Chapter 1
"HOW DARE YOU EMBARRASS ME IN FRONT OF MY GUESTS!"
The slap came so suddenly that I never saw my stepmother's hand moving.
One moment, I was standing beside the dining table holding a silver serving spoon.
The next, my head snapped sideways, and a sharp pain exploded across my cheek.
I stumbled into a chair.
A crystal glass rattled against its plate.
Someone gasped.
But nobody stood up.
Nobody helped me.
I pressed my trembling hand against my burning face and stared at the woman who had just struck me.
Denise.
My father's wife.
The woman who had spent four years convincing everyone that she was the perfect stepmother.
"Look what you've done!" she shouted.
I was seventeen years old, and I had learned to recognize the dangerous expression in her eyes.
It meant I had made a mistake.
Or she had decided I had made one.
Sometimes, there wasn't any difference.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
My name is Maya Carter.
I lived in a beautiful two-story house outside Atlanta with my father, Marcus, and my stepmother, Denise.
From the street, our home looked like something from a magazine.
White columns.
Tall windows.
A landscaped garden.
A dining room large enough to entertain twenty guests.
But beautiful houses could hide terrible things.
And ours had been hiding them for years.
That evening, Denise had invited eleven relatives for a formal family dinner.
She wore a burnt-orange satin blouse and an elegant beige skirt.
Her dark hair was styled perfectly.
She smiled whenever someone complimented the house.
She laughed whenever someone praised her cooking.
But she hadn't cooked the dinner.
I had.
I spent the entire afternoon preparing the roast, vegetables, potatoes, and desserts.
Denise told me it was my responsibility because she had important guests to entertain.
Then she handed me a dark-green serving dress.
"You'll wear this tonight."
I stared at it.
"Why?"
"Because you'll be serving."
I thought she was joking.
She wasn't.
Now I stood beside the table with my cheek burning while the same guests I had spent hours cooking for pretended not to see what had happened.
Denise pointed toward the floor.
"Pick that up."
A serving spoon had fallen when she slapped me.
I looked at it.
My eyes filled with tears.
"Denise, please."
Her expression hardened.
"Don't argue with me."
I bent down.
My cheek throbbed.
The room blurred.
Aunt Lorraine, my father's older sister, sat near the end of the table.
She looked uncomfortable.
For a moment, I thought she might speak.
Instead, she lowered her eyes.
That hurt almost as much as the slap.
Denise leaned toward me.
"Stop crying. You're making everyone uncomfortable."
I swallowed.
"I'm trying."
"Then try harder."
I reached for the spoon.
That was when the front door opened.
Heavy footsteps crossed the hallway.
Then a familiar voice called out.
"Denise? Maya? I'm home."
My heart stopped.
Dad.
He wasn't supposed to return until after dinner.
He had been helping a friend repair equipment at a warehouse across town.
Denise had told me he wouldn't be home until midnight.
But now he was here.
And my face was still burning.
My father appeared in the dining room carrying a covered tray of food.
He was forty-eight years old, broad-shouldered, with short black hair and strong hands roughened by years of construction work.
He wore his dark work jacket over a blue shirt.
He looked tired.
Then he saw me.
His expression changed instantly.
"Maya?"
I froze.
He stared at my face.
Then at the serving dress.
Then at the spoon in my trembling hand.
"Baby, what happened?"
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
Denise stepped forward.
"Marcus, you're home early!"
He didn't look at her.
He walked directly toward me.
"Maya, why is your cheek red?"
I lowered my eyes.
"Nothing, Dad."
He stopped in front of me.
"Look at me."
I slowly raised my face.
His jaw tightened.
A red handprint was beginning to appear across my cheek.
He stared at it.
Then he turned toward Denise.
"Who did that?"
Denise laughed nervously.
"Marcus, don't start. She was being disrespectful."
His eyes narrowed.
"What?"
"She embarrassed me in front of everyone. I had to correct her."
For a moment, my father didn't move.
Then he slammed the covered tray onto the dining table.
Plates rattled.
Several guests jumped.
"YOU HIT MY DAUGHTER?"
Denise stepped backward.
"Lower your voice!"
He ignored her.
He turned toward me and gently pulled me into his arms.
I broke.
The tears I had been holding back all evening spilled down my face.
I buried my head against his chest.
"I'm sorry, Daddy."
He held me tighter.
"Why are you apologizing?"
I couldn't answer.
He pulled back just enough to examine my cheek.
His eyes filled with something that frightened me.
Not anger at me.
Anger for me.
He turned toward Denise.
"You will never touch my daughter again."
Denise folded her arms.
"Marcus, she needed discipline."
"Discipline?"
"She has become lazy and disrespectful. Someone has to teach her responsibility."
My father stared at the serving dress.
"Why is she dressed like a waitress?"
Denise hesitated.
"She was helping with dinner."
I felt his hand tighten protectively around my shoulder.
"Helping?"
He looked at the guests.
"Did anyone see what happened?"
Nobody answered.
The silence made my stomach twist.
I knew what would happen after Dad calmed down.
Denise would explain.
She would cry.
She would tell him I had exaggerated.
And somehow, I would become the problem again.
I couldn't let that happen.
Not tonight.
I clutched his jacket.
"Dad?"
He immediately looked down.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
My voice trembled.
"This wasn't the first time."
The room went completely silent.
My father stared at me.
"What did you say?"
I began shaking.
Denise's face lost its color.
"Maya, don't you dare—"
Dad turned toward her.
"Be quiet."
Then he looked back at me.
His voice softened.
"Baby, what do you mean it wasn't the first time?"
I swallowed hard.
I had kept so many secrets.
The locked bedroom.
The missed meals.
The punishments.
The threats.
The nights I cried while Dad worked late.
And the photographs Denise had taken to make sure I never told anyone.
I opened my mouth.
But before I could speak, Denise suddenly lunged toward the hallway.
Dad stepped between us.
"Where are you going?"
She froze.
I stared at her.
Then I remembered something.
Something I had been too frightened to tell Dad.
"The camera," I whispered.
My father turned.
"What camera?"
I pointed toward the upstairs hallway.
"She made me turn it off before the guests arrived."
Denise went pale.
Dad looked at her.
Then at me.
May you like
And I whispered the words that changed everything.
"Daddy, the camera doesn't belong to us."
