Chapter 7: Rebellion Has a Price

"Zoey is twelve now, a big girl."

He said it like a joke, but there was a warning in his voice. I stood in the doorway, uncertain, waiting for the other shoe to drop. My palms were sweaty.

Mom suddenly stood up, took two helpless steps toward me, then stopped.

She hesitated, her hands twisting in the fabric of her dress. I saw the fear in her eyes, the longing. She wanted to reach me, but she couldn't. My heart ached for her.

"Zoey, you can't fight with classmates again. I'll let it go this time, but next time Mom will have to punish you."

Her voice trembled, but she tried to sound stern. I saw the tears gathering, threatening to spill. I wanted to promise her I'd be good, but the words wouldn't come.

When she was upset, her eyes sparkled with tears, ready to fall.

She blinked rapidly, trying to keep her composure. The dads watched her closely, their faces unreadable. I felt their eyes burning into me.

I just noticed that today, Mom wasn't wearing her usual high-necked long sleeves.

It was the first time I'd seen her arms bare. The skin was pale, almost translucent, but there were marks—faint, but unmistakable. My stomach twisted with dread.

On her exposed neck, there were faint marks, like someone had tried to strangle her.

I stared, my stomach twisting. I wanted to ask, to scream, but I bit my tongue. My fists clenched at my sides.

I looked up, staring at her directly for the first time.

I met her gaze, refusing to look away. For once, I wanted answers. My voice was steady, but inside I was shaking.

"Mom, did you read a lot of pampered-wife romance and forced love novels when you were a kid?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and dangerous. The dads shifted, their eyes narrowing. I felt the tension spike.

"All these years, you've never gone out alone."

I pressed on, my voice steady. "Even your meals are planned by the dads. You like..."

I didn't finish. Dad Carter came over, face dark, slapped his hand over my mouth, and tucked me under his arm.

He moved fast, his grip bruising. I struggled, but he held me tight, his voice low and threatening. My heart raced with fear.

"Margot, Zoey's starting to rebel. You deal with her."

He tossed me toward Margot, his eyes cold. I knew what was coming. My breath caught in my throat.

That day, I heard Mom scream for the first time.

Her voice ripped through the house, raw and terrified. She broke free, running toward me, but the dads caught her, their hands rough and unyielding. My ears rang with her cries.

She lost it and ran toward me, but the men held her back with brutal force.

She kicked, screamed, bit—anything to reach me. I'd never seen her fight like that before. It was both terrifying and beautiful. I wanted to help, but I couldn't move.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw real hatred flash in her usually blank eyes. I watched her kick and bite with everything she had, until Whitaker pinned her to the couch and tore at her clothes.

I saw her eyes go dark, her body limp as they overpowered her. I wanted to help, but I was too small, too weak. All I could do was watch. My hands shook with rage.

I heard him raise his voice, almost laughing:

His laughter echoed through the room, cruel and triumphant. I hated him with everything I had. My teeth clenched.

"Sweetheart, you’re not behaving. You need to be taught a lesson, too."

His words made my skin crawl. I turned away, swallowing bile. My hands trembled.

Mom’s body was covered in bruises—her wrists, neck, thighs. All pink, some barely faded.

I'd seen the marks before, but never so many. It was like her whole body was a map of pain. My chest tightened with helplessness.

Fear and numbness tangled together, crawling up inside me.

I wanted to scream, to run, but I couldn't move. I felt frozen, paralyzed by fear and rage. My breath came shallow and fast.

I didn't fight. My head and hands drooped, limp, as Margot led me upstairs.

I let her drag me away, my body heavy. I knew there was no escape. My feet barely touched the floor.

I thought bitterly, Margot—such a pure, pretty name. Giving it to her is disgusting.

The name tasted like ash in my mouth. She didn't deserve something so soft, so innocent. My lips curled in disgust.

Margot is the coldest and strangest of the three. She likes to watch Mom’s spirit break, bit by bit, in her hands. She loves using all kinds of pain to make Mom cry.

She was a master at cruelty, always finding new ways to hurt. She'd smile as she watched Mom crumble, her eyes bright with satisfaction. My skin prickled with dread.

She lives to see a strong woman become meek and obedient, shaped to her liking.

She collected broken things—dolls, birds, people. She liked to play God, to mold others into what she wanted. The room felt colder when she was near.

She threw me onto the king-sized bed, then stood by the headboard, watching me like a predator.

Her gaze was cold, appraising. I felt like a specimen under a microscope. My heart hammered in my chest.

"Zoey, I remember you used to be a good little girl."

Her voice was mocking, almost sing-song. I glared at her, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry. My jaw clenched tight.

I slowly sat up, looking at her with absolute contempt.

I met her eyes, my jaw set. I wanted her to know I wasn't afraid—not anymore. My hands balled into fists in my lap.

"Don’t kid yourself. You never saw me as a child."

The words came out sharp, brittle. I meant every one. My voice didn't shake.

She said nothing, just opened the drawer and carefully sorted through the things inside.

Her hands were steady, methodical. I watched her, waiting for whatever came next. My breath caught.

"Margot, after the punishment, can you give me some money? All my classmates get to buy stuff they like. I don’t."

I tried to sound casual, like it didn't matter. But the truth was, I wanted something—anything—that was mine. My voice was flat, almost bored.

Margot turned around, the corners of her mouth pulling up in what she thought was a charming smile.

Her smile was all teeth, predatory. She loved games, especially when she thought she was winning. My skin crawled.

"So, Zoey wants some attention?"

Her tone was syrupy, mocking. I didn't flinch. I kept my face blank.

To people like them, the easiest way to understand a woman is to see her as beautiful, naive, pure, vain, weak…

They never saw the real me, never bothered to look past the surface. To them, I was just another problem to be solved, another thing to control. My chest felt tight.

They love picking, out of a thousand adjectives, the one that makes things easiest for them.

They'd label me rebellious, lonely, difficult—anything but human. Their words bounced off me, but sometimes they stuck.

Rebellious and lonely, for example.

I wore those labels like armor, daring them to try and break me. My lips twisted in a half-smile.

I smiled too, curling my lips just like hers, slowly reaching out my hands.

I mirrored her movements, my smile sharp as glass. I was done playing by their rules. If they wanted a fight, I'd give them one. Even if it meant losing, at least I'd go down swinging. My fingers curled, ready for whatever came next.