~Aria's POV
That got his attention.
He looked at me then. Really looked. His brows furrowed, confusion mixing with something that might have been guilt. "Aria… what are you talking about?"
I laughed. A short, sharp sound that surprised even me. "Don't pretend you don't know. They just accused me on live television. Your wife shouted like she was at a market. Your daughter cried like she was the victim."
He sat up slowly, setting the glass down. "Wendy wouldn't…"
"Stop," I cut in. My voice was shaking now, but I didn't care. "Just stop. She did. Wendy did. And the whole world watched."
He rubbed his face with both hands, like he could wipe the situation away. "I just saw the news. I didn't understand everything."
"Well, understand this," I said, stepping closer. "They crossed a line they can't uncross. And I won't stay quiet. I won't play nice. You should tell them to prepare themselves."
"For what?" he asked quietly.
"For war," I said, meeting his eyes. "Because I didn't steal anything. And I won't let them bury me with lies."
The television kept talking behind us, analysts dissecting my career, my reputation, my character as if they knew me. Like I wasn't standing right there, breathing.
He smiled.
"This isn't the time to be smiling, Dad," I said, my voice cutting sharper than I meant it to. I could hear it too, the edge, the crack underneath. "Your wife and your daughter are on national television, destroying everything I've built for years."
The smile disappeared. Slowly. He studied my face like he was seeing a stranger, then sighed and leaned back into the couch, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
"Aria," he said, measured, careful. "You and Wendy are both my daughters. And I know Wendy. I know what she's capable of."
The words landed strangely. Not as comfort. Not as defense. Just… confusing. Because if he knew, then why was this happening?
"Sit," he added, gesturing to the armchair opposite him.
I hesitated, my body buzzing with adrenaline, anger, and fear. Then I sat. My legs felt weak, like they might give out if I stayed standing any longer.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his voice quieter now. "Tell me something. How could Wendy have gotten her hands on your book?"
I shook my head immediately, frustration rising in my chest. "I don't know. I swear I don't. I sent it to my publisher two days ago. Just two days. No one else knew about it. No drafts lying around. No backups floating anywhere."
He nodded slowly, eyes narrowing as he thought. "Then you shouldn't start pointing fingers without facts," he said. "Call your publisher."
My chest tightened. I hated how reasonable that sounded. Still, I nodded. It made sense. I reached into my bag, my fingers trembling as I dialed the number. The line rang once. Twice.
"Aria," Mr. Ryan said immediately. His voice was tight, strained. "I was just about to call you. What the hell is going on? Reporters are swarming my office."
My throat burned. "That's what I should be asking you," I said. "You're the only other person who knew about the book. So tell me why my work is suddenly in someone else's hands."
There was a pause. It was long and heavy.
Then his tone hardened. "What are you accusing me of?"
"I'm not accusing you," I said quickly, though my voice shook. "I'm asking a question. Because that book is mine. Every word. Every scene. I didn't steal anything."
"I have known you for years," he snapped. "I would never do something like that."
"Then explain how…"
He cut me off. "I don't know what you're talking about. And frankly, Aria, this attitude is rude. I'm dealing with a crisis here."
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone, my reflection faintly visible on the dark screen. The room felt too big suddenly. Too quiet. Like all the air had been sucked out of it. My chest caved in, and the tears came before I could stop them.
"I didn't steal anything," I said, my voice breaking as I looked at my father. "I didn't. That book is my sweat. My blood. I worked for it. I built everything I have on my own."
He didn't answer right away.
The front door opened.
I didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
"I knew she would be here," Bethany said coolly, stepping inside like she owned the place. Her heels clicked against the floor, confident, controlled.
Wendy followed behind her, eyes red, shoulders trembling. Already performing. Already the victim.
My father stood. "What happened?" he asked, turning to them.
Wendy broke instantly, sobbing into her hands. "She plagiarized my book," she cried. "Dad, I worked so hard. I trusted her. And she stole it."
Bethany stepped forward, placing a comforting hand on Wendy's back, her voice smooth, gentle, convincing. "Aria has always been jealous," she said softly. "You know that. She's never been trustworthy. She's always wanted what Wendy has."
I stared at them, my disbelief curdling into something darker, heavier. "That's a lie," I said. "You're lying. Both of you."
My father looked at me then. Really looked. But there was no warmth in his eyes. Just exhaustion. Heartbreak. A man torn, but already choosing.
I could see it happening in real time. The hesitation. The flicker of doubt. The part of him that wanted to believe me, that remembered the little girl who used to sit at the dining table scribbling stories in battered notebooks, who stayed up late chasing dreams no one else took seriously.
His jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
"Aria," he said slowly, like he was stepping onto unstable ground, "I don't want to believe this."
Hope flared in my chest.
"I know you," he continued. "I know how hard you work. I know how much your writing means to you."
Bethany didn't interrupt. She didn't need to. She simply sighed, a sound heavy with practiced sorrow.
"That's exactly why this hurts so much," she said gently. "Because we trusted her. Because we believed in her. Damian, you've always defended her. Always. But this time…" She trailed off, shaking her head, like the truth was too painful to say out loud.
Wendy lifted her tear-streaked face. "I looked up to Margaret," she whispered. "She was my inspiration. I wanted to be like her. And Aria took that from me."
I turned back to my father, my voice breaking. "Dad, please. Look at me. You know me. I would never do this. Never."
He rubbed his face, dragging his hands down slowly, like the weight of the moment was crushing him. "Then explain it to me," he said. "Explain why your book looks like hers. Explain why everyone is saying.."
"Everyone is saying it because she planned it," I snapped. "Because they planned it."
Bethany's eyes hardened for just a second. Just enough for me to see it. Then she masked it with concern.
"See?" she said quietly. "She's already accusing us. Twisting things. This is what she does when she feels threatened."
"That's not true!" I cried. "You've been poisoning his mind for years," I said, turning fully to Bethany now. "Whispering things. Planting doubts. Making sure he never fully trusts me."
"Aria," my father warned, his voice rising.
"She has," I insisted. "Ever since Mom died. Ever since you married her."
That did it.