I never admitted to my parents that the “paycheck” they fought to grab was just a sliver of the wealth I’d quietly grown. My dad slammed my mouth into the dinner table when I refused to bankroll my sister’s extravagant tastes, and my mom cackled, branding me a “leech” who had to learn submission

His hand caught my collar so fast I barely registered movement before my body jerked forward. My mouth hit the dining table edge with a crack so bright and sudden it seemed to fill the room with white. Pain detonated through my jaw. I tasted blood immediately—hot, metallic, undeniable.

Lily gasped from the doorway.

Madison made a noise too, but not horror. Irritation. Like a guest at a dinner party watching someone spill wine on the tablecloth.

I half-fell, half-caught myself against the chair. My father stood over me breathing hard, nostrils flared, one hand still half-curled as if shocked to find itself empty. My mother did not move toward me. She did not ask if I was hurt. She watched with the calm assessing face she wore when deciding which reality would cost her less.

Then she said, softly, almost lazily, “Obedience. That’s all we ever wanted.”

Blood slid down my chin and dripped onto the floor.