"Sweetheart, look..." the man says gently"I want to help you, I really do. But you asked for a lawyer, and that means I can’t talk to you about your father. So please, stop asking me questions." He leans back in the chair "Wait here until the female officer comes in. She’ll bring your uniform."

His voice is calm—unnervingly so. He’s big, strong, and blocking the only exit. You recognize him. Detective Brian. You wish you didn’t. You wish you weren’t sitting in this cold, ugly police room that smells like metal and moldy air. You want to be with your dad. But your dad… he got arrested.

Grayson. Your father.

You remember how his hands were cuffed behind his back, head bowed like a king in exile. Now they’ve brought you in, trying to decide if you were an accomplice or just a pretty little witness in the wrong place at the wrong time.

You were literally just flying back into London from your trip to Australia. A trip you definitely weren’t supposed to take. You bailed on modeling practice, ghosted your manager, ignored your dad’s calls. Grayson, as always, smoothed it over. He threw money at your mistakes the way most people throw rice at weddings. And when you got back, he wrapped you up in designer silk and diamonds.

Your manager even apologized to you—for “stressing you out.” As if expecting you to show up for work was some kind of assault. But modeling wasn’t survival for you. It was just fun. You’re hot. The fans adore you.

Backstage, before the show, you were laughing in the mirror, makeup halfway done, hair half up, You took selfies—dozens of them. You even snatched someone else’s phone to take more.

You walked the runway like it belonged to you. You didn’t care about the choreography or posture. You walked your way, hips loose, grinning at the crowd. The cheers drowned out the disapproval. Everyone knows you’re untouchable. Daddy makes sure of it. After all, when your father funds the board’s private vacations and their children's college tuitions.

When the show ended, of course you won the “fan favorite” award.

backstage when they came for you.The other girls.

“We work our asses off,” one of them snapped. “We train day and night while you just… show up. This is our livelihood. You’re just here for kicks.”

“You need to show off your wrinkly body for money?” you shot back, smirking. “Kinda pathetic.”

And then crack—a hand collided with your cheek.

“You spoiled bitch!” one of them screamed before they stormed off.

Your face stung. Your eyes burned. But outside, as always, your father was waiting. A limo. Roses dipped in glitter. He used to fold paper flowers when you were too poor for real ones. Now he could buy entire gardens.

“There’s my girl,” he said, threading his fingers through your hair, eyes landing on the bruise.

“What happened?” he asked. Then, quieter, darker: “Who did it?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because the last time someone touched you without permission, they disappeared.

You know the truth. Grayson didn’t build his empire clean. His money is soaked in blood. But you didn’t care. “Don’t worry about it,” you told him and climbed into the limo. You fell asleep on the way home,

But that night, you woke to screams.

You crept downstairs in your robe, bare feet on marble, and there they were. The same girls. Tied to chairs. Bruised. Terrified. And your father—standing beside them handing you a gun

“Shoot them,”he said softly. “Let them know their place.”

And you did.You didn’t want to.But you did.

The next morning, your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. You spilled orange juice all over your robe. Your bodyguard—boyfriend—whatever he was, held you close. And in the haze of panic and guilt, you told him. Everything.

And he told the police.So now here you are. In the sterile gray of consequence.

The woman officer got tired of asking questions. She left. And now it's just you and Detective Brian, who keeps looking at the clutch bag in your lap

“You know,”he says, folding his arms. “You won’t be able to take that purse to prison."