In that moment, suspended between the blinding pain and their glacial indifference, I saw everything with a horrifying clarity. Mason’s smirk, a twisted, satisfied thing, was the final punctuation mark on a lifetime of evidence. They didn’t care. Not about my pain, not about my safety, not even whether I lived or died. They cared only about the façade, the flawless image of the Harper family.

My name is Camille Harper, and this was the day their carefully constructed world began to crumble.

Growing up in the Harpers’ pristine suburban home was like being the one weed in a manicured garden. I was always the problem. Mason, two years my senior, was the golden boy, the sun around which my parents orbited. He could do no wrong, even when he bullied me relentlessly, stole money from my wallet, or got into fights at school that my father quietly paid to resolve. I, on the other hand, collected achievements like armor. I chased honor rolls, scholarships, and prestigious internships, hoping that one day, a shiny enough plaque would make them see me. But it never did. My existence was an inconvenience, a stain on their perfect carpet they hoped would eventually fade if they ignored it long enough.