The day before the final, I went to the program office to officially withdraw Sophie from the competition. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, so I planned to get in and out as quickly as possible.

But as I walked past one of the rooms, I heard two familiar voices through the slightly open door. Harris. And Wilma.

"Harris, Karlie liked all my posts," Wilma said, her voice tight with worry. "Do you think she suspects something?"

"You’re overthinking it," Harris said, his tone laced with arrogance. "What could she possibly figure out? She’s got enough problems of her own to deal with."

"But—"

"Enough," he cut her off. "I told you, I’ve got this under control. For you and Yulian, I’d do anything. I’ll never let anything happen to you."

His voice was gentle. Warm. Reassuring. I felt sick.

That soft, loving tone, one I had once hoped to hear from him, was meant for Wilma and her son. I gritted my teeth, my hands balling into fists.

And just like that, memories I had buried came flooding back.

The day Sophie was born, Harris had barely reacted. No excitement, no pride, just a distant, unreadable expression. And if I looked hard enough, maybe even… disappointment.

Back then, I convinced myself he was just tired. That work had drained him. Now I knew the truth. He had always wanted a son. And Wilma had given him one.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and turned to leave, but before I could slip away, a voice called out to me. "Karlie?"

I stiffened. The program director was walking past. And just like that, the moment was shattered. I wasn’t the only one caught off guard.

Harris must have heard too because, in the next second, the door creaked open and he and Wilma stepped out.

The second his eyes landed on me, I saw it. A flicker of panic. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by that same fake, easygoing smile he always used when he was covering something up.

"When did you get here?" he asked, his tone light, too casual.

I forced myself to stay calm. "I just finished Sophie’s withdrawal paperwork. I was about to leave when I ran into the director."

Harris’s shoulders relaxed slightly. "Oh. I was just talking to the director about Sophie too. And I ran into Yulian’s mom, so we stopped to chat for a bit."

Wilma smiled, as if nothing was out of the ordinary, and reached into her bag.

"Karlie," she said, pulling out three tickets, "I know Sophie can’t compete, but she and Yulian are such good friends. You should bring her to watch the finals. Cheer for Yulian."

I stared at the tickets, my chest tightening. She knew how much this competition meant to Sophie. How much it hurt just to think about it. And yet, she still had the audacity to act like she was being thoughtful.

Before I could say a word, Harris reached out, plucked the tickets from her hand, and grinned. "That’s a great idea," he said smoothly. "We’ll definitely be there."

"Okay, Sophie must want to watch Yulian's competition. If Yulian wins, Sophie will be happy too," Harris added, smiling like he actually believed his own nonsense.

Wilma nodded along, acting all sweet and considerate.

Watching them put on this little show together made my stomach turn. But I forced myself to stay calm, swallowed the disgust rising in my throat, and took the tickets with a quiet, "Thanks."

That was it. That was the moment I made up my mind. The finals? Fine. Let’s see how things play out.

***

When I got home, the air in the house felt heavy. Too quiet. I walked down the hall and gently pushed open Sophie’s door.

She was curled up in the chair by the window, staring outside. Her back looked so small, so frail—like a dry leaf barely clinging to its branch, just waiting to be carried away by the wind.

My heart ached at the sight. I stepped forward and set the tickets down in front of her. The moment her eyes landed on them, her expression shifted. Dark. Cold.

She turned to me, her gaze sharp with resentment. "Are you doing this on purpose?" Her voice was tight, almost shaking.

"You know how I feel when I hear the word competition. You know it feels like someone is driving a knife through me. And yet, here you are, throwing it in my face? Do you enjoy seeing me like this? Does it make you happy that I can’t stand on that stage anymore?"

I barely had time to process her words before the door behind me swung open. Harris. Of course.

He walked straight to Sophie, immediately shifting into his caring, protective father act. He brushed her hair back gently, speaking in that soft, soothing voice he saved just for her.

Then he turned to me. His expression darkened, full of blame.

"Do you not see what she’s going through?" he snapped. "You thought taking her to watch Yulian compete was a good idea? Seriously? You’re just making things worse for her!"

I let out a slow breath, forcing myself not to laugh at the sheer hypocrisy of it all. Right. Because I was the problem here.

"No wonder Sophie hates you more and more," Harris said, his tone sharp but filled with smug satisfaction. He patted her back reassuringly, but the glint of triumph in his eyes was impossible to miss.

"Dad, she’s trying to push me over the edge!" Sophie sobbed, clinging to him like he was her only safe place. "She doesn’t love me! She never has! All these years, everything she did was fake!"

"Alright, alright, don’t cry," Harris murmured, stroking her hair. "As long as I’m here, no one will ever hurt you."

Then he turned to me, and for a brief second, I caught it—that flicker of amusement, of satisfaction. He was enjoying this.

I watched as Sophie finally cried herself to sleep against his chest.

Once she was out, Harris looked at me again, his voice dripping with fake sympathy. "Don’t take it to heart," he said smoothly. "She’s just upset. You should be more patient with her. Try not to stress her out."

A lump formed in my throat. My heart clenched with something bitter and unbearable. I swallowed it down.

"Of course," I said, forcing a smile. "I understand."

***

The day of the finals arrived. I should’ve stayed home, but instead, I found myself walking into the venue with Harris and Sophie.

Well. Not with them. Sophie clung to his arm the entire way, her grip tight like he was her anchor. She didn’t look at me. Didn’t acknowledge me.

I may as well have been a ghost.

The moment we stepped inside, a group of contestants spotted her. Their expressions changed immediately. "Look who decided to show up," one of them sneered.

"Still think you can win like this?" another laughed mockingly.

"With that broken, scratchy voice of yours? That’d be a miracle."

"By the way," a girl added with a smirk, "have you figured out who ruined your chances yet? When you do, make sure to thank them for me."

My stomach twisted. I turned to Sophie. Her face was paper-white. Her fists clenched at her sides, and her breathing turned shallow. She wanted to fire back, to say something—anything—but no words came out.

Anger surged in me. "Do you have any decency?" I snapped at them. "You think this is funny?"

Before I could say anything else, Sophie shoved me—hard. "Shut up!" she screamed.

My breath caught in my throat.

"You did this to me!" she shrieked, her voice shaking. "You ruined my life! You!"

And then, before I could even process her words, her hand flew up. The slap landed across my face, hard and fast. My ears rang from the impact.

Everything around me blurred. The voices faded into a distant hum. I slowly lifted my hand to my stinging cheek, my fingers brushing over the heat of it.

Then I looked at her. The girl standing in front of me, the one who had just hit me without hesitation, felt like a stranger. Someone I didn’t know at all.

"Everyone, listen up!" Sophie’s voice rang out, sharp and furious. "This awful woman poisoned me and stole my voice!"

The crowd fell silent for a second—just a second—before a wave of gasps and murmurs swept through them.

"You don’t deserve to be my mother!" Sophie kept going, her chest rising and falling with every word. "Get out of here! I don’t ever want to see you again! You deserve every bit of this!"

My stomach dropped.

She planned this. This wasn’t about watching the competition. This was the real reason she agreed to come.

And just like that, the floodgates burst open.

"She’s her mother, how could she do that?"

"Poisoning her own kid? That’s disgusting!"

"She should be locked up!"

"People like her don’t deserve to be parents!"

Spit flew in my direction, and someone actually hit me.

I flinched, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

The words, the accusations—they crashed over me like a tidal wave, pulling me under, suffocating me. My vision blurred. My body trembled. My nails dug into my palms, but I felt nothing except the crushing weight of their hatred.

Then, through the haze, a familiar figure emerged. Wilma.

She stepped out from the crowd, her lips curling into the smuggest smile I’d ever seen. Taking her time, she walked up to me, tilting her head like she was so concerned.

"Poor Sophie," she sighed, fake sympathy dripping from her voice. "Imagine being stuck with a mom like you."

"If I were you, I’d just end it," Wilma sneered.

Sophie nodded, her expression twisted with anger. "Exactly. People like you don’t deserve to live. If I die, at least I won’t have to see your disgusting face every day!"

The pain in my kidneys flared so hard I could barely stand. My legs gave out, and I stumbled backward. Right into Harris.

For a second, I thought maybe he would catch me. But no. He turned away and shoved me aside like I was garbage.

My head slammed into the wall, and my vision went dark for a moment. A ringing sound filled my ears, drowning everything else out.

Through the haze, I heard his voice—calm, firm, heartless.

"Since Sophie feels this way, let’s just get a divorce. A woman like you doesn’t deserve to be her mother. And you sure as hell don’t deserve to be my wife."

He looked almost... relieved. Like he had been waiting for this moment. I forced myself up, my entire body screaming in pain. I didn’t cry. Didn’t beg. I just gave him a weak smile.

"Fine. I’ll make it easy for you." And then I walked away.