1 The night of our high school graduation party, the air in the rented Hamptons beach house was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and cheap tequila. We were playing “Never Have I Ever,” that classic game of social exposure. Bridget, my supposed best friend, sat in the center of the circle, her smile as innocent as a Sunday school teacher’s. She raised her glass, her eyes glinting with a cruelty I was too blind to see. “Okay, let’s do a physical one,” she chirped. “Put a finger down if you can’t speak. If you can, keep them up.” The room went deathly silent. A heartbeat passed. Then, like a coordinated strike, every pair of eyes in the room swiveled toward me. Some people looked away, stifling smirks; others didn’t bother to hide their curiosity, staring at me like I was a broken exhibit at a museum. “Oh, right… I almost forgot,” someone whispered. “She actually can’t talk. Like, at all.” I felt the heat rising in my neck, the familiar, suffocating shame. But Bridget was my best friend. I told myself she was just tipsy, that she’d run out of prompts and grabbed the first thing she saw. So, I did it. I slowly folded one finger down. Next was Nate. Nate was my childhood neighbor, my “boy next door,” the person I had loved in the quiet, aching way you only love someone who has seen you at your worst. I saw Bridget catch his eye, a subtle, sharp nod. Nate didn’t even blink. His voice was casual, almost bored. “Put a finger down if you don’t have a mother. If yours is still alive, keep them up.” The air in the room didn’t just freeze; it solidified. Then, the laughter broke. It started as a titter in the corner and swelled into a roar. Everyone knew. They knew my mother had died in a horrific accident years ago. And they knew because Bridget had made sure the entire graduating class heard the “tragic” story within a week of freshman year. The laughter hit me like a tidal wave, drowning me. I kept my head down, my vision blurring as tears stung my eyes. But my humiliation wasn’t enough for them. It was fuel. Nate finally seemed to notice I was trembling. He reached over and grabbed a napkin, sliding it toward me. Then, he reached out and ruffled my hair, a gesture he’d done a thousand times since we were five. For a split second, my heart skipped. I thought he was coming back to me. The room quieted, sensing his change in mood. I looked up, a pathetic, hopeful spark igniting in my chest. But then, Nate’s hand moved. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he grabbed my wrist, his grip firm and cold, and manually forced another one of my fingers down. He tilted his head, a crooked, handsome smirk playing on his lips. “Fair is fair, Sera. You lost the round. Drink up.” The first tear escaped. Nate and I had grown up with only a fence between our houses. When I first lost my voice after the trauma of my mother’s death, I was a ghost. I communicated in clumsy, frantic gestures that frustrated everyone. Everyone except Nate. He used to tell me, “If I learn the signs, I can be your voice.” He actually did it. He spent an entire summer huddled over a thick ASL manual until he could translate my every thought before I even finished the motion. When the night terrors came, he’d climb over the garden wall and sit by my bed, whispering, “I’m here, Sera. Don’t be scared.” He was the boy who punched a bully in the seventh grade for calling me a “freak.” He told me, “Nobody gets to mess with you.” And now, the man who was supposed to be my shield was the one holding the knife, twisting it into the oldest scars I had, laughing with the rest of the pack. According to the rules, it was my turn to set the prompt. I wiped my eyes, my hands shaking as I signed: “I’ve been the Valedictorian every year. If you haven’t, put a finger down.” Bridget and Nate were the only ones in the room who truly understood ASL. I expected them to at least give me the dignity of a fair translation. Bridget watched my hands finish, then her face morphed into a mask of exaggerated shock. She looked at me as if I’d just confessed to a crime. She turned to the group, her voice trembling with mock pity. “Sera… why would you say that? Why are you being so self-destructive?” I froze. My heart hammered against my ribs. Bridget sighed, looking at the crowd. “She said… ‘Put a finger down if you’re just the maid’s daughter.’” The room exploded. “Are you serious? She’s the housekeeper’s kid?” “I guess she knows she’s losing, so she’s just trashing herself now.” “I’ve never seen a maid’s daughter act so entitled. Bridget is a saint for sponsoring a mute girl all through prep school.” “Bridget used to tell us to be nice to save Sera’s dignity. I can’t believe she just outed herself like that.” The insults felt like needles. I shook my head frantically, trying to explain, but the words were trapped behind my useless vocal cords. I looked at Bridget, my brain a white noise of betrayal. I was the daughter of Arthur Holloway, the CEO of Aetheris Tech. Bridget was the one whose mother lived in our carriage house and cleaned our floors. When my dad started expanding the company into the European market, he was never home. He was terrified I’d be lonely or bullied at school. So, he paid for Bridget to attend the same elite private academy, gave her an allowance equal to mine, and bought her the same designer bags. He just wanted me to have a sister, a protector. That was how she met Nate. I turned to Nate, my last lifeline. I signed to him, my movements frantic, pleading: Nate, tell them. You know the truth. Tell them who I am. Nate just narrowed his eyes at me. “That was your prompt, Sera. Are you trying to back out now?” His voice turned ice-cold. “Being born into a low-income family isn’t a crime. But having a trash personality? That’s on you.” The world tilted. I was pinned to the spot by his gaze. I kept shaking my head, the tears pouring down my face, but Nate just looked away. A second later, he grabbed my wrist and dragged me out of the lounge, through the hallway, and into the cramped downstairs bathroom. He slammed the door and leaned against it, his brow furrowed in frustration. “Look, Bridget’s mom is the help. Everyone knows that. And yeah, maybe Bridget told a few lies at school saying you were the help’s daughter.” He paused, and the next words were like a bucket of liquid nitrogen over my soul. “But she only did it because she’s insecure, Sera. Think about it. You’ve had everything since the day you were born.” “The trust funds, the name, the doting father, the pedigree. You have everything everyone else wants.” “Why can’t you just let her have this one thing? Why can’t you let her have the spotlight for once?” I stared at him, my mouth agape. My life—everything I had—was being used as the justification for why I deserved to be destroyed. “She grew up in that tiny apartment over your garage,” Nate continued, his voice rising. “She worked so hard to build her confidence just to stand in our circle. Can’t you have some empathy? She’s had it so much harder than you.” I signed to him, my hands trembling: But now they all hate me. They think I’m a liar. They think I’m the one who doesn’t belong. He remained silent for a long time. Finally, he sighed and pulled me into a hug. It was a cold, mechanical embrace. “After tonight, you won’t even see these people again. Who cares what they think? But Bridget… she’s different.” “She needs these connections for her career. She’s better at navigating this world than you are anyway.” He patted my back, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Just take the hit for her, okay? Be the bigger person.” Then he added, “I know you’ve always had a crush on me. If you just get through this, maybe we can finally be together. How does that sound?” I used every ounce of my strength to shove him away. I looked him dead in the eye and signed: Who the hell would want to be with you? Nate’s face instantly transformed. The “protective” warmth vanished, replaced by a sneer. “Fine. Suit yourself. Just don’t come crawling back to me crying when you realize you’re all alone.” He turned and walked out. I pulled out my phone, my fingers flying across the screen as I messaged my father: [Dad, remember when you talked about me going to school in London? I’m in. Let’s do it.] I walked back into the party, intending only to grab my bag and leave. But the vultures weren’t done. Bridget saw me and immediately rushed over, linking her arm through mine as if nothing had happened. “Sera! Where did you go? Look, you lost that last round, and we’ve decided on a penalty. You have to do a full shot of tequila.” She tilted her head, sticking her tongue out playfully. This time, I didn’t wait for a translator. I pulled out my phone, typed a sentence, and hit the text-to-speech button. The robotic voice filled the room: “I am severely allergic to alcohol.” Bridget and Nate both knew this. When we were ten, I’d accidentally taken a sip of Nate’s dad’s spiked cider and ended up in the ICU with anaphylactic shock. Nate had stayed by my hospital bed for two days, crying, promising he’d never let anything hurt me again. I’d told Bridget the story myself last year. But Bridget just looked concerned. “Oh… Nate came back a few minutes ago and said you were probably going to use the ‘allergy’ excuse to get out of the dare.” She bit her lip. “Sera… why are you being such a buzzkill? It’s just one drink.” She didn’t have to say anything else. The room took the bait. “Coward. Just take the shot.” “Typical. The help’s daughter can’t even handle a game.” I looked at Nate. He was standing by the bar, a smirk playing on his lips. He picked up a shot glass, filled it to the brim with amber liquid, and walked toward me. I backed away until I hit the wall. “Nate…” I tried to make a sound, a rasp, anything. He grabbed my chin, his fingers bruising my skin, and forced the glass against my lips. I struggled, my hands clawing at his arms, but he was too strong. He tilted the glass. The burning liquid slid down my throat. My stomach surged with instant, violent nausea. My vision began to fray at the edges, turning gray and fuzzy. The last thing I heard was the sound of their laughter—loud, bright, and utterly heartless. Then, I hit the floor. I woke up to the rhythmic hum of a heart monitor. The hospital room was sterile and white. When I opened my eyes, I saw Nate slumped in a chair by the bed. He noticed I was awake and sat up, trying to look sheepish. “Sera, thank God. You’re fine. I stayed here all night. I even gave those guys a piece of my mind for laughing at you.” I stared at him, then reached for my phone on the nightstand. I typed: [Gave who a piece of your mind?] Nate blinked. I kept typing: [The people laughing? Or the person who poured the poison down my throat?] His face hardened. “Sera, I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I was just…” He trailed off. “I was trying to make you realize how things work. You can’t always hide behind your ‘condition.’” I typed: [Realize what? That I’m not Bridget, so my life is expendable?] Nate groaned. “Why are you so obsessed with that? Bridget just wanted to fit in. She grew up with nothing.” “How can you be so selfish? Her mother spent eighteen years taking care of you while she barely saw her own daughter.” The electronic voice echoed through the room: “Bridget’s mother took care of me because my father paid her three times the market rate.” “Every piece of clothing, every pair of shoes, every school fee Bridget ever had was paid for by my father to match my own.” “She went to the best schools and used the best resources. All because of my family.” “Nate, tell me—where exactly did we fail her? Why is it that I’m the one who owes her?” Nate couldn’t look me in the eye. He knew it was the truth, but he couldn’t admit it. He checked his phone, avoiding the conversation. “It’s lunchtime. I’m going to go grab something to eat.” I waved him away, a dismissive flick of my wrist. I saw a message from my dad that had come in while I was out. Dad: Finally! I’m so glad you’re coming to London. I’m flying back to New York tomorrow to help you with the paperwork. I thought for a moment, then took a photo of my hospital wristband and the IV in my arm. I sent it to him with the hospital address. Then, I sent him a voice recording I’d secretly made on my phone after I stepped out of the bathroom at the party—the one where Nate admitted everything. I knew my father would know exactly what to do. Feeling restless, I scrolled through Instagram. The first post was from Bridget, posted ten minutes ago. Thanks, Nate, for the amazing lunch at The Ivy! Finally made it to the place I’ve been dreaming of. The photo showed a high-end restaurant near the hospital. Nate’s hand was in the frame, his signature Rolex unmistakable. The comments were full of “99” and “Ship it!” Further down was a post from 2 AM: Had a little scare tonight, but Nate was a total hero. BBQ and late-night vibes to calm my nerves. He’s the best. The photo was a heart made of skewers. About an hour later, Nate returned. At the same time, I got a text from my dad: Ten minutes away. Nate walked in holding a takeout bag, a smug, “I’m-the-good-guy” smile on his face. “Sera, I got this from that famous bistro down the street. I waited in line forever for you.” I looked at the container. The food inside was a mess—leavings, cold and tossed together. It looked like the leftovers from a shared plate. Before I could type anything, the door swung open. Bridget walked in carrying a gift bag of fruit, looking radiant. “Sera! I was so worried about you!” She glanced at Nate, a spark of triumph in her eyes before she pivoted back to her “innocent” face. Nate’s expression softened instantly. “Hey, Bridget.” “I just couldn’t stop thinking about her,” Bridget said, sitting on the edge of my bed. “We’re best friends, after all.” She looked at me with fake concern. “Sera, are you okay? Last night was so scary. For a second, I thought you were just faking it to get attention.” I stared at her, my eyes cold. Bridget didn’t care. “But really, you should have just been honest. If you can’t drink, say so. Don’t make up allergies. It makes me look so bad when people think my best friend is a liar.” She sighed. “It puts me in such a tough spot. What are people going to think of me now?” Nate chimed in. “She’s right, Sera. You really hurt Bridget’s reputation. Everyone was cool enough to believe her, so you should probably just apologize to her so we can move on.” I raised my hand, signing for her to Get out. In an instant, Bridget grabbed my wrist. She didn’t just hold it—she shoved herself backward, falling off the bed with a theatrical cry. “Ah!” “Sera!” Nate roared. He lunged forward and slapped me across the face. Hard. My head snapped to the side. The taste of copper filled my mouth. Bridget was on the floor, her eyes brimming with tears. “Sera, I was just trying to help… why would you hit me?” Nate’s face was livid. “That’s it, Sera! You’ve gone too far!” He knelt down to help Bridget up. “Are you okay? Did she hurt you?” “I’m fine…” Bridget whimpered. “I probably just said something to upset her. She’s sick, she’s not in her right mind.” “Being sick doesn’t give her the right to assault you!” Nate shouted at me. “I’m giving you one last chance. Apologize. To. Bridget. Right. Now.” I glared at them, my eyes burning. Every time. Every single time I stood up for myself, they gaslighted me into being the villain. They banked on the fact that I couldn’t fight back because I couldn’t speak. I was done. I tried to push myself out of bed to shove them both out of the room. Nate thought I was going for Bridget again. He shoved me back with such force that I fell off the other side of the bed, hitting the floor with a sickening thud. He stood over me, looking down with cold disappointment. “Are you done with the tantrum yet?” Suddenly, a voice like a crack of thunder echoed from the doorway. “Who the hell do you think you’re touching?”
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