Back at the protest, I had looked at those faces—tired, sunburned, angry. But beneath their rage was something else.
Grief.
I remembered a woman holding up a framed photo of a boy no older than ten. Her son.
A man beside her wore a shirt that read "Justice for Dad."
I remembered the elderly man in a wheelchair with a sign strapped to the backrest: "My pension never came."
They weren't just screaming.
They were mourning.
And my father—the man they blamed—never looked back.
I pulled into our driveway in silence, the fries cold on the seat beside me.
I sat there for a long moment, just staring ahead. The gate opened automatically, welcoming me into a house that had never felt like home.
I thought of the woman holding her son's photo.
I thought of the boy in the crowd who had pointed at me like I was a symbol of everything wrong.
And then I thought of my father's face—calm, indifferent, untouchable.
A part of me wishes I didn't care.
But how could I not?
How could I pretend that the blood on his hands didn't somehow stain mine?
I sighed and just get back inside my car as I turned the corner into our subdivision, the guard gave a familiar nod. I forced a smile and returned the gesture, but I knew he'd seen the protest too. Everyone had. News like that spread faster than wildfire, especially when it involved someone like my father.
Our house came into view—large, elegant, gated. Too perfect.
Too fake.
I pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine. For a moment, I just sat there, staring at the front door, dreading the silence that awaited me inside. I could already picture the cold marble floors, the sterile white walls, and the faint scent of perfume and expensive cologne blending in the air like an artificial mask.
Stepping inside, I was greeted not by warmth, but by a voice.
"It's already 12pm, Victoria, what time is your class? you can't be late." Mom called from the living room. She was sitting on the couch, dressed immaculately as always, scrolling through her phone.
"I went to the gym and my class will starts at 3pm, so I'm pretty sure I won't be late." I said simply, setting the McDonald's bag on the counter. "And I passed by the building…"
Her fingers paused mid-scroll. "Did they see you?"
I nodded slowly. "They recognized me. I left before anything could happen."
She sighed and stood up, walking toward me in her signature heels. "You need to be more careful. You're a daughter of a Senator. They'll always come after you first when they can't touch him."
"I didn't plan it, Mom. I didn't even know there was a rally."
"You should've known. You should be more aware of how things look. Everything you do reflects on this family. On your father."
There it was again. This family. Your father.
Always about him. Never about me.
I didn't answer. Instead, I took the food upstairs and locked myself in my room. My safe zone. My bubble.
Dropping the bag on my desk, I sat on my bed and stared at the ceiling.
It was suffocating—living in this house, under this name, with all its unspoken rules and false images. I used to think I was lucky. That having a powerful father meant I had security, influence, a future paved in gold.
But now I knew better.
I had a future, yes—but it wasn't mine.
It was borrowed. Manufactured. Conditional.
Later that night, I couldn't sleep. The rally kept replaying in my head—the angry chants, the banners waving in the air, the way they looked at me like I was part of the problem.
The news wouldn't stop either. Every channel. Every headline. His name, our last name, was being dragged through the mud. But not just by political enemies—by students, workers, even former allies. People who once praised him were now calling for investigations.
Something in me stirred. Doubt, maybe. Or a thirst for truth I couldn't ignore anymore.
I reached for my laptop and opened a blank tab. I wasn't even sure what I was looking for at first—maybe proof that it was all just noise. That people were overreacting. That my father was being framed.
But that wasn't what I found.
I typed his name into the search bar and hit enter. Then again. And again.
Each article chipped away at the image I had carefully protected in my mind for so long.
"Senator Oligario Linked to Illegal Infrastructure Kickbacks," one headline read.
"Whistleblower Alleges Misuse of Public Funds in Education Projects," said another.
There were scanned documents—budget approvals with odd signatures, procurement records with inflated prices, shell companies tied back to dummy addresses.
And names. Familiar names. His closest advisers. People I'd seen around the house growing up, smiling at me like uncles and godparents. One of them had even attended my graduation.
My stomach twisted.
Videos surfaced too—edited clips from senate hearings, recorded phone calls leaked anonymously, even a former staffer crying during an interview, confessing how she'd been ordered to "clean up" files before a routine audit.
I kept scrolling, clicking, diving deeper. My fingers shook. My eyes burned. But I couldn't stop.
Because there, hidden between paragraphs and comments and citations, was a truth I had refused to believe for years.
He wasn't just a strict father. Or an ambitious politician.
He was a liar. A thief. Maybe even worse.
And I—I had been the face of his perfect family. The polished daughter. The obedient smile. The illusion of goodness that helped cover the rot beneath.
I closed the laptop, hands trembling in my lap.
My breath came in short, shallow bursts. My world—the world I thought I belonged to—wasn't just breaking.
It was already broken.
And I had just opened my eyes to the pieces.
Time skips
"Babe, can you stop looking at that? It's obviously fake news. You know your father wouldn't do that," Razen said, voice laced with mild irritation as I finally turned off my phone.
"Don't worry, okay? Dad and Tito Xyrus are already working on that issue. Just stay cool, hmm?" he added, fingers lacing through mine like it could quiet the unrest inside me.
But it didn't.
I sighed and faced him. "You don't understand. Those issues—they're getting worse. It's not just some viral tweet anymore. These are real people, real lives affected. You can't just call all of them trolls.
"So you believe those people shouting in the streets over your dad? Seriously?" His voice was sharper now, disbelief crawling into his tone.
"I don't know. Maybe I do." I hesitated.
His brows drew together, the soft lines of his face hardening. "You believe them more than your own father? The same man who raised you?"
"That's the point, Razen," I said, my voice cracking. "I lived with him. I know the things he hides behind that calm political smile. You think it's impossible? I think it's exactly the kind of thing he's capable of."
He leaned back in his seat like I'd slapped him. "Xylia, I can't believe you'd turn on him so easily."
"It's not easy!" I snapped. "It's torture. Every single day. But it's harder to keep pretending. You think I want to see him that way? You think I enjoy doubting my own father?
"Then stop doubting him," he said quietly. "You're letting lies poison your mind."
"No. I'm letting the truth breathe—for once." My voice dropped low. "He's not who you think he is, Razen. He never was.
Silence fell between us. It wasn't a pause. It was a fracture.
Razen looked away, jaw tight, like he was holding back everything he wanted to say. Maybe he was. Or maybe he just didn't want to be the one to say it first.
"I didn't come here to fight," he muttered after a while. "I just wanted to be with you. Celebrate us."
I looked at him—really looked. The softness in his eyes that once comforted me now felt distant. Forced. Like he was choosing ignorance just to keep his world from falling apart. And maybe I was guilty of the opposite—choosing truth, even if it meant watching mine crumble.
"I know," I said, barely above a whisper. "But we can't pretend this isn't part of us too."
He shook his head. "No. This is your family's mess, Xylia. And you're dragging it into us."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?"
He stood slowly, brushing invisible dust off his jeans like he needed something to do with his hands. "You want to carry the weight of everything your dad's done, fine. But don't make me carry it with you.
The words hit harder than I expected.
"So what?" I asked, my voice raw. "You're giving up on me because I won't lie to myself anymore?"
"I'm not giving up," he said, avoiding my eyes. "I'm just… tired. Tired of being the one who has to convince you your father isn't a monster."
I blinked back the sting forming behind my eyes. "Maybe I stopped needing to be convinced."
He didn't respond. Just walked past me, the space between us stretching wider than the silence.