Chapter 5
Emma's POV
I was debugging a particularly stubborn algorithm after school when Sarah burst into the TechStart office, her face flushed with excitement and something that looked like panic.
"Emma, you need to see this. Now."
She thrust her phone in my face, and I nearly choked on my coffee. The headline on Valley Insider screamed in bold letters: [Morrison Heiress Falls from Grace: Silicon Valley Princess Reduced to Minimum Wage Labor.]
Below it was a photo of me walking into TechStart, clearly taken without my knowledge.
"What the actual fuck?" I scrolled through the article, my anger building with each paragraph. Someone had painted me as a tragic figure, abandoned by my wealthy family and forced to work menial jobs to survive.
'The quotes sound familiar. Too familiar.'
[I really shouldn't be saying this, but I'm genuinely worried about my sister... she's working at this small company now, living in a run-down apartment...]
Yvette. That manipulative bitch.
My phone exploded with notifications. Missed calls from James, Catherine, even Tyler. Text messages that grew increasingly hostile as the day wore on.
James: [Come home. NOW.]
Catherine: [How could you embarrass us like this? We need to talk immediately.]
Tyler: [You've got some serious explaining to do.]
I turned my phone face down and continued working. Let them stew in their manufactured outrage.
Alex walked over, looking uncomfortable. "Emma, I'm getting calls from reporters asking about your employment here. You want to take the day off and handle this?"
"No thanks. This is exactly where I want to be."
But by nine PM, when I finally headed home, I knew the peace wouldn't last.
Three men were waiting outside my apartment door. Tyler stood in the center, flanked by two guys in expensive suits who looked like they bench-pressed small cars for fun.
'Here we go.'
"Emma," Tyler's voice carried that familiar edge of barely controlled violence. "Dad wants to see you. Now."
"It's nine PM, Tyler. I still have school and work tomorrow."
His laugh was sharp and cold. "Work? You mean that pathetic little internship that's making our entire family look like failures?"
"My job is none of your business."
"Everything you do is our business." He stepped closer, and I caught the smell of expensive cologne mixed with something darker. "You're a Morrison, whether you like it or not. And Morrisons don't work minimum-wage jobs that make us all look like we can't take care of our own family."
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
Tyler's patience snapped. The slap came fast and hard, snapping my head to the side and filling my mouth with the metallic taste of blood.
"Wrong answer."
The bodyguards moved forward, and I realized this wasn't a request anymore.
The Morrison mansion felt like a mausoleum as Tyler's goons marched me into the living room.
James was pacing like a caged animal, while Catherine sat rigid on the white leather sofa, clutching an iPad showing the offending article.
"Morrison heiress reduced to minimum wage labor,' James read aloud, his voice dripping with disgust. "Do you have any idea how many calls I've gotten today? How many business partners are questioning my ability to manage my own family?"
I touched my swollen cheek, tasting blood. "Maybe you should ask yourself why your daughter had to get a job in the first place."
"Don't you dare turn this around!" Catherine's voice hit a hysterical pitch. "We gave you a home, a family, everything you could want, and this is how you repay us?"
Yvette sat curled in the corner armchair, the picture of innocent concern. "I tried to defend you when people asked, Emma. I told them you were probably just trying to prove your independence."
'You lying snake.'
But this wasn't the time for accusations. This was chess, not checkers, and I'd learned to play their game.
I let my shoulders sag, dropped my gaze to the floor. "You're right. I'm sorry. I know I embarrassed the family."
The sudden shift caught them off guard.
"I... I didn't want to work," I continued, letting my voice crack slightly. "But I didn't know what else to do. I had no money for food, for rent. I was eating ramen noodles once a day and I still couldn't make ends meet."
Silence fell like a heavy curtain.
"What do you mean, no money?" Catherine's voice had lost its sharp edge. "Your father provides for you."
"I thought you were handling her allowance," James said slowly.
"Me? You said you'd take care of the financial arrangements!"
I watched the realization dawn on their faces like a slow-motion car crash.
Tyler looked between his parents. "Wait. Are you saying neither of you has been giving her money? For a whole month?"
The guilt was delicious. I pressed my advantage.
"I didn't want to bother anyone," I whispered. "Everyone seemed so busy, and I thought maybe... maybe I was supposed to figure it out on my own."
"Jesus Christ," James muttered, running his hands through his hair. "Emma, we... there was a miscommunication."
"I understand," I said quickly. "But please, I promise I'll be more careful about publicity. I never wanted to cause problems. I just needed to eat."
Catherine's maternal instincts, rusty from disuse, finally kicked in. "Oh honey, you should have called. Of course we would have helped."
'Sure you would have. After the media embarrassment forced your hand.'
"Can I... can I go home now? I promise I'll quit the job if you want, but I have nowhere else to stay."
They exchanged glances, trapped between their anger and their newly awakened guilt.
"You can keep the apartment," James said finally. "But absolutely no more publicity. No more articles, no more photos. Understood?"
"I'll be invisible," I promised.
Back in my apartment, I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. My cheek was swollen and would definitely bruise, but my eyes were bright with satisfaction.
'Phase one complete.'
I'd turned their weapon against them.
My phone had been buzzing throughout the entire confrontation. Now I finally checked it.
Fourteen missed calls. Twenty-three text messages. And one voicemail from a number I didn't recognize.
The area code was Massachusetts.
My heart stopped.
I hit play on the voicemail, and a crisp, professional voice filled my tiny apartment: "Ms. Morrison, this is Dr. Linda Chen from MIT's Early Admission Program. We've reviewed your application and portfolio, and we're very impressed. We'd like to schedule an interview for next week to discuss your accelerated admission to our computer science program. Please call back at your earliest convenience."
I stared at my reflection - bruised cheek, thrift store clothes, standing in a twenty-five square meter apartment - and smiled.