut deeper than any rumor—a blade aimed straight at the heart.

I let out a slow breath and looked directly at Philippa.

"Philippa, for the sake of family, I'm giving you one chance. Explain yourself to everyone. Otherwise, I'm calling the police."

The moment I mentioned the police, relatives swarmed in from every direction.

"It's New Year's! Calling the cops would be terrible luck. Philippa just wanted to get closer to you—she's just bad at expressing it."

"Exactly! A little teasing keeps things lively. Kids bickering doesn't warrant bringing the police into it."

I didn't agree. I didn't deny it either. Philippa rolled her eyes at me.

"Get closer to her? After what she's done, who knows what kind of diseases she's carrying."

"And I'm not making anything up. I have proof. Go ahead and call the police—I'm not scared."

The moment those words left her mouth, the air in the room seemed to solidify. A silence as heavy as death settled over the table.

Philippa wore an expression of absolute certainty—identical to every other time she'd spread lies about me.

My cousin was three months younger than me. We were family, and we'd been in the same class all through school. By all rights, we should have been close.

But she'd competed with me over everything since we were children. And lost every time.

I was first in our grade. She hovered somewhere in the upper-middle.

I was admitted to an Ivy League school on a full scholarship. She scraped into the same university's worst program by the skin of her teeth.

Growing up, the number of rumors she'd started about me was beyond counting.

A missing eraser? I stole it. Top of the class? I cheated.

When I got into a graduate program, it was because I had something going on with my advisor. When I landed a job at an international firm, it was because of my looks.

Every single time, it ended the same way—Philippa dissolving into tears, sniffling that she'd been wrong, that it was all a misunderstanding—and the whole thing fizzling out into nothing.

The reason behind all of it could be summed up in one word.

Jealousy.

She was jealous that I outshone her at every turn.

But she never looked inward. She never once acknowledged my effort.

She simply believed that if she could drag me down far enough, she'd become the golden child of the family.

I was curious, though. What kind of damning evidence could she possibly have?

I watched her with unhurried calm, tilting my chin slightly—go ahead, show them.

Philippa seemed caught off guard that I hadn't flown into a rage the way I used to. She made a show of reaching for her phone.

But her father—my uncle, Gerald Matthews—caught her wrist.

"That's enough, Philippa. We have a house full of relatives. Do you really have to humiliate your cousin like this?"

"It's nothing to be proud of, and your cousin doesn't even have a boyfriend yet. If you put this out there, how is she supposed to find a husband?"

Gerald's words were dressed up as restraint, but every syllable dripped with encouragement. Between the lines, his eagerness to watch me squirm was barely concealed.

Philippa pushed out her lower lip in a grotesque pout, her face crumpling into wounded innocence.

"It's my big mouth, I know. But I was only looking out for her! Fine, I won't show it. As long as she turns over a new leaf and starts living like a decent person, that's all that matters."

Gerald turned to me, his expression heavy with theatrical anguish. "She's young. Young people make mistakes—what matters is owning up to them and moving on."

"Monica, dear, you could learn a thing or two from your cousin. She's hardworking, started from the bottom, and look how humble she is."

I nearly laughed from sheer disbelief.

The two of them hadn't said anything directly, and yet they'd said everything. A perfectly rehearsed duet, and just like that, the verdict was in: I was the loose woman of the family.

I looked at Philippa from head to toe—every stitch on her dripping with luxury—and gained an entirely new appreciation for the word humble.

I was about to say I wasn't afraid of embarrassment when my mother slammed her palm on the table.

"Philippa, if you have proof, then show it! If your cousin really did something shameful, I'll cut ties with her myself!"

I stared at her, stunned. "Mom, you actually believe this? You don't know your own daughter? How many times has Philippa spread lies about me since we were kids? When has a single one ever been true?"

A flicker of hesitation crossed my mother's eyes. But Philippa's lower lip trembled, her eyes reddened, and tears spilled down her cheeks in perfect, glistening streams.

"Auntie, forget it. Pretend I never said anything. I don't want to come between you and Monica..."

The relatives chimed in.

"She's right. It's the holidays—no need to ruin the mood. As long as she changes, that's what matters."

"Exactly. Don't worry, we're all family. Nobody's going to go spreading this around..."

I couldn't hold back a cold laugh. "What do you mean, 'as long as she changes'? What exactly have I done? Why are all of you dragging my name through the mud?"

Philippa sniffled and tugged at my sleeve. "Please don't be mad. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."

I yanked my arm free, my expression hardening.

"Don't leave things half-said. You claim you have proof? Then put it out there for everyone to see. If I did it, I'll own it. But if you're lying, Philippa—this time, I won't let it slide."

Philippa turned to my parents with a helpless look. My father's face was already dark as iron, his bloodshot eyes boring into me.

"Monica! That's enough! Philippa is trying to save your dignity—don't be so ungrateful!"

"I don't need her to save my dignity. Show the proof. Right now. And if you can't, I'm calling the police."

Philippa blinked those wide, innocent eyes of hers, her voice laced with provocation.

"You sure? No regrets?"

"I'm sure. No regrets. Quit stalling and show it."

The corner of her mouth curved into a smile that already tasted like victory. She tapped her phone and sent a set of photos to the family group chat.

I wasn't the least bit worried.

I wasn't someone who liked crowds. Bars and clubs were basically off my radar. And besides, I was too busy working myself to the bone to have the time.

Without a second of hesitation, I opened the photos.

And froze.

In the dim, neon-washed glow of a private karaoke lounge, a girl sat among a circle of men, wearing next to nothing.

The girl was me.

The air went solid. Not a sound in the room.

Only the gradually deepening breaths around me, signaling the storm about to break.

Crack.

The sound cut through every corner of the room.

A slap landed across my face without warning.

I looked up in shock at my father's hand, still trembling.

Half my face felt like it had been split open—pain and numbness tangling together.

My father stared at me, eyes red, face carved with disappointment.

"You disgrace! This is the dignity you wanted? You've dragged the entire Mason name through the gutter!"

I ran my tongue along the corner of my lip. Tasted salt and iron.

"Pathetic..."

The word fell from my mouth in a broken whisper.

This wasn't the first time my father had hit me.

When Philippa spread the rumor that I'd cheated on an exam, he didn't think twice before backhanding me.

When Philippa told him I'd been dating in high school, he didn't ask a single question before raising his hand.

When Philippa claimed I'd seduced a professor to secure my graduate admission, he slapped me across both cheeks without a word.

Every single time, he stood on someone else's side and attacked my innocence.

This time was no different. He chose to believe Philippa again.

The pain was unbearable.

It felt like ten thousand blades driving into my chest, shredding me to pulp, grinding me to nothing.

I shot to my feet, my gaze cutting straight to him, cold and unflinching.

"Dad, did you even check whether that's actually me in those photos? Did you ask me what happened? Have you ever—even once—believed me?"

"You don't ask questions. You don't look into anything. Just like every single time, you decide I'm the one in the wrong, and then you humiliate me in front of Philippa, over and over again, just so she can get her fix of revenge."

My father froze for a moment, then looked at me with disappointment.

"How can you say that? Your cousin was looking out for you. Think of it as nipping things in the bud—giving you a wake-up call before you go completely off the rails."

The relatives didn't bother hiding their contempt. Sneers and insults came one after another.

"And here I was holding her up as a role model, bragging about her to everyone I know. Talk about egg on my face."

"I was going to set her up with my sister-in-law's son—he's a government employee! Thank God I didn't. A girl like that doesn't deserve him."

"Shameless. Back in the old days, they would've drowned her. And she thinks one slap is unfair? If she were mine, I'd lock her in the house and beat her eight times a day until she straightened out."

"All that education, wasted. A master's degree, and for what? She's not half as well-behaved as Philippa."

Philippa's eyes gleamed with triumph, though she put on a show of humility.

"Oh, I wouldn't dare compare myself to Monica. She's prettier, more educated—she can thrive even in those kinds of places. And her career's been smooth sailing from the start. Not like me. After all these years, I'm still just a nobody at my job."

The implication was clear: my career hadn't been earned cleanly either.

My mother beat her fists against her chest, tears streaming down her face.

"What did I do to deserve this? We watched her like hawks, and it still wasn't enough! Your father and I scraped by, went without, but we never let you go hungry. Were you that desperate for money? I put you through school so you could go sell yourself?"

Her words drove into my chest like a steel blade, and the pain radiated outward until every inch of me ached.

My gaze dropped, and it landed right on that photo. The blurry face in the image grew more and more familiar the longer I stared.

I turned to Philippa with a cold smile.

"You know that spreading deepfake videos to frame someone is a crime, right? You think this is going to be like before—you cry a little, mumble some half-hearted apology, and it all goes away?"

"Philippa, you brought this on yourself. I'm done going easy on you."

I picked up my phone and started dialing 911.

Philippa burst into tears on cue.

"Monica, I know you hate me. I know you've always had it out for me. But no matter how immature I can be, I would never joke about something like this."

"Go ahead, call the police. I said what I said, and I'll stand by it. But Dorothy's son is about to take his civil service exam, and Janet's daughter is getting engaged any day now. If this scandal gets out, what happens to their reputations?"

Janet Hargrove's expression shifted instantly, her eyes turning into daggers aimed straight at me.

Dorothy looked at me, lips parting as if to speak, then pressing shut again. The worry for her son was written all over her face.

I smiled. My fingers didn't stop dialing.

"I didn't do anything wrong. If anyone should be embarrassed, it's you—the one spreading lies—"

Crack.

The phone was slapped out of my hand. It hit the floor hard, the screen shattering into a spiderweb of cracks.

My mother stood over me, teeth clenched, finger jabbing at my face.

"You are NOT calling the police! You ungrateful animal! Dorothy and Gerald have been nothing but good to you. You want to drag your own name through the mud, fine—but you will NOT take this entire family down with you!"

"Get out. From this day forward, I don't have a daughter."

My chest seized. A bleak, hollow ache flooded through me.

I looked at her and smiled—a thin, broken smile.