Chapter 89: Reckoning
Vanesa didn’t know how long she stayed curled up on her bed.
Her face throbbed where her father had slapped her, but it wasn’t the pain that stung.
It was the realisation of how little she ant to him.
Her father, the man she had worshipped her entire life, had called her useless.
The word stuck in her mind like a cruel chant.
She sat up, wiping her swollen eyes.
The room felt cold, lonely... Usually, at this ti, she would throw a tantrum, but not today.
Her chest tightened. It was suffocating her breathing.
"I’m not useless," she whispered to herself.
But her voice shook, betraying the doubt she couldn’t ignore.
A knock sounded at her door, soft but firm.
She stiffened, wondering if it was Henry coming to make ands.
For a fleeting second, hope was flying inside her.
"Co in," she said, her voice hoarse.
The door opened, and Beatrice stepped inside.
"Vanesa," Beatrice said, her tone was light but colder. "What’s this I hear about you fighting with your father?"
Vanesa looked at her mother; the ache in her chest grew instantly. "I didn’t fight with him. He slapped ."
Beatrice arched an eyebrow as if the news were mildly inconvenient.
"Then you must have said sothing to provoke him. Henry doesn’t lose his temper without reason."
Her mother’s dismissiveness struck Vanesa like a fresh wound.
"I asked if you cheated on him," Vanesa said flatly, watching Beatrice’s face for any kind of guilt or anger.
Beatrice’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes rolled. "Why would you ask such a thing?"
"Because... because I need to know!" Vanesa’s voice cracked. "Everything is falling apart, and I don’t know what’s true anymore. I thought you both loved , but now I don’t even know who you are."
Beatrice moved closer; her graceful move was gentle yet predatory.
She sat on the edge of Vanesa’s bed, her manicured hand rested lightly on her daughter’s knee.
"Darling," she said softly in a voice that was spoken with a sweetness that felt like poison, "you are letting your emotions cloud your judgnt. You mustn’t ask questions like that. They only cause trouble."
Vanesa pulled away. "Stop talking to like I’m a child! I’m not a doll you can dress up and parade around anymore!"
Beatrice’s smile didn’t falter, but her eyes hardened. "Watch your tone, Vanesa. You’re upset, and I’ll forgive you for speaking out of turn, but don’t forget who raised you."
"Raised ?" Vanesa scoffed. "You controlled . You made get surgery. You made act perfect. You never cared about what I wanted!"
Beatrice stood abruptly, her composure cracking just enough to reveal the steel beneath.
"Do you think I did all this for myself? Everything I’ve done was for you. To make sure you had the life you deserved."
Vanesa rose to her feet, her hands balled into fists.
"No, you did it for yourself. To make into so perfect version of you. But I’m not you, Mother. I’ll never be."
For a mont, Beatrice said nothing.
The storm in the room was ready to be released. Finally, she exhaled sharply and walked to the door.
"Think whatever you want, Vanesa," she said in an icy tone. "But if you keep acting like this, you’ll find yourself all alone. And trust , you wouldn’t survive that."
The door closed behind her, and Vanesa collapsed back onto her bed, her mother’s words replayed in her mind.
Alone.
The word scared her more than she cared to admit.
>___<
The next morning, Vanesa forced herself out of bed.
Her cheek was still tender, but she refused to look at the bruise forming there.
She couldn’t bear the reminder of how far she’d fallen in her father’s eyes.
The halls of the estate were unusually quiet as she made her way to the dining room.
Usually, the staff would be about cleaning and preparing for the day, but now it felt as though the entire house was holding its breath.
As she reached the room, she heard voices.
She paused, pressing herself against the wall to listen.
"You’ve been too lenient with her, Henry," Beatrice’s voice carried. "She’s an embarrassnt to this family."
"She’s my daughter," Henry replied, though his voice lacked its usual strength. "I can’t just throw her away."
"Can’t you?" Beatrice challenged. "She’s a liability. A spoiled, selfish child who doesn’t know her place. If she keeps this up, she’ll destroy everything we’ve built."
Vanesa’s stomach twisted as their words sank in.
She felt like an intruder in her own life, listening to her parents discuss her as if she were a broken piece of furniture.
"I’ll handle her," Henry said finally. "But she’s still my blood. Don’t forget that."
Vanesa couldn’t listen anymore. She turned and hurried away.
Her parents were planning to "handle" her. To them, she wasn’t a daughter—she was a problem to be fixed... all because she saw her mother’s affair.
By the ti she reached her room, Vanesa’s anger had returned.
She paced back and forth, spinning like a ball in the air.
They wanted to control her, to break her down until she was nothing. But she wouldn’t let them.
She thought about Eira.
Despite everything, despite the humiliation and anger, there was one truth she couldn’t ignore:
Eira had beaten her.
Eira had walked into their world and shattered it with a single blow.
And now, Vanesa had no choice but to confront the truth she’d been running from.
’Eira is really a better player than ...’
The thought made her blood boil, but it also sparked sothing else.
Determination.
If Eira was better, then Vanesa would beco stronger. Smarter. Ruthless.
She wouldn’t let her parents control her anymore, and she wouldn’t let Eira win.
Vanesa sat at her desk, pulling out a sheet of paper and a pen.
She didn’t know what her next move would be, but she knew one thing:
She wasn’t going to stay silent.
Her family wanted to treat her like a pawn in their ga, but they’d underestimated her.
And so had Eira.
Vanesa smiled bitterly as she began to write.
It wasn’t a plan yet, just fragnted thoughts and ideas, but it was a start.
"I’ll show them," she whispered to herself. "I’ll show all of them."
The words felt hollow, but she repeated them anyway, as if saying them enough tis might make them true.
For the first ti in days, she felt sothing other than despair.
It wasn’t hope, exactly.
But it was enough.
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