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?”

“Here’s what happens next,” Gunther announced, shifting into CEO mode because emotional devastation was just another hostile takeover to him. “Wedding’s canceled. PR’s already drafting the statement—something about ‘mutual decision’ and ‘different paths.’ You’re no longer my daughter. Legal’s drawing up the papers as we speak.”

Efficiency even in destroying his child. Had to admire the commitment to productivity.

Camille finally found her voice, though it came out cracked and foreign. “You’re angry. We can work through—”

“WORK THROUGH?” His roar could’ve shattered the crystal decanters. “This is YOUR fault! You had one job, Camille. ONE. Raise a beautiful, traditional wife who understood her place. Instead, you gave me this.”

He gestured at me like I was a failed quarterly report, something to be written off and forgotten by next fiscal year.

“Twenty-three years of marriage,” he continued, really warming to his theme now, “and this is your greatest accomplishment? A daughter who spread her legs for money?”

“Gunther, please—”

“Get out,” he snarled at me, cutting off whatever defense my mother was mounting. “Take nothing. You own nothing. You ARE nothing. Whatever’s in your room stays—call it payment for twenty-two years of disappointment.”

I opened my mouth—to defend myself, to tell him about the money, to burn it all down with the truth about Caleb—but Camille’s hand found mine under the table.

Mom was crying, but these weren’t the pretty tears of submission I’d seen my whole life. These were twenty-three years of swallowed screams finally leaking out, each drop a small rebellion against the man who’d caged us both.

She looked at me with something I’d never seen before: absolute love mixed with absolute understanding.

In that moment, Camille Wallace wasn’t my warden or my father’s accomplice. She was just another woman who’d been bought and sold, recognizing her daughter had found a different way out.

“Go,” she whispered, squeezing my hand hard enough to hurt. “Leave everything behind.”

Not an order. Permission. Benediction. Blessing.

My grateful smile was a whole conversation—thank you, I’m sorry, I see you, I love you, goodbye—compressed into three seconds of eye contact.

I stood, smoothing my dress with hands that barely shook. “Well, this has been fun. We should definitely do it again never.”

“You walk out that door, you’re dead to this family,” Gunther warned, but the threat had lost its teeth. Hard to kill something that was already cremating itself.

“Promise?” I asked, already moving. “Can I get that in writing? Maybe notarized?”

Behind me, I could hear him turning his rage on Camille, but she wasn’t listening anymore. The perfect wife had finally shown her hand, and it had been holding her daughter’s the whole time.

I walked out of that study with nothing but the clothes on my back and $455K in a bank account my father didn’t know existed. My entire life—clothes, jewelry, photos, memories—locked behind the door I was closing.

The last thing I heard was Camille’s voice, stronger than I’d ever heard it: “You want a traditional woman, Gunther? Traditional women protect their children. Even from their fathers.”

Then the door clicked shut, and I was free. Homeless, family-less, future-less, but free.