“YOUR SISTER IS MARRIED TO A BILLIONAIRE. WEAR A HAT, SELFISH BRAT,” my father sneered at my ruined hair, entirely unaware that the hat I would wear to this high-society charade would be that of the ultimate, untouchable whistleblower.
My mother walked in from the patio, holding a pair of gardening shears. She crossed her arms, perfectly poised, her face an unreadable mask of elite entitlement. “Don’t make a tragedy out of this, Harper,” she said, her voice chillingly calm. “The Sterlings are practically American royalty. We trimmed it so Chloe can be the undisputed center of attention. It’s for the greater good. It will grow back.”
“You drugged me,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. It sounded hollow, echoing from a place deep underwater. “You unlocked my door while I was unconscious and you cut my hair off.”
“Oh, stop being so dramatic,” my father barked, finally looking at me with pure disgust. “You’ve been parading around, trying to steal the spotlight all week. Chloe has been beside herself. You owe her this.”
I pulled out my phone and dialed Chloe. She answered on the second ring, the sounds of a luxury spa in the background.
“Harper, I don’t have time—”
“Did you know?” I asked, my voice flat.
Chloe let out an annoyed sigh. “Mom sent me a picture. Honestly, Harper, it’s not that bad. And at least now people will look at the bride. Just wear a fascinator or something. See you at the rehearsal.” Click.
They were all in on it. The entire family had conspired in my psychological destruction just to ensure an aesthetic victory for a single day.
A terrifying, unnatural calm washed over me. I looked at my parents. I didn’t argue. I didn’t demand an apology. I simply turned around, walked back up to my bedroom, and locked the door once more.
