Chapter 1The Eight Hundred Dollar Daughter Trap

My mother is a titan of industry, a permanent fixture on the Forbes list, and a ghost in my actual life.

My father was the "supportive" one, the man who stayed behind to raise me while she conquered the world. He always told me she looked down on us—that to her, we were just "small-town trash." He claimed she only sent eight hundred dollars a month for our living expenses, calling us "stray dogs that could never be fed enough."

I hated her with every fiber of my being for that.

Until the day she made a surprise appearance at my university, looked at the sad tray of cafeteria food in front of me, and frowned.

"I wire twenty thousand dollars to your account every single month," she said, her voice cold and confused. "Is this really what you’re choosing to eat?"

...

* * *

My phone screen buzzed on the library table. A notification from the bank.

[Arthur Miller has transferred $800.00 to your account ending in XXXX.]

Eight hundred.

The number felt like a needle pricking a raw nerve. I put the phone down, a dull, hollow ache blooming in my stomach. To save money, I’d only eaten one meal yesterday. Now, I had to make this eight hundred last for thirty days in one of the most expensive cities in the country.

My roommate, Sophie, leaned over and caught a glimpse of the screen. She immediately bristled on my behalf.

"Rose, is your mom actually made of stone? What is eight hundred dollars supposed to do in Chicago? I spent forty bucks on a Uber and a latte yesterday! This isn't an allowance; it’s an insult."

She reached for a small bottle of imported serum on her desk—a tiny glass vial that cost more than my entire month’s budget.

I forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. She didn't get it. She couldn't. To my mother, the Great Diana Montgomery, we probably were just beggars.

My father’s face flashed in my mind—that look of weary resignation he always wore. Since I was a child, he’d whispered the same poison into my ear.

"Rose, your mother is a creature of the city. She despises where we come from. She looks down on me, she looks down on you, and she certainly doesn't care about your sick uncle or your grandparents."

"I go to her," he’d say, his voice cracking. "I beg her to give you a better life, and do you know what she calls us? She says the Miller family is a pack of ungrateful leeches. She says we’re just parasites trying to bleed her dry."

Those words had taken root in me, growing into a thicket of resentment.

My phone buzzed again. It was him.

"Rose..." His voice sounded exhausted. "It’s... it’s eight hundred again this month."

"I asked her. I swear, I practically got on my knees, but she said not a penny more." He paused, a heavy sigh rattling through the line. "It’s my fault. I’m a failure of a father for letting you live like this."

Anger and pity surged through me. It wasn't his fault. He was the one who had endured her cruelty for years just to stay by my side. The thought of a grown man having to beg his ex-wife for his daughter’s grocery money broke my heart.

"Dad, stop," I interrupted, my voice thick. "I’ll find a part-time job on campus. I can take care of myself."

"Good girl," he whispered, sounding like he was on the verge of tears. "Just... don't go hungry, okay?"

I hung up. The dorm room felt suffocatingly quiet. I pulled a bag of two-day-old bagels from my drawer, tore off a piece, and forced myself to chew. It was dry, hard, and tasted like cardboard.

My phone lit up again. The class group chat was exploding.

[Birthday drinks for the class president tonight! Karaoke then late-night sushi. See you all at the usual spot!]

[I heard that new Omakase place is $150 per person minimum. Let’s go big!]

[Split the bill, obviously! But for Ben, it’s worth it!]

The "it-girl" of our major tagged everyone.

[@Rose Miller, you’re coming, right? Don’t be a hermit! It’s Ben’s 21st, no excuses!]

I turned the phone face down, trying to shut out their world. $150. To them, it was a Tuesday night. To me, it was two weeks of survival.

I picked up the phone, my fingers hovering over the glass. I typed and deleted, typed and deleted. Finally:

[Sorry guys, I’ve got a shift at work tonight. Have a drink for me! Happy Birthday, Ben!]

A lie. But I had no choice. I was too poor to have friends. I curled up on my bed, retreating into the dark. The joy of being a normal college student was a luxury I couldn't afford.

That night, I dreamed of the woman I only saw in business magazines. She was standing over my father, who was collapsed on the floor.

"Arthur," she sneered in my dream, "you and that hillbilly daughter of yours are nothing but dogs begging for scraps."