Chapter 2 - The Cracks in the Glass House
Vanessa’s sharp command hung in the air like a slap. Chloe flinched, shrinking back against the wall, her tiara tilting crookedly on her neat curls. I had spent weeks resenting that little girl—hating how easily praise fell into her lap, how Dad would drop everything to film her pirouettes while checking his work emails through my rehearsals—yet seeing her cower made my stomach knot with guilt.
""Don't speak to her like that,"" Dad said, his voice dropping into an unfamiliar, brittle register. He looked at Vanessa as if seeing a stranger sitting behind her polished makeup. ""Did you send an email from my account?""
""Patrick, we can discuss our private family matters at home, not in front of the studio staff,"" Vanessa hissed, clutching her designer bag to her chest like a shield. Her knuckles were white. ""Isabella has behavioral problems! She just assaulted our daughter! Are we really going to let Lauren deflect blame onto an administrative error?""
""An administrative error?"" Mom stepped closer, her tired eyes blazing. She worked sixty hours a week filling prescriptions while Dad lived in a four-bedroom colonial with an inground pool, yet right now, Mom looked ten feet tall. ""You deleted Isabella’s audition video. The one she worked on for three weeks. You replaced it with a rushed garage recording, and when the studio offered an in-person assessment, you logged into Patrick’s email and turned it down.""
""You have no proof of that!"" Vanessa fired back, her chest heaving. ""Patrick leaves his email open on the shared iPad all the time. Anyone could have clicked it!""
""The IP address for the reply came from our home network,"" Mrs. Ames said calmly, adjusting her glasses as she scrolled through the log on her screen. ""At 10:17 AM on a Tuesday. Patrick was at his corporate office in the city, was he not?""
Dad stared at Vanessa. The realization hit him slowly, visibly eroding the smooth confidence he always wore. ""I was in a regional budget meeting until noon that day. You were the only one at home.""
""I did it for our family!"" Vanessa suddenly burst out, her voice cracking as the facade shattered. ""Do you have any idea how much pressure was on Chloe? She’s eight years old! If Isabella got the Featured Traveler role, you would have spent every weekend driving her to the upstate competitions! You would have split your focus, split your money! Chloe is the prodigy here! She had the real shot at the youth showcase!""
""So you buried my daughter?"" Mom’s voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of a thunderclap.
""She wasn't good enough anyway!"" Vanessa yelled, tears of anger spilling over her mascara. ""Look at her! She’s clumsy, she’s awkward, she doesn't have the stage presence! I saved her from the embarrassment of getting rejected in person!""
""Mommy, stop yelling,"" Chloe whimpered, tears streaming down her face again. She reached out toward me, her small hand trembling. ""Bella, why is Mommy mad?""
I couldn't move. My feet were frozen to the cheap commercial carpet. I had spent three weeks believing I was worthless, believing that my father had watched my best effort and decided I wasn't worth fighting for. That poison had built up inside me until I took it out on a child who had done nothing wrong.
""You didn't save me from embarrassment,"" I said, my voice shaking but clear. ""You made me feel like garbage so your daughter could have the spotlight to herself.""
""Patrick, let's go,"" Vanessa said frantically, grabbing Chloe’s arm and pulling her toward the exit. ""We are leaving right now. We aren't going to be interrogated by these people.""
""Let go of Chloe's arm, Vanessa,"" Dad said. The tone was cold, completely devoid of the warmth he usually reserved for his new wife. ""Let go of her. Right now.""
Vanessa paused, startled by the venom in his voice. ""Patrick—""
""I said let go."" Dad took a step forward, gently freeing Chloe’s wrist from her mother’s grip. He knelt down beside his youngest daughter, his hands trembling. ""Chloe, sweetie, go stand with Ms. Elena for just two minutes, okay? Go on.""
Ms. Elena gently guided the sobbing eight-year-old into the adjoining hallway, closing the door behind them.
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Dad stood up slowly. He looked at the floor, then at Mom, and finally at me. For the first time in my life, I saw my father look completely broken. ""Isabella... I swear to God, I didn't know.""
""You didn't ask,"" I replied, the truth cutting deeper than any anger could. ""You just believed her. Because it was easier than caring.""
