Chapter 3The Eight Hundred Dollar Daughter Trap

At 2:00 AM, I opened the encrypted file the PI sent over.

Every month on the 15th, $20,000 arrived from my mother’s corporate account. And every month on the 16th, exactly $19,200 was transferred out.

The recipient? Robert Miller. My "sick, bedridden" uncle.

Eight hundred.

My entire life—my meals, my clothes, my dignity—had been calculated down to the last cent. My father and his brother were tossing me the scraps of my own life like I was a dog under the table.

No wonder my cousin Tyler was driving a brand-new car and wearing designer clothes. No wonder my grandparents looked at me with such pitying contempt every time I went home. They thought I was a charity case, a failure who couldn't even get her "rich bitch" mother to love her.

And my father? He was the hero. The martyr who "endured" his wicked ex-wife to provide for the family.

I stared at the ledger until my eyes burned. I dragged the file into the trash and emptied it.

The next day was the 16th. My father called right on schedule.

"Rose, did the money hit? Make it last, okay? Don't go wasting it on frivolous things."

"I got it, Dad," I said, my voice perfectly level. "Thank you for begging her for me. I know how much it hurts your pride."

I could practically hear his smug satisfaction through the phone. "As long as you’re okay, it’s worth any humiliation."

I hung up and opened Instagram. I went straight to my cousin Tyler’s profile. His latest post was him sitting in a white Porsche Cayenne, grinning like a shark.

The caption: Shoutout to my Uncle Artie for closing another "big deal"! Family first!

The comments were a cesspool of Miller relatives.

Aunt Sarah: Artie is the backbone of this family! So proud!

Uncle Robert: We’d be nothing without your sacrifice, brother!

A volcano of cold, hard rage erupted in my chest. I dialed my father back immediately.

"Dad," I said, making my voice tremble. "There’s an exchange program in London. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance, but I need a thirty-thousand-dollar deposit by tomorrow."

"Thirty thousand?!" he barked. "Rose, have you lost your mind? Where am I supposed to get that kind of money? That woman would kill me! She won't give us a dime!"

I squeezed my eyes shut, leaning into the performance. "But Dad... I heard some students say that for things like this, moms usually want to help. Actually, when she was here, she gave me her private number. She said I could call her if it was urgent."

I paused for effect. "Maybe I should just call her myself? Maybe if I explain it, she’ll say yes?"

Silence.

Absolute, dead silence on the other end. I could hear his breathing turn shallow and panicked.

"No! Rose! Don't you dare!" he hissed, his voice cracking. "Don't humiliate yourself! You don't know her like I do. She’ll tear you apart!"

"Don't worry about the money! I’ll figure it out! I’ll sell the house if I have to! I’ll go crawl to her on my hands and knees! Just... stay away from her. Do not call her!"

I listened to his frantic rambling until he hung up.

Thirty minutes later, a text arrived:

[Rose, I found the money. I’m transferring it now. Just please, for the love of god, stay away from your mother. If she finds out we’re asking for more, we’re both finished.]

I looked at the word "finished" and smiled.

No, Dad. You’re done.