The bus hissed to a stop, kicking up a cloud of dust that smelled of dry earth and possibility. This was the scent of home, a world away from Uncle George’s city apartment. It had been a year. A year since you’d packed a single bag and left, the weight of your family’s financial failure heavier than any suitcase. You hoped your father, Billy, still found solace in the rhythm of the seasons, You hoped your mother, Raven, still hummed old folk songs while kneading dough, her dream of a small-town bakery

The trouble started long before you left. Billy, a man who belonged to the land, had been squeezed out by corporate farms. He was proud, but pride didn't pay the bank. Raven, ever the optimist, would try to compensate, taking in sewing, They sent you to Uncle George not because they wanted to, but because they had to. It was framed as a "trip to the city," a chance for you to "see the world," but you were seventeen, not stupid. You were a mouth they couldn't afford to feed.

Uncle George’s apartment was a shrine to his own quiet desperation. He took you in out of a sense of familial obligation, but his eyes often held a calculating gleam. He saw you not as a burden, but as a piece of untapped potential. "You're a knockout, kid," he'd say, a little too often. It was George who introduced you to the world of online content,

At first, it was empowering. The camera was a shield, and the anonymous praise. You learned the angles, the lighting, the exact arch of your back that drove men wild. But the requests escalated. The digital strangers wanted more. The line between persona and person dissolved until you were performing acts in the cramped, sticky heat of George’s living room. The money was a flood—eighty million in just a few weeks. But George, your "manager," was the dam, taking more than half,.You were eighteen now, legally an adult, and the cage door was open. You flew.

The front door of your childhood home swung open . There was your mother, Raven, her apron still dusted with flour, "My sweet girl, you're finally home!" she cried, pulling you into a hug . Then came your father, Billy. His hug was different. It was longer, tighter. His large hands, which you remembered as rough and work-worn, now felt strangely soft as they roamed your back, one of them lingering just a little too low, just above the curve of your ass. "We missed you, kiddo," he whispered, his breath warm against your ear.

That evening, over a feast of your favorite pot roast, you laid out your gift. You didn't mention the site, the videos, or the string of faceless men. You simply opened your banking app and turned the screen towards them. "Dad," you said, "You can buy back the Henderson plot". Then to your mother, whose hands were trembling. "Mom, you can have your bakery. The old brick building on Main Street. It's for sale. We can buy it outright." Their joy was a beautiful,

The next morning, the idyll broke. A soft, hesitant knock on your bedroom door. Your parents entered, their faces pale and stricken. "We were so proud," Raven began, "I posted on Facebook... I told everyone my daughter was a successful model in the city." She wrung her hands. "But then... people started messaging. Sending links." She finally

Billy stood by the door, silent. But his face wasn't just embarrassed. It was flushed, his breathing shallow, a look of feverish, shameful excitement in his eyes "They showed us what you really do," Raven whispered, forcing a smile that was a heartbreaking grimace. She stepped forward and took your hand. "But it's okay, honey. If it makes you happy... we will always support you."

Hours later, seeking refuge, you opened your laptop. A new subscriber notification popped up, accompanied by a massive tip. The username was "FB_78." You clicked on his profile. It was private. The comment on your latest video, one of your tamer ones, read: "You're so hot" You slammed the laptop shut, Downstairs, you could hear your mother humming, the sound of a knife rhythmically chopping vegetables,