Chapter 6 #2
Dad: Acceptable. Keep your head down. Don’t let it slip for the final. I don’t pay for B's, Michelle. I pay for results. Did you get the email about the trust disbursement?
I read the text three times.
Acceptable.
I don’t pay for B's.
Did you get the money?
No "Good job." No "I'm proud of you." No "How are you?"
Just a transaction. Just a reminder that I was an investment that was currently underperforming.
The phone slipped from my hand and hit the duvet.
The coldness that rushed through me wasn't from the drafty window. It was the familiar, hollow ache of being unseen.
I wasn't a daughter. I was a line item.
I pulled my knees to my chest. I didn't cry. I had learned a long time ago that crying ruined your makeup and didn't change anything. Victor Vane didn't respond to tears. He responded to leverage.
And I had none.
I heard the front door open downstairs. Heavy boots on the stairs.
Greg.
He was home early.
I didn't move. I stared at the wall, at the peeling grey wallpaper.
There was a knock on my door. Soft. Tentative.
"Michelle?"
I didn't answer.
The door handle turned. He pushed it open.
"I saw the pizza guy outside," he said, stepping in. "He was confused about the… Michelle?"
He stopped.
I knew what I looked like. I looked like a statue. Frozen. Blank.
"What's wrong?" His voice shifted instantly from casual to alert. He crossed the room in three strides. "Did something happen? Are you hurt?"
He sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. He reached out, his hand hovering near my knee.
"Michelle, talk to me."
I picked up my phone. I didn't say a word. I just held it out to him, the text message still open.
He took it. He read it.
I watched his face. I watched the way his eyes narrowed. I watched the muscle in his jaw jump. I watched his grip on the phone tighten until his knuckles turned white.
"He sent this?" Greg asked, his voice low and dangerous. "After you got a B+?"
"Acceptable," I whispered. "That's what I am. Acceptable. Barely."
"He's an idiot," Greg growled. He tossed the phone onto the bed like it was contaminated. "An 88 is incredible. You learned a semester's worth of math in four days."
"It doesn't matter," I said, my voice flat. "It never matters. I could get a 100. I could win a Nobel Prize. He'd just ask if it came with a cash prize he could tax."
"Don't say that."
"It's the truth, Greg!" I snapped, finally looking at him. The anger flared, hot and protective. "You think I act like this because it's fun? You think I buy clothes I don't need and party with people I hate because I enjoy it?"
I scrambled to my knees, facing him. I was shouting now, but I couldn't stop. The dam had broken.
"I do it because it's the only time he looks at me! When I screw up, he has to deal with me. He has to call me. He has to yell. At least when he's yelling, he knows my name. When I'm 'good'? When I'm 'acceptable'? I disappear. I become a ghost in his house."
I gasped for air, tears finally spilling over.
"My mother left when I was six because she couldn't handle being invisible," I choked out. "She just… packed a bag and went to Italy. She sent me a postcard once a year. He erased her. And I'm terrified… I'm terrified that if I stop screaming, he's going to erase me too."
The silence in the room was absolute.
I covered my face with my hands, ashamed. I had never told anyone that. Not Chloe. Not my therapists.
I felt the mattress shift.
Greg didn't say anything. He didn't offer a platitude. He didn't tell me my dad loved me in his own way.
He pulled me in.
He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me against his chest. It wasn't sexual. It wasn't the hungry, desperate grab from last night.
It was solid. It was an anchor.
He buried his face in my hair. One hand splayed across my back, holding me together. The other cradled the back of my head, pressing me into his shoulder.
"I see you," he whispered into my hair.
I sobbed. A jagged, ugly sound.
"I see you, Michelle," he repeated, his voice vibrating through his chest against my cheek. "You're not invisible. You're the loudest, brightest thing I've ever known. You couldn't disappear if you tried."
"He doesn't care," I wept into his hoodie. It smelled like the gym and laundry detergent. It smelled like safety.
"Fuck him," Greg said fiercely. "He's blind. He looks at a spreadsheet and misses the person. I don't."
He pulled back slightly, framing my face with his hands. His thumbs wiped away the tears. His eyes were dark, intense, and utterly honest.
"You got an 88," he said. "You did that. Not for him. For you. You proved you're smart. You proved you can do the work."
"I did it for you," I whispered. "I didn't want to disappoint you."
Greg went still.
"You could never disappoint me," he said. The confession hung in the air, heavy and terrifying. "You frustrate me. You drive me crazy. You make me want to tear my hair out. But you don't disappoint me."
He leaned his forehead against mine.
"You're not a ghost, Michelle. You're real. You're here. And you're mine to deal with."
You're mine.
He said it again. But this time, it wasn't a command. It was a promise.
"Greg," I breathed.
I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted him to erase the pain with his mouth.
But he didn't.
He kissed my forehead. A long, lingering press of his lips.
"Order more pizza," he said softly, pulling away. "I'm starving. And we're going to celebrate."
"Celebrate?" I sniffled.
"Yeah. We're going to eat carbs. We're going to watch whatever terrible show you want. And I'm going to listen to you critique everyone's outfits."
"You hate my shows," I said, a watery smile breaking through.
"I know," he said, standing up and pulling me to my feet. "But tonight, the Captain is off duty. Tonight, it's just Greg."
He kept hold of my hand. He squeezed it.
"Come on, Brat. Feed me."
I followed him downstairs.
My father’s text was still on my phone, buried under the duvet. The pain was still there. The hole in my chest where parental love should be was still gaping.
But as I watched Greg Sterling open the pizza box and grimace at the amount of grease, I realized something.
I wasn't invisible. Not to him.
And for the first time in my life, that felt like enough.
But looking at his broad back, seeing the way he moved in my space, I knew the danger had just escalated.
Before, I was risking my body.
Now, I was risking my soul.
Because if Greg Sterling ever left... if he ever looked at me with cold, indifferent eyes...
It wouldn't just hurt. It would destroy me.