Stella stirs her coffee, spoon tapping the ceramic in measured, rhythmic beats. “Dad, you’re making her sound like some Machiavellian schemer, but I know Andie. She’s not a schemer. She doesn’t even know how to scheme. Seriously.”
My fingers press hard into the wood. “Then why keep this? Why hide it after we agreed?—?”
Stella shrugs. “Maybe she wanted to remember. Maybe she’s a closet narcissist. Maybe she was just scared.” Her eyes are calm, almost clinical. “You ever think maybe she didn’t want to lose you, so she held on to something private? Or maybe she genuinely forgot it was there. God knows I have shit in my iCloud I don’t remember.”
“She’s not innocent,” I say. “You think she is, but she’s not. She wanted to win the bet. She wanted to play me.”
Stella’s lips twist, a flicker of something—pity, or maybe just secondhand embarrassment. “The girl never even showed it to us. You know that already. She won the bet because I surprised everyone with the video that I took of you guys fucking in the stairwell. God, this family is so bizarre.”
My daughter takes a cautious sip of coffee, then sets the cup down between her hands and stares at me, hard.
“You’re angry because she lied,” Stella says. “But you’re really angry because you thought this would be different. And it’s not.”
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. She’s right. I wanted to believe in the possibility of something pure, something uncalculated, and now it’s gone. Not because of the video, but because I let myself believe.
Stella’s voice is gentler than I expect. “People aren’t perfect, and it’s a problem because you’re a control freak, Dad. You always have been. You like to own things—houses, cars, women, even memories. But Andie isn’t a robot. She’s her own chaos, even if deep down, she’s a gentle spirit. If you want her, then you have to accept that people make mistakes.”
I look away. The espresso is cooling in front of me, a little ring of crema sinking into bitterness. I lift the cup, taste it, and find it more acid than comfort.
“She’s still a bitch for not telling me,” I say, softer this time. “After everything, she should have trusted me with the truth.”
Stella shrugs again. “Maybe she genuinely didn’t remember. Maybe she didn’t think you’d stay if you knew. Maybe she was right.”
We sit in the discomfort, the clatter of cutlery and hiss of milk frother filling the spaces between. I watch Stella watch me, her eyes unblinking, and for a second I see myself in them: the same pale blue, the same stubborn set to the brow. It’s like being stared down by my own reflection, only a younger, female version.
“In fact, just so you know, Andie basically pulled out of the bet. She didn’t quit because we’d barrage her with questions. But she kind of “quiet quit.” She never had any updates, and toldus she wasn’t seeing you anymore,” Stella says, voice low. “She wanted to keep you for herself. She was protecting you and the relationship that was developing. Either way, she never used the video. She never sent it anywhere.”
I drum my fingers on the phone, still paused, still waiting. “How do I know you’re not covering for her?”
Stella leans back, folding her arms. “Because I don’t have a reason to. Andie hates me right now. We barely speak. It’s really sad.”
That lands with a cold, clean finality. I believe her. I don’t want to, but I do.
But then I narrow my eyes at my daughter.
“You have a role in this shitshow too,” I accuse.
My daughter stares right back at me.
“So you’re still mad.”
I don’t answer.
She stirs her coffee, the spoon ringing against the ceramic. “You want to talk about the stairwell video.”
It’s not a question. I don’t have to nod.
Stella leans forward, elbows on the scarred wood. “You know, if you weren’t my father, you’d be threatening to sue. Or maybe you already would have. For what, emotional distress? Privacy violation?”
I look at her, hard. “Yeah, and I’m still considering it.”
She laughs, but it’s not a real laugh. “Come on, Dad. It’s not like I uploaded it. No one even has a copy. The only reason why I recorded you guys was because you were so fucking loud, and the acoustics in that stairwell are like a cathedral. Your sex sounds were echoing all the way down to the maintenance closet. It was like an X-rated circus.”
I stare daggers at my daughter. “That moment was private.”
“Maybe, but you definitely didn’t act like it.” Stella’s face is pink, but her eyes never waver. “I mean, in the stairwell of my dorm on moveout day? If you genuinely thought the moment was private, you would have at least locked yourself in a broom closet or something. Instead, you guys were doing it out in the open! You’re lucky it was me who came upon you, and not one of our dickhead RA’s. They would have called the police for public fornication.”
I say nothing.
