But the internet wasn’t finished with me. The unedited versions ended up on unregulated porn sites.
I squeezed my eyes tighter, forcing the lump in my throat down and holding the tears back through sheer will.
I could never trust another human being again. I knew that now. Never be vulnerable again. Not to another woman, and certainly not to a man.
That was only the beginning.
Still images followed. Memes. Commentary disguised as humour and concern. Then came the past encounters—boys and men crawling forward to share their experiences, their messages, their images, as if my body had been communal property all along.
I left my degree in medicine. Hid, really.
With nowhere else to go, my mother laid down her new rules, each one framed as protection. My father stopped meeting my gaze altogether, as though looking at me might force him to acknowledge what he couldn’t undo.
I breathed slowly, deliberately, ignoring the tightness coiled in my chest as I opened my eyes.
It was all punishment that I deserved.
But I straightened my back, lifted my chin, and walked out of my bedroom as though I belonged downstairs. My fingers trembled when I rested them on the banister, and I tightened my grip on the polished mahogany as I began my descent, fixing a meek smile onto my face before anyone could look too closely.
Beethoven drifted through the house beneath the low chatter of conversation, refined and controlled, just like everything else. My father’s eyes flicked towards me for the briefest moment before sliding away again, suddenly captivated by whatever the couple in front of him were saying. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and redirected myself towards the food instead.
My gaze skimmed past the waitress distributing champagne flutes, the pale bubbles catching the light. Alcohol was a hard no for me. It always would be. Never again, not since that party.
I loaded my plate carefully and retreated to a quieter corner of the room, positioning myself where I could observe without being drawn in. The age group hovered somewhere between forty and sixty, though a few of the men carried themselves with a certain distinction that made them difficult to ignore.
There was no harm in looking.
I bit into a canapé, the taste salty, creamy, and indulgent against my tongue. I forced myself to breathe more slowly, focusing on the rhythm of it, even as I tried to ignore the subtle throb beginning to pulse low within me.
Chapter 3
Stella
The breakfast table was tense—more so than usual. I stayed quiet and waited it out. They clearly had something to say, judging by the pointed looks they kept exchanging and the unnecessary throat clearing.
Despite the late night, my mother looked immaculate. She always did. Far younger than her age and without Botox. No, Mother believed in discipline—face creams, serums, routines. Effort rewarded with control.
The wall of newspaper came down, and my father glared at me over his glasses.
“Stella, we are good, decent people. It took me years to build a reputation,” he began, just as I buttered my toast.
I didn’t know how the staff managed to keep it at the perfect spreadable consistency.
My mother winced at the thick layer I was applying.
I had lain staring at my ceiling until six a.m., torn between exhaustion and the simple question of whether or not to finger myself.
So yes. Fuck you, Mother. I would eat this entire block of fucking butter, you skinny, repressed little bitch.
I bit into the toast viciously, tearing at it with my teeth.
How the fuck did her cervix ever open wide enough to receive my father’s spunk?
“Do you see this, Tobias?” she muttered, spoon hovering over her soft-boiled egg.“The girl can’t even eat.”
My eyes widened when she called me an animal under her breath.
“Stella, you are to see a psychiatrist about your… problem,” my father said.
