Meghan returned from a long, grueling day with Uriel, only to be met by the sight of her father clutching a bottle of whiskey. The anger flared in her chest instantly. Before he could take another sip, she lunged forward, slapping the bottle from his hand. It hit the floor with a heavy, muffled thud.
In the sudden silence, the only sound was Meghan's ragged, erratic breathing.
"Meghan? You're back?" Denver asked. His voice was thick with drink and heavy with a hollow sadness. His eyes looked vacant, two empty craters in a weary face. He reached out an unsteady hand toward her.
Meghan recoiled. "Don't touch me, Dad!" she snapped, her voice trembling. "You promised. You promised you wouldn't do this after Regina left. You said you wouldn't let your health slide. So why the hell are you drinking?"
Denver's hand retreated, trembling. "I don't know, Meg," he murmured. "I'm pathetic. I'm a failure as a father. I couldn't protect you—not financially, not physically. I'm just stuck in this dead-end job while you..." He trailed off, his self-loathing making Meghan's anger melt into a sharp, painful pity.
She remembered the man he used to be: cheerful, solid, the kind of man who kept everything together even when the world was falling apart. He wouldn't be spiraling like this unless he'd seen the disgrace she endured at the Decathlon. Denver Smith was the kind of man who once sold his most prized possessions just to win a court case for her; seeing her insulted was his breaking point.
She knelt, bringing herself to his eye level, and cupped his face in her hands. "You are not a disgrace. You're Denver Adem Smith," she said firmly. "The commander of the Maroon Seal Squad. The best leader to ever take a force into battle. And most of all, you're my father. Don't you ever forget that."
She pulled him into a fierce hug. Denver buried his face in her shoulder, his body shaking with uncontrollable sobs. "What are you going to do?" he choked out. "After those... those lies they told about you?"
Meghan's breath hitched. He had seen it. And if he had seen it, his colleagues had definitely seen it. "I don't know," she whispered. "I'll lay low. Forget about competitions for a year or two. Rumors eventually die down."
"That Wales brat is something else!" Denver snapped, suddenly lifting his head, his grief flashing into protective rage. He began rolling up his sleeves. "She's lucky I can't get to her. I'd turn her hair into a wig."
Meghan gave his shoulder a playful, gentle punch. "Yeah, sure, Dad. Like you'd actually hit a lady. If you were that kind of man, Regina would have been the first."
The mention of Regina hung in the air. His first wife—Meghan's mother—had eloped with a younger man, calling Denver a "depressed maniac" who was too old for her. She had walked away from a seven-year-old Meghan and taken everything Denver owned in a brutal divorce.
He had spent years trying to keep Meghan living like a princess, even as they moved into cramped quarters and he took odd jobs, sometimes even playing a costumed character at school parties just to pay her fees. His heart had broken when he gathered his colleagues to watch his "little star" win the Decathlon, only to listen to them mock him when she was accused of cheating.
Denver sat back, watching Meghan as she tucked her head between her knees. "Hey, princess," he said softly, patting her hair. "What's on your mind? Talk to Daddy."
"Dad... do you think things will ever actually get better?" she asked. Her grey eyes, identical to his, were rimmed with red.
"Of course they will," he said, leaning over to kiss her forehead. "Good things take time. Now, no more tears. Your old man got you your favorite moon cake from that little shop down the road."
Meghan stood up, a frown creasing her brow. "Dad, are you kidding? You bought moon cake at Araki. Those are 700 each. Why would you waste money like that?"
Denver headed toward the small kitchen, grabbing a faded apron. "I told you, I got it at the roadside to make you happy," he said, his back to her. "It was only £50. A bargain."
"I could have managed with rice and cabbage soup," she sighed, pulling up a stool. "You really didn't have to."
"Princess, just relax and believe your old man, okay?" He offered a tired smile. "It's my treat."
"Fine," Meghan nodded, knowing better than to nag him when he was trying to reclaim his dignity.
The VIP lounge of the Country Club was a sanctuary of hushed voices and the scent of expensive sandalwood—a world removed from the cabbage soup and desperate hope of the Smith household.
Nathan sat deep in a leather armchair, swirling a glass of amber liquid. He wasn't the mourning friend people expected him to be. Instead, a sharp, satisfied smirk played on his lips as he watched the viral clip of Meghan's public shaming on his tablet.
"You're rewatching it again?" Brenda Wales asked, gliding into the room. She looked every bit the heiress, her jewelry catching the light like jagged ice. "I thought you might at least pretend to be grieving your 'best friend's' reputation."
Nathan laughed, a cold, hollow sound. "Grieve? Babe, I've been waiting for that look on her face since the eighth grade. The 'genius' girl finally realizing that no amount of IQ points can save her from a well-placed lie."
He leaned back, his eyes gleaming with a dark pride. "The proctor didn't even suspect a thing. I knew exactly she'd never see that coming. Planting those answer keys was the easiest thing I've ever done."
Brenda smiled, leaning over the back of his chair. "I have to admit, Nathan, the framing was a masterstroke. Everyone thought you were her shadow, her loyal protector. They'd never believe you were the one who handed me the match to burn her life down."
"That was the point," Nathan said, his voice dropping into a hiss of long-simmered resentment. "I spent years being the 'other' kid in the room while she got the trophies and the praise. I wanted to see her father's face when he realized his 'Star' was just a common cheat. I wanted him to feel as small as I felt every time she outshines me."
Brenda ran a manicured hand over his shoulder. "And his reaction was delicious. My father says Denver is a wreck at the office. It's only a matter of time before he's pushed out entirely."
Nathan took a slow, victorious sip of his drink. "Let him go back to playing dress-up at birthday parties. And as for Meghan... let her rot in that little apartment thinking the world just turned against her by accident. She'll never guess it was me."
He looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the sprawling estate below, his expression devoid of any mercy. "She thought we were equals because she could solve a few equations. I'm just reminding her that in the real world, wealth and bloodline are the only variables that matter."
The door to Meghan's room groaned on its hinges as she pushed it shut, the click of the lock providing a small, hollow sense of security. The room was small, smelling faintly of old books and the lavender detergent she used to stretch their meager grocery budget.
On her desk, a row of silver-plated trophies caught the moonlight filtering through the thin curtains. They were dusty. To anyone else, they were symbols of her genius; to her, tonight, they looked like gravestones for a future that had been murdered in broad daylight.
She didn't turn on the light. She didn't want to see the peeling wallpaper or the stack of textbooks she no longer had a reason to study.
The old bed squeaked in rhythmic protest as she collapsed onto it, the worn mattress dipping under her weight. She stared at the ceiling, watching the shadow of a tree branch dance against the plaster like a skeletal hand. For a moment, the silence was absolute—until the vibration of her phone on the wooden nightstand shattered it.
The screen illuminated the dark room with a harsh, clinical blue light. Unknown Number.
She pressed the power button to silence it, her jaw tight. Probably Brenda, she thought. Calling to twist the knife one last time before bed. A few seconds of silence followed, then the buzzing started again. Aggressive. Relentless.
"Leave me alone," she whispered to the empty room.
On the third attempt, the noise snapped the last thread of her patience. She lunged for the phone, sliding the icon across the screen with a jagged motion.
"Brenda, what the fuck?!" she hissed into the receiver, her voice trembling with raw heat. "Are you actually insane? It's nine-thirty. Have you run out of people to ruin today, or am I just your favorite hobby?"
There was a pause. Then, a low, melodic chuckle vibrated through the speaker—a sound that definitely didn't belong to Brenda Wales.
"I have to admit," a smooth voice said, "I didn't peg you for the type to swear like a sailor. It's a good look on you."
Meghan froze, her back straightening as she sat up. "Who is this?"
"It's Hugo. From the café."
Meghan let out a long, ragged exhale, the adrenaline in her chest turning into a dull throb. She slumped back against the headboard, rubbing her temples. "How did you get this number?"
"I have my ways," Hugo said, his tone turning softer, more grounded. "Look, don't hang up. I just wanted to make sure you made it back in one piece. And... I wanted to apologize for Uriel. He's a lot to deal with even on a good day."
"Your friend is a prick, Hugo," Meghan said flatly, her eyes drifting back to her trophies. "And his apology isn't needed. I just want to be left in peace."
"I'll tell him you said that. Though I might leave out the 'prick' part for my own safety," Hugo joked lightly. There was a brief silence, the kind that felt surprisingly comfortable for a conversation between strangers. "I'll stop by tomorrow, Meghan."
"That's a 'you' problem, not a 'me' problem," she replied, her voice losing its edge of ice. "I didn't invite you."
"Consider it an uninvited check-up. Goodnight, Belle."
"Goodnight," she murmured, ending the call before he could say anything else.
She set the phone down, the screen fading to black. The room returned to its quiet, shadowed state, but the air felt different. Less heavy. She pulled the thin duvet up to her chin, the ghost of a scoff escaping her lips.
"What a jerk," she whispered to the dark.
For the first time since the competition started, she didn't dream of equations or accusations. She just slept.