I was laughing again because what the fuck else do you do when your dad’s about to nuke your entire existence over security footage of you rage-fucking your arranged fiancé?

The whole thing was giving “Greek tragedy but make it Upper East Side,” and honestly, I’d rather be dealing with Zeus’s lightning bolts than Gunther Wallace’s disappointment.

Camille looked between us like she was watching a tennis match in hell, her perfectly botoxed forehead trying desperately to furrow with concern.

“What happened?” Mom finally asked, probably wishing she’d stayed at her Pilates class for the advanced session.

Dad Dearest’s voice could’ve frozen the Hudson. “Your daughter had sex with Anthony. On this table.”

He paused for dramatic effect because even while destroying his family, Gunther Wallace remained committed to theatrical timing. The man would probably choreograph his own funeral for maximum impact.

“But here’s the fun part—we have audio.” His smile was pure predator. “Heard our little princess confess she hasn’t been a virgin for quite some time.”

Camille’s hand flew to her mouth, but it wasn’t the pearl-clutching shock Gunther expected.

Something else flickered in her eyes when she looked at me—recognition? Pride? The ghost of her own cage rattling against twenty-three years of gilded bars?

The silence stretched until dad filled it with enough venom to kill a small country.

“Couldn’t leave it there. Had to know who else had touched what was supposed to be saved for the Harris family.” He let the word drop like a nuclear warhead: “Whore.”

Just like that. Twenty-two years of being his perfect porcelain doll, shattered by one word. I should’ve been devastated.

Instead, I felt oddly liberated, like he’d finally said out loud what he’d been thinking every time I showed an independent thought.

“Had security dig deeper,” he continued, building to his crescendo like this was his Oscar moment. “Camille, sit down. Hold onto the chair. This will break your heart like it broke mine.”

Mom sat because what else do you do when your husband’s three acts into his villain monologue and showing no signs of intermission?

“She sold her virginity.” He couldn’t even look at me, addressing the Monet on the wall like it gave better reactions. “At an auction. Like a common—”

He couldn’t finish. Gunther Wallace, who could destroy companies over breakfast and ruin lives between golf swings, couldn’t find the words for what his daughter had done.

“The site’s policy protects the buyer’s identity.” His eyes finally found mine, cold as January in the mountains. “Who was it?”

Caleb’s name burned on my tongue like a molotov cocktail waiting to be thrown. I could do it now—watch everything explode in real-time, take them all down with me.

But no. That was my nuclear option, saved for when maximum damage was required.

“Does it matter?” I asked instead, voice steady as my hands weren’t. “The virginity you were so obsessed with protecting is gone. Sold to the highest bidder. Capitalist to the end, right, dad?”

Verify captcha to read the contentVerify