The tears came on command. Blanche threw herself into Vincent's arms, wailing.

"Dad! She canceled my card and wants to kick me out! She said this house is hers and told me to go back to the family home!"

"I don't want to live anymore!" She sobbed dramatically.

Vincent patted her back, his face full of concern. He turned to look at me, a hint of reproach in his eyes.

"Honey, you're in the wrong here."

"Blanche is so sensitive—how could you say something like that to hurt her?"

"Hurry up and restore her card. It's embarrassing for a kid to be out there with no money."

I stared coldly at the father-daughter pair, feeling nothing but disgust.

"Vincent, let me make something clear."

"I bought this house. I started the company. I earn the money."

"I decide who gets to spend it."

"Since you two are so devoted to each other, here's what we'll do."

"Starting today, you—her biological father—are responsible for all of Blanche's expenses."

Vincent froze.

He hadn't expected me—always agreeable, always generous—to suddenly push back this hard.

His salary?

His measly paycheck couldn't even cover Blanche's snacks for a month.

"Honey, you can't be serious..."

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

I grabbed my purse and headed for the stairs.

"Oh, and tell Blanche to delete that post."

"Otherwise, I'd be happy to remind her what her life was like back at the family home."

At the foot of the stairs, it suddenly hit me—I hadn't seen my daughter since I got back from my business trip.

"By the way, where's Irene?"

Blanche's crying stopped dead.

Vincent's eyes darted away.

"Oh, Irene? She's in her room doing homework."

"The kid's been kind of withdrawn lately. Doesn't talk much."

My stomach dropped. Something was wrong.

Irene had always been cheerful. Why would she suddenly become withdrawn?

I ignored Vincent trying to stop me and rushed toward Irene's room.

The moment I pushed open the door, my world collapsed.

The room was dark, the air heavy and suffocating.

Irene Pruitt was curled up in the shadowy corner of her bed, like a frightened animal.

At the sound of the door, she flinched violently, instinctively throwing her arms over her head.

"Don't hit me... I'm sorry... I'll go wash the clothes right now..."

My heart seized, crushed by an invisible fist. I couldn't breathe.

"Irene, it's Mom."

I rushed to her and pulled her into my arms.

Her body was so thin it hurt to hold her, and she wouldn't stop shaking.

In the light spilling from the hallway, I finally saw her face.

Her left cheek—once fair and smooth—was swollen and red. The corner of her mouth was bruised.

Her school uniform was filthy, marked with what looked like footprints.

With trembling hands, I pushed up her sleeve.

Pinch marks covered her arm. Purple and blue, overlapping, horrifying.

"Who did this?"

My voice shook.

Irene lifted her head. Her eyes were hollow as she looked at me.

Tears rolled down her cheeks in heavy drops.

"Mom... it hurts so much... None of the kids at school like me..."

"Blanche said... if I told you, she'd have them beat me to death..."

Something exploded in my head. White-hot rage flooded through me.

I had raised Blanche like my own daughter—and behind my back, she'd been conspiring with others to torment my real child.

"What's going on? What's all the fuss about?"

Vincent had followed me up at some point. He stood in the doorway, looking annoyed.

"Kids roughhouse. It's normal."

"Irene's always been like this—so dramatic. One little bump and she's in tears."

"Blanche was just toughening her up."

Slap!

I set Irene down and stormed over, cracking my palm across Vincent's face.

He staggered back, hand pressed to his cheek, staring at me in disbelief.

"Margot, have you lost your mind?!"

"Maybe I have!"

I jabbed a finger toward the bruises covering Irene's body, my voice raw.

"You call this roughhousing? You call this toughening her up?"

"Vincent, are you even human?!"

"You watched this child grow up! Do you have any conscience left?!"

Vincent flinched at my fury, backing up a step.

But his shock quickly curdled into rage.

"So what do you want? You're going to tear this family apart over something this small?"

"Blanche already explained—Irene was messing around with classmates and fell on her own."

"Why don't you ask yourself why your daughter has problems? Why does everyone pick on her and no one else?"

I looked at this man I'd shared a bed with for ten years and felt nothing but disgust.

Where was the gentle, attentive husband who used to dote on me and Irene?

Or had this been who he really was all along?

"Fine. That's just fine."

I laughed bitterly, wiping my tears.

"Vincent, if you won't handle this, I will."

"Starting today, you and your daughter don't get another cent from me."

"And I'm going to find out exactly what happened at that school."

"You touched my daughter. I'll make you pay for it."

I helped Irene to her feet and walked out.

"Where are you taking her?" Vincent panicked, reaching to stop me.

"To the hospital! To document her injuries!"

I shoved past him and didn't look back at that suffocating house.

Behind me, Vincent shouted, his voice cracking with fury:

"Margot! If you walk out that door, don't bother coming back!"

"And if Blanche suffers because of this, you and I are finished!"

I let out a cold laugh.

Finished?

Good. I wasn't planning on letting this go either.

In the car, Irene clutched the hem of my shirt, crying softly.

"Mom, did I cause trouble for you?"

"Dad said if I didn't behave, you wouldn't want me anymore..."

My heart shattered. I pulled her closer.

"That's not true. I will never stop wanting you."

"Irene, from now on, Mommy's going to protect you."

"Everyone who hurt you—I won't let a single one of them get away with it."

At the hospital, the doctor's frown deepened as he treated Irene's wounds.

"These are all soft tissue contusions. She also has a mild concussion."

"What kind of parenting is this? The child was beaten this badly before anyone brought her in?"

Shame burned through me. All I could do was apologize.

Looking at the bandages wrapped around Irene's small body, the hatred inside me grew.

The next morning, my phone rang again.

It was the homeroom teacher.

Her tone was curt:

"Ms. Fox, you need to bring Irene to the school immediately."

"Blanche has reported that Irene stole a valuable item from her. We need you here to sort this out."

Stealing?

How bold—filing a complaint before I could.

I took Irene to the school.

The moment we stepped into the office, I saw Blanche lounging on the sofa, surrounded by several teachers fussing over her like she was royalty.

She clutched a tissue in her hand, eyes red-rimmed, playing the victim for all she was worth.

Vincent was there too, standing beside Blanche, speaking to the homeroom teacher with a grave expression.

The moment we walked in, Blanche flinched and ducked behind Vincent.

"Daddy... I'm scared..."

Vincent immediately stepped in front of her like a guard dog, shooting me a vicious glare.

"Margot, you've got some nerve showing up here."

"Look at the daughter you raised—stealing at her age!"

The homeroom teacher was a woman in her forties named Ivy Lambert. She pushed her glasses up and looked at me with undisguised contempt.

"Ms. Fox, I understand you're a busy executive, always chasing the next dollar."

"But you can't neglect your child's upbringing."

"Blanche says Irene stole her diamond necklace—worth fifty thousand dollars."

"We have witnesses and evidence. What do you have to say for yourself?"

I looked around the room at this little circus.

"Witnesses? Evidence? Where?"

Ms. Lambert gestured to a group of girls standing nearby.

They wore their uniforms hemmed short, faces touched with makeup—clearly Blanche's crew.

One of them stepped forward and pointed at Irene.

"I saw it with my own eyes! Irene went through Blanche's bag while she was at PE!"

"Yeah! I saw it too!"

"Irene's always been jealous of Blanche. She says Blanche stole her mom—this is obviously revenge!"

They piled on, one after another, throwing accusations like mud.

Irene gripped my hand tight, trembling, shaking her head desperately.

"I didn't... I didn't steal anything..."

"Shut up!" Vincent bellowed. "Nobody asked you!"

"Rotten to the core, just like your mother!"

I pulled Irene behind me and shielded her.

My gaze swept across every person in the room.

Then settled on Ms. Lambert.

"Ms. Lambert, you're convicting my daughter based on the word of a few students?"

"What about the security cameras? Did you check them?"

Something flickered in her eyes.

"The cameras... they're broken."

"Besides, these girls are exemplary students. They wouldn't lie."

"Irene, on the other hand, has always been a loner. Antisocial. She has motive."

I almost laughed.

Exemplary students?

I could smell the cigarette smoke on them from six feet away.

And the girl who'd spoken first—wasn't that the bracelet I'd bought Blanche just last month on her wrist?

So that's how it was. Blanche had been using my money to buy loyalty, playing queen bee at school.

And my daughter had become their punching bag.

"Margot, stop making excuses."

Vincent waved his hand impatiently.

"Just have Irene return the necklace and apologize to Blanche."

"We're family, so we won't involve the police."

"But if this goes on her record, her future is over. You understand that, right?"

Blanche peeked out from behind Vincent, a smug little smile curling at her lips.

She mouthed two words at me:

Pay up.

So that's what this was about.

This whole performance—just another shakedown.

She knew Irene was my weak spot. She thought she could use my daughter's future to force my hand.

Too bad she'd miscalculated.

I pulled out my phone, opened the voice recorder, and set it on the table.

"Call the police."