Chapter 39 The Day Everything Changed
Veronica's POV:
Trigger Warning: This chapter discusses past childhood trauma, family conflict, and loss. Please read with care.
"Until I was five years old, I was the apple of my father's eye."
"He used to lift me onto his shoulders, carry me through the world like I was something precious. I remember how he would smile at me—like I was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Like I hung the moon and stars. I was his world, his princess, and his everything."
"And then my baby brother was born. At first, I was excited. Thrilled, even. I thought I was getting a friend, a companion, someone to protect and love and teach all the things I knew. But slowly, things began to change. The shift with my father was so gradual that I didn't notice it at first—a glance that lasted a second less, a hug that ended a moment too soon."
"It was like I became invisible to my father! I tried harder to get noticed. I talked more. I helped more. I behaved better. But nothing worked."
"That absence carved something hollow inside me, something that never truly healed. I didn’t understand why love could disappear so suddenly—or why I wasn’t good enough anymore. I wondered how to fix it!"
"When I was eleven, it finally broke me. That day, my father was driving. My brother was in his car seat in the back, playing with some toy that made annoying electronic sounds. I was in the passenger seat, arms crossed, anger simmering just beneath my skin. I don't even remember what we were arguing about—something small, something childish. Maybe he'd missed another one of my school events. Maybe he'd compare me to some other child again.
I raised my voice. He raised his. I remember shouting, “Why don’t you ever listen to me anymore?”
My father's head whipped toward me, eyes wide with anger or shock—I'll never know which.
There was a loud crash.
When it stopped, there was only silence.
I survived.
Not a scratch on me. Not a single bruise or cut. Like the universe had decided I deserved to walk away clean... to carry the burden of what happened without the mercy of physical pain to distract from it.
But my baby brother—only six years old, still small enough that his feet didn't touch the floor when he sat... he didn't survive.
I swallowed hard, my body shaking violently as the memory tore through me, as fresh and raw as the day it happened. My hands clenched into fists against Max's chest.
Max was watching me now, his eyes wide. Like he'd been struck. Like he couldn't quite process what I'd just told him.
"And from that day onward," I whispered, "my father started resenting me."
I pressed my lips together, forcing myself to continue even though every word felt like swallowing a glass.
"He never showed it openly. Never blame me out loud. He couldn't... not to my face, not where others could hear. But it was there... in his silence. In the way he looked past me like I was a ghost haunting our home. In the way, he never defended me again when my mother criticized me. Along the way, every achievement I earned was met with indifference—while my failure was met with barely concealed disgust."
My chest tightened painfully, ribs squeezing around my lungs.
"Until that day," I said quietly, the memory of the rooftop flashing through my mind, "when I was on the rooftop.
That's when I finally heard it in his voice. He was honest that day. That's when I knew with absolute certainty that he had never forgiven me. That he never would. That every time he looked at me, all he saw was the daughter who lived while his son... his precious heir was dead."
Tears spilled freely now, hot against my cold skin.
"That's why I do all this," I confessed, the words tumbling out in a rush. "That's why I push myself so hard. That's why I can't stop, can't rest, can't ever be satisfied. I keep trying to prove that I can replace the damage I caused. That I can make up for it. That I can be worthy of the space I take up in this world... and earn back the love I lost."
My voice cracked, breaking completely.
"But I don't know what to do anymore. Because nothing is ever enough. And I'm so tired, Max. I'm so fucking tired."
For a long moment, Max didn't speak. He just looked at me, his blue eyes shining with unshed tears that caught the beach lights like diamonds, his sharp jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscles jumping.
His hands tightened around me, holding me together when I felt like I might shatter into pieces. Then, slowly, he spoke. "What happened was an accident... Not murder. Do you hear me, Veronica?! It was an accident..."
My breath hitched, caught somewhere between my throat and my chest.
"Sometimes, things happen that are completely out of our control," he continued, steady and sure. "And if your father had truly loved you... the way a parent should, unconditionally and completely—he would have understood that. He would not blame you. He would have held you through it... instead of punishing you for surviving."
Something loosened inside my chest, because it was like a knot that had been pulled tight for years, suddenly coming undone.
I hadn't realized how badly I needed to hear those words. How desperately I'd been waiting for someone, anyone, to tell me that it wasn't all my fault. That I wasn't the monster I'd convinced myself I was.
I had never told this to anyone before. Not even my therapist during those mandatory sessions after the accident. Not Penny, despite all our years of friendship. I had never been validated—never allowed myself to believe that I wasn't the villain of my own story.
"And you need to impress your father," Max added gently, reaching up to brush tears from my cheeks with his thumb, "It's driving you crazy, Veronica. Can't you see that? It's killing you just as surely as it killed my mother. You're drowning in yourself trying to earn love from someone who's decided not to give it."
Before I could respond, before I could process what he'd said or what it meant, laughter and loud voices invaded our quiet space.
A group of people approached us from down the beach, glasses in hand, music echoing faintly from whatever party they'd left behind.
They were drunk or tipsy, stumbling slightly in the sand. One of them... a guy with his phone held high—had a camera pointed directly at us. We immediately fell silent, and I quickly tried to wipe my face clean of tears.
"Well, look at these two," a stunning girl with long dark hair said playfully. "All alone out here... how romantic."