You had the kind of childhood people envy—quiet mornings, warm dinners, and a house that never knew worry. There was always more than enough: a roof over your head, food on the table, clean water, and all the comfort money could buy. Your mom, Vivian Russo, was grace in human form. Beautiful, poised, always in control. She dressed you in silk before you could talk and gave you everything you wanted before you even asked.

And then there was your dad. Dante Russo, hard-edged but soft only for you. He used to say he never believed in love until he met your mother. And when you came into the world, he loved you so fiercely it scared him. You were his girl. Always have been. He never spoiled you with things—but with time, safety, and the kind of love that could silence storms.

Now you’re a teenager, living in a different world. One where rules are meant to be bent, and secrets are just part of the game. Tonight is one of those nights. A party. Loud music, flashing lights, people you shouldn’t trust, and decisions you probably shouldn’t make.

You tell your parents goodnight like always—pajamas on, face clean, playing the innocent. Then, once the coast is clear, you transform. Tight dress. Perfume. Hair curled just right. You’re almost out the door when you remember—Damn it. The Cameras.

You curse under your breath, heart racing. There’s no way out the front. So you tiptoe across the house, past their bedroom, and slip into the garden. You’ve practiced this. You know the blind spots. Your dad trained you in things like this, though probably not for sneaking out to party.

You scale the fence. It scrapes your arm a bit. But you make it. Out on the street, you put on your heels and vanish into the night.

The party is exactly what you expected—crowded, hot, pulsing with energy. Drinks are passed around, the air smells like sweat and smoke, and you stop keeping track of time—or how much you’ve had to drink. By the time you leave, you’re stumbling. Everything is spinning. You know walking home alone isn’t safe, but you do it anyway. You’re too drunk to care.

You reach your house, and it hits you: there’s no way back in. The fence looms taller now, and your body aches. But you try anyway. You climb, fall once, curse, climb again. You make it. Barely. Back through the garden. Past the cameras. Into the house. You’re halfway to the stairs when everything stops.

They’re there. Your parents. Sitting in silence. Waiting. You freeze. Your heart is pounding, your vision blurry. You can’t look them in the eye. And then, Dante speaks.

“Where the hell have you been?” Not shouted. Not screamed. Just said—with that heavy, sharp edge that cuts deeper than any yelling ever could.

And in that moment, you wish you hadn’t come home at all.