She Pretended To Be Poor When She Met Her In-Laws At The Party— But Nothing Prepared Her For Their…
Then he saw me.
And it cracked.
Just for a moment.
He crossed the ballroom in long, purposeful strides. The crowd parted so fast you’d think someone had shouted “Fire.”
He reached me and gently placed his hands on my shoulders.
His eyes took in my torn dress, my red cheek, my trembling hands.
He shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around me, covering my torn dress, shielding me from 200 eyes and millions more through screens.
“Are you all right, sweetheart?” he asked quietly.
The tenderness in his voice undid me.
I swallowed a sob.
“I’m… I’m okay,” I lied.
Tears kept falling anyway.
“Dad,” I whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
His jaw tightened.
“You,” he said firmly, “have absolutely nothing to apologize for.”
He turned.
And looked at Clarissa.
The color drained from her face like someone had pulled a plug.
“You,” my father said, voice cold. “Slapped my daughter.”
The room erupted in whispers.
“Your daughter?” Clarissa stammered. “I—I didn’t… Mr. Harrison, I had no idea—”
“You had no idea,” my father repeated slowly.
He took a step toward her.
“So, you treat people like garbage when you think they’re poor? When you think they have no power, no connections?”
He gestured at the phones.
“You felt entitled to assault someone because you judged them by their appearance?”
Kenneth Hayes, Brandon’s father, hurried forward, face shiny with sweat.
“Mr. Harrison, please,” he said. “This is all… a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding,” my father said, reaching into his pocket.
He pulled out his phone.
“I watched the video,” he said. “The whole thing. Your wife called my daughter trash. Your daughter ripped her dress. And as of thirty seconds ago, over 800,000 people are watching this live.”
Clarissa swayed on her feet.
“Please,” she whispered. “I didn’t know who she was.”
“My God…” someone murmured behind us.
My father’s expression didn’t soften.
“And that,” he said evenly, “is exactly the problem, Mrs. Hayes.”
The room went silent.
“You should treat everyone with respect, regardless of who they are,” he continued. “Regardless of what they’re wearing. Regardless of how much money you think they have—or don’t have.”
I stepped forward then.
Wrapped tightly in my father’s jacket, mascara probably smeared, eyes still wet.
But my spine felt like steel.
“I came here tonight as just Emma,” I said, my voice shaky but growing stronger with each word. “Not Emma Harrison. Not a billionaire’s daughter. Just Emma.”
I looked at Clarissa.
Then at Natasha.
Then at Brandon.
“A normal girl,” I said, “who wanted to see if she’d be accepted for who she is as a person. Not for her money. Not for her last name.”
Brandon was staring at me like I’d grown a second head.
“I wanted to know if you loved me,” I said to him. “The real me.”
I gestured at the crowd.
“At my simplest.”
I swallowed.
“But I got my answer tonight, didn’t I?” I whispered.
“You stood there while they tore me apart,” I continued, voice rising. “You said nothing when your mother slapped me. You watched your sister rip my dress. You were silent, Brandon.”
He dropped to his knees.
Literally.
On the ballroom floor.
“Emma, please,” he said. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know who you were. If I had known—”
“And there it is,” I said.
My father watched silently, letting me speak.
“You’re sorry because of who I am,” I said. “Not because of what they did to me.”
I took a shaky breath.
“If I had really been poor,” I said, “you would have let them throw me out like garbage. You’re not sorry they hurt me, Brandon. You’re sorry you just lost a billionaire.”
He flinched.
Because it was true.
“Howard, Pull Every Cent”
My father pulled his phone out again.
Pressed a speed dial.
Put it on speaker.
“Howard,” he said. “I need you to immediately pull all Harrison Technology investments from Hayes Real Estate Corporation.”
Kenneth went pale.
“What?” he shouted. “No—you can’t—”
My father raised an eyebrow.
“Check your records, Mr. Hayes,” he said calmly. “We own 35% of your company.”
The murmurs turned into a roar of whispers.
“We’re pulling out effective immediately,” my father said. “Liquidate everything.”
“That will bankrupt us,” Kenneth said, voice cracking. “Please. Our clients—our employees—”
“You should have thought about that,” my father said, “before your family assaulted my daughter on camera.”
Clarissa dropped to her knees.
Actual knees.
“Please, Mr. Harrison,” she sobbed. “We’ll lose everything.”
Natasha stumbled toward me, mascara streaked, lips trembling.
“Emma, I’m so sorry,” she cried. “I didn’t mean any of it. I was just—everyone was watching—the pressure—please, you have to believe me.”
“You meant every single word,” I said quietly. “You ripped my dress. You laughed while people recorded my humiliation. You called me trash.”
Jessica tried to shrink behind a pillar, suddenly very interested in her phone.
Brandon stayed on his knees.
Head hanging.
I looked at him and felt… nothing.
The man I thought I loved.
The man who brought me coffee and listened to my stories and said he’d protect me.
He’d never existed.
I’d created him out of want and hope and willful blindness.
My father spoke into his phone again.
“Also, Howard,” he said, voice back to business mode. “Contact our legal team. I want assault charges filed. We have video evidence from multiple angles. The live stream alone has over two million viewers now.”
Clarissa screamed.
“No!” she sobbed. “Please—we’ll do anything. Don’t ruin us. Don’t—”
I looked at her.
Really looked.
At the woman who’d slapped me, called me trash, ordered me removed like I was a piece of gum stuck to her shoe.
“There’s nothing you can do,” I said. “You showed me exactly who you are. All of you did. And now the whole world knows too.”
My father took my arm gently.
“Let’s go home, sweetheart,” he said.
We walked toward the exit.
The crowd parted before us in absolute silence.
You could hear ice clink in abandoned glasses.
Behind me, I heard Brandon’s voice one last time.
“Emma, please,” he choked. “I love you.”
I stopped.
I didn’t turn around.
“You don’t love me, Brandon,” I said. “You love my money.”
I let that sink in.
“There’s a difference,” I added. “And you know what? I hope you remember this moment for the rest of your life. I hope you remember that you had someone who loved you genuinely, and you threw it away because you were too much of a coward to stand up for what was right.”
We stepped through the doors.
They closed behind us with a soft, final click.
Through the glass, I saw:
Clarissa collapsed on the floor.
Kenneth frantically dialing his phone.
Natasha crying, mascara a mess.
Brandon sitting on the ground, head in his hands.
The live stream viewer count ticked past three million.
After The Helicopter
See more on the next page
Advertisement
See more on the next page
Advertisement
