Chapter 3 Perfect Daughter #2
I don’t. I don’t understand any of it. But I nod because that’s what she wants.
“Good girl.” She rises, tugging me toward the door. “Let’s get you some water. There are more guests who want to meet you.”
More guests. More strangers with hungry eyes and grasping hands. My stomach churns as she leads me back to the party, back into the bright lights and tinkling laughter that now sounds like breaking glass.
The rest of the evening blurs together. A parade of faces, all wanting to “chat” with me, to “get to know” Richard Gallagher’s special daughter.
Some are content with conversation, asking about school and hobbies, while their eyes devour me.
Others want me to sit with them, their hands wandering in ways that make my skin crawl.
Mother hovers nearby, occasionally intervening when someone gets “too friendly,” but never stopping it entirely.
By the time the last guest leaves, I’m exhausted in ways I didn’t know existed. My dress is wrinkled, my carefully styled hair mussed. The makeup Mother applied has smudged, making me look like a broken doll.
Father finds me in the kitchen, where I’m sitting at the servants’ table, drinking milk and trying to wash the taste of fear from my mouth.
“You did well tonight,” he says, loosening his tie. “The guests were very impressed.”
I stare at him, this man I’ve called Father for eleven years, and realize I don’t know him at all. “Why?” The word escapes before I can stop it. “Why did you make me do that?”
His expression hardens. “I didn’t make you do anything, Belle. You smiled, you talked, you were charming. That’s what we needed.”
“But they… they touched me. They wanted…” I can’t finish the sentence, don’t have words for what I felt in their eyes, their hands.
“They wanted to appreciate beauty,” he says dismissively. “To admire what I’ve created. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Created. Like I’m not his daughter but his project. His investment.
“I want to go to bed,” I whisper.
“Of course.” He gestures toward the stairs. “But Belle? Next time, I expect you to be more… accommodating. Tonight was just an introduction. The real work begins next month.”
Real work. Next month. The words echo in my head as I climb the stairs to my room, each step feeling like a descent into something dark and irreversible.
In my bedroom, I strip off the pink dress, letting it puddle on the floor like shed skin.
In the bathroom mirror, I look the same—same blue eyes, same blonde hair, same young face.
But something fundamental has changed. The girl who went downstairs in pink silk isn’t the same one staring back at me now.
I shower until the water runs cold, trying to wash away phantom touches, lingering looks, the smell of cigars and entitlement. But some stains don’t wash out.
Later, when the house is quiet and my parents think I’m asleep, I creep to the top of the stairs. Their voices drift up from Father’s study, sharp with tension.
“—too young, Richard. Even for an introduction, she’s too young.”
“She’s exactly the right age.” Father’s voice is cold, businesslike. “Jacob was very pleased. And Murphy is already asking about next month’s gathering.”
“Next month is too soon. She needs time to… adjust.”
“She’ll adjust by doing. That’s how we all learned.”
Silence stretches, heavy with implication. When Mother speaks again, her voice is smaller. “The Wilson situation needs to be resolved first. If they’re joining the network—”
“Wilson is handled,” Father cuts her off. “His cooperation is assured. His daughter will be… useful.”
“Two of them at once? The risks—”
“Are manageable. Belle is special, Olivia. You know that. She’s not like the others. She’s ours. Our blood. That makes her more valuable, not less.”
“Or more dangerous,” Mother murmurs. “If she remembers—”
“She won’t. We’ll make sure of it.”
I retreat to my room, their words spinning in my head. Wilson. Daughter. Others. Remember what? Forget what?
I crawl into bed, pulling the covers over my head like a child hiding from monsters. But the monsters aren’t under the bed or in the closet. They’re downstairs, planning my future, turning me into something I don’t understand.
Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and pretend everything is normal. I’ll go to school, practice piano, and attend ballet. I’ll be Belle Gallagher, the perfect daughter, honor student, and pride of the family.
But tonight, in the dark, I let myself cry for the girl in the pink dress. The girl who thought being special was a gift, not a curse. The girl who still believed her parents were protectors, not predators.
That girl is gone now, replaced by something harder. Something that understands the real currency of our world isn’t money or power—it’s flesh and innocence and the willingness to look away while both are traded.
I am eleven years old, and I’ve just learned what I really am to my parents: not a daughter, but merchandise. Not a child to protect, but an asset to develop.
The first gathering is over, but I know with sick certainty it’s only the beginning. Next month will come, and the month after that, each one stealing more pieces of who I was supposed to be.
But I’ll survive. I’ll learn to smile while they touch, to charm while they leer, to be exactly what they want me to be. Because that’s what perfect daughters do.
Even when it destroys them from the inside out.