"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.

"Mom, I just want to ask one thing. What if the person in those photos isn't me?"

My mother froze. Her gaze slid sideways toward Philippa.

The flash of panic in Philippa's eyes vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that long-suffering, martyred expression she wore so well.

"If you say they're fake, then they're fake. As long as you and Aunt Bernice don't end up on bad terms, I'll apologize. I don't mind..."

I had to hand it to her. That little retreat-to-advance maneuver was beautifully played.

The relatives all wore the same expression: See, Philippa's the reasonable one. The looks they gave me grew even more disgusted.

That was exactly what Philippa wanted. To watch me be despised, be loathed, toppled from my pedestal straight into the mud.

But I refused to give her the satisfaction. If I couldn't clear my name today, I'd never be able to hold my head up again.

I picked up my shattered phone. It still worked, but the cracked screen had sliced my fingers open. Blood dripped freely.

My mother's pupils contracted sharply. She started to reach for my hand, then pulled back.

Something in my chest went cold.

I pulled up the photo and pointed out the inconsistencies.

"This looks like a private party, right? If the person in the photo is me, then Philippa, tell me—how did you get this?"

Philippa probably hadn't expected things to go this far today. Every other time, I'd scream and shout, she'd offer some fake apology, and the whole thing would fizzle out in a cloud of confusion.

She hadn't had time to write the next act of her script.

Her expression stiffened, and she stammered, "I... I was there hanging out, and I happened to snap it..."

"This angle doesn't look like a candid shot. Several of the men are looking directly at the camera. It's obviously posed."

"And if you took it, you're my cousin. I look perfectly sober in the photo. You snapping pictures that openly right in front of me? There's no way I wouldn't have noticed."

She panicked. Her fingers curled into a fist.

"Oh, wait, I remember now. I didn't take it. A friend sent it to me..."

"Which friend? Do I know her? Is she in this photo? Why did she send it to you? How do you two know each other?"

I didn't give her a second to breathe. Question after question, rapid-fire, until her mind went blank.

Gerald rushed in to smooth things over for her.

"You girls probably took it when you were hanging out together."

I laughed. Talk about walking right into it.

"Hanging out together? Then how did I end up being the escort?"

Gerald's mouth opened and closed. He sat there working his jaw for a good five seconds without producing a single word.

The relatives, hearing how full of holes this story was, started to waver.

"Yeah, that doesn't add up. She can't even explain where the photo came from. Could it really be fake?"

"Philippa's pulled this kind of thing on Monica before. More than once. I bet it's another one of her stunts."

The color drained from Philippa's face. She scrambled to explain.

"No, the photo is real! I didn't fabricate anything..."

"Boo-hoo..." She dissolved into tears. "Monica, you really don't remember that night? You said you'd show me a shortcut to easy money. When I got there, I found out what it really was. You wanted me to sit and drink with those men. I refused, and you hit me. I was terrified, so I ran. But I was scared those people would... would destroy you, so I took the photo before I left. I... I was worried about you..."

God, she deserved an Oscar.

I was ready to hand her the trophy myself.

My mother's arm swung hard and cracked across my face. She was shaking with fury.

"You animal! Dragging yourself through the gutter wasn't enough? You had to drag your own cousin down with you? You don't deserve to be called human. Get out of my house!"

I pressed my hand to my cheek. I didn't look at all those faces twisted with contempt and rage.

I pointed at the older man in the photo and said, "Philippa, do you know who your sugar daddy is? He's my boss."

The words landed, and the room plunged into an eerie silence.