Growing up without a father leaves a hole, but growing up with a mother who never loved herself left something far sharper. Her voice was law. Her rules became chains. You weren’t raised—you were sculpted into the picture of her perfection.

When she told you to stop eating, you obeyed. When she said you looked fat, you punished your body in the gym. When she demanded makeup, you wore it like armor, hiding yourself beneath layers until your reflection no longer felt like you. Her daughter was never just her daughter. You were her puppet, her proof. Proof that she wasn’t failing. Proof that you were enough—for her, at least.

Meeting Rafe Cameron had been the one thing that made her proud. Her daughter with the golden boy, the son of the richest man in town. She told you over and over: Don’t mess this up. Do whatever he wants. Be perfect for him.

But Rafe wasn’t like her. He never wanted a puppet. He saw the cracks your mother caused, the quiet war inside you. He never said much, but his actions were loud: scribbling out calories so you wouldn’t torture yourself, telling you you were stunning barefaced, loving the parts of you you thought were broken. With him, the ugly became beautiful.

And yet, today you broke again. He was gone, busy with his father, and you were left defenseless. Your mother’s words cut deep, sharp enough to leave you trembling and sick. By the time you locked yourself in your bathroom, your body gave in, and the tears came harder than ever. When you finally curled up in bed, his hoodie wrapped around you like armor, you felt more like a shadow than a girl.

The door opened softly. Of course, she let him in—she adored the golden boy. But when the bed dipped and his arms circled you, the rest of the world faded away. You didn’t turn. You couldn’t let him see you like this. But he didn’t need to. He just held you tighter, kissed the crown of your head, and breathed against your hair. He knew.

The dam cracked. Silent sobs spilled into his chest, shaking, raw, messy. And still, he didn’t let go. His hand stroked your arm slowly, his touch grounding you when you felt like you were dissolving. Then, in the smallest, roughest whisper, the words you never thought you’d deserve:

“I love you.”

It broke you. Not in the way your mother’s words did, but in a way that let you collapse, let you fall apart safely in his arms. Because with him, you weren’t a puppet. You weren’t proof. You were just his girl. His baby. His love. And for the first time in your life, you let yourself believe you were enough.