My brow furrowed and I shook him off. "Captain Abbott, I thought I made myself clear the other day. My name is Simmons. I have nothing to do with you."

He froze, momentarily speechless.

The man beside him chose that moment to speak up. "Jennifer, if you need someone to blame for what happened back then, blame me. Don't hold a grudge against Uncle Kenneth anymore. You're family—blood relatives. There's no knot that can't be untied."

My father seemed to draw courage from those words. He sighed and nodded along. "That's right, Jennifer. We're family. Listen to your brother and come home."

Brother?

My gaze snapped to the man's face—Homer Cobb. The child who'd been chosen during that fire. The one my father had adopted afterward.

So he really had let this person fill the spot that burned away.

"I told you, I have nothing to do with any of you." The words scraped out through clenched teeth. "And don't you dare mention my brother. You don't have the right."

I reached for the door to shut it. Homer's foot shot out, jamming into the gap. He shoved hard, and the door swung open, sending me stumbling back two steps before I caught my balance.

I glared at them, fury rising. "What do you think you're doing? Breaking and entering?"

Homer didn't answer. He stepped inside, his eyes scanning my living room before dropping, his expression unreadable.

My father held out a cake box with trembling hands. "Jennifer, I know I was wrong before. Look—your brother and I bought your favorite strawberry cake. Try some."

I looked down at the small six-inch box.

It looked exactly like the one from my memories.

A faint laugh escaped me. I reached out and took it. The moment hope flickered in my father's eyes, I turned and tossed it into the trash.

"You want to know something?"

I lifted my gaze to his face, watching it drain of color. Every word came out sharp and distinct.

"What I hate most in this world is strawberry cake. It makes me sick."

"And I told you—I don't have a brother anymore. My brother died a long time ago."

Slap.

The blow came without warning, snapping my head to the side. Searing pain exploded across my cheek.

My father's hand was still shaking—whether from rage or the force of the hit, I couldn't tell. He jabbed a finger at my face, his voice thick with barely contained disappointment and venom. "How did I raise such an ungrateful animal? Now that you've latched onto money, you think you're too good for us? All these excuses—you just don't want to acknowledge me! I kept thinking about how to make it up to you. I was such a fool. You're nothing but a heartless, backstabbing ingrate!"

My cheek still stung, but I laughed.

"Make it up to me?"

I looked at him, and twenty years of hatred finally broke through. Cold words struck back, one by one. "How exactly would you do that? Can you turn back time? Bring my brother and Grandma back to life? Make it so the fire never happened?"

"When my brother and Grandma and I were trapped in that fire waiting to die—when I had a fever so high I could barely stand, when smoke tore my throat until I coughed up blood—where were you?"

"I was curled up in Grandma's arms, watching you walk past that door again and again, carrying out strangers."

"I screamed for you until my voice gave out. And what did you say? You told me to hold on a little longer. You said civilians come first."

"But the people dying in that fire were your own mother. Your own flesh and blood." My voice turned to ice. "You want to talk about ingratitude? Between the two of us—who's really the heartless one?"

His face went white. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

Homer finally saw his opening. He let out a cold laugh. "Jennifer, all this talk is just you making excuses so you can sleep at night."

"I was young back then, but I remember it clearly—when they pulled you out, it was Grandma Maya and your brother shielding you with their own bodies. They died for you." His eyes narrowed. "You can't live with the guilt, so you're dumping all the blame on Uncle Kenneth. Isn't that right?"

"Uncle Kenneth is a hero. He sacrificed his own family to save others. You're too selfish to ever understand that."

I stared at his self-righteous face and felt nothing but absurdity.

"Homer." My voice was quiet. "If you'd been the one left to burn that night—abandoned in that fire to die—would you still be standing here running your mouth like this?"

He choked on his words, looked away, said nothing.

There it was. People's joys and sorrows never truly connect. Other people's suffering is just scenery in the distance. It's only when the flames lick at your own clothes that you learn what burning feels like.

"Who called the police?"

Officers walked in and put an end to the circus.

And just as I expected, after the production crew got their hands on our confrontation—after their careful editing and manufactured outrage—I became the target of a full-blown witch hunt.

#JenniferSimmons slapped by her own father# (VIRAL)

#The truth about the fire: Survivor Homer Cobb speaks out# (TRENDING)

#Exposing artist Jennifer Simmons: Luxury lifestyle, cold heart#

Clip after clip, all surgically edited to paint me as a cowardly, jealous, money-grubbing woman.

The production crew arranged exclusive interviews with my father and Homer. On camera, Kenneth wept openly, voice breaking: "A child's failings... are a father's failings. I didn't raise her right. I failed her mother..."

Homer sighed on cue beside him, wearing a mask of guilt: "It's all my fault. If they hadn't been trying to save me that night, Grandma Maya and my brother might still be alive... and my sister wouldn't have turned out like this. Jennifer, please come home. Family matters more than money..."

Their words dripped with 'forgiveness' and 'understanding'—and ignited every ounce of cruelty waiting on the other side of the screen.

The comments section exploded:

"You won't even acknowledge your own father over money? Do you have a heart? Captain Abbott is a hero!"

"Look at Homer—he knows how to be grateful. Now look at you. Living in a mansion, throwing art exhibitions. Doesn't your conscience hurt?"

"Disgusting. Shamelessness really is a superpower."

"Doesn't matter how good your paintings are when you're rotten to the core. She should be blacklisted!"

"I heard her mother went crazy because of her. Should've strangled this one at birth."

My gallery address and home address were doxxed. My phone rang non-stop, flooded with vile curses and threats.

Every morning, I'd find my doorstep covered in red paint, dead rats, and wooden tablets scrawled with curses. Investors pulled out one after another. The award I'd just won was hanging by a thread.

The world became a wall closing in from all sides.

Then my phone screen lit up. A call from my mother—my real mother, Evelyn Simmons.

"We saw everything... Are you okay? Should Dad and I book the next flight back?!"

Warmth spread through my chest. I smiled. "No need, Mom. I can handle this. Don't worry."

Silence on the other end, like she was trying to read my voice. Then, soft but firm: "Alright. But remember—when you're tired, come home."

"I will."

The moment I hung up, a message from Homer popped onto my screen:

"Want to make this go away? Meet me."

I thought about it for a long time. Finally, I decided to go.

What I didn't expect was the location: a real-estate showroom. And standing next to Homer—my father.

"Sis! You made it!" Homer bounded toward me, all smiles. "That oceanview villa you asked me to look into? I found it. Actually, I found two—can't decide between them. Come help me pick!"

He reached for my arm. I pulled back with a frown.

"Homer. What do you actually want?"

Seeing my coldness, he raised an eyebrow. His smile didn't waver, but his voice dropped low.

"Jennifer. Don't you want all that online stuff to go away? I'm getting married. I'm two houses short. Buy them for me, and I'll make your problems disappear. How about it?"

I immediately looked at my father.

He lowered his head guiltily, pressing a fist to his lips and coughing twice.

"Jennifer, no matter what, Homer is your brother now. All these years, he's been the one by my side, taking care of me in your place. You're so wealthy now—would it kill you to help him out?"

The air went still.

I almost laughed from sheer disbelief. "So this whole time, all that talk about searching for me for twenty years—it was all a lie? You found out who I am now, and you deliberately got the production crew involved to orchestrate a public smear campaign and force my hand. Didn't you?"

My father stared at me, stunned. "Jennifer, I'm your biological father! How could you think that of me?!"

"After you left, I looked for you for years. What happened online was just an accident. But don't worry—Homer said he has a way to fix it. Jennifer, it's just two apartments. You're not short on cash. What's the big deal about helping your brother?"

"You're right, I'm not short on cash..."

I looked at him coldly. "But I have no obligation to raise a son for you. And stop trying to guilt-trip me with that 'daughter of a hero' nonsense."

"I stopped falling for that a long time ago."

"After all, twenty years ago—after that fire, the moment you threw me out with your own hands—my family died. Every last one of them."

My father froze completely, as if seeing me for the first time.

Just then, a piercing commotion erupted at the showroom entrance.

"The ungrateful bitch is in there!"

"Get her! For Captain Abbott!"

A mob of men and women with phones raised high broke through the security guards and charged straight at me. They carried buckets of foul-smelling red paint and hurled it at my face.

The thick, acrid liquid splattered across my body. My vision turned blood-red.

"Abandoning her own father for money! Animal!"

"Drop dead!"

Curses, shoving, fists raining down. I shielded my head and looked desperately toward my father through the chaos—he frowned, his lips moved slightly, but in the end he turned away. He even stepped back.

And Homer? He stood off to the side with his arms crossed, the corner of his mouth curled into an undisguised smirk. Enjoying the show.

Just as one man grabbed my hair and another raised a metal phone stand to bring it crashing down—

"Stop! Police!"

The sharp command cut through the noise. Several officers rushed in and forced the crowd apart.

The place was a wreck. Drenched in red, I stood in the filth, slowly raised my hand, and pointed at Homer and my father.

"I'm filing a report."

I wiped the blood and paint from my eyes and spoke to the officers, each word clear and cold as ice.

"Against both of them. Defamation, extortion, and inciting violent assault."