He Humiliated Me Until He Learned Who My Father Was Chapter 03
The Woman in the Photo
“That’s not me.”
Vanessa laughs.
“Of course you’d say that.”
Ethan enlarges the image.
He works in design. He knows photo manipulation better than anyone at the table.
For several seconds, he studies the lighting, shadows, edges, and background.
“It’s not edited.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
Vanessa folds her arms.
“See?”
I look at Ethan.
“The woman in that photo isn’t me.”
“Then who is she?”
“I don’t know.”
Vanessa laughs again.
I reach for her phone.
She pulls it back.
“Don’t delete the evidence.”
“Send it to me.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to find out where it came from.”
Ethan catches my wrist.
“Enough, Avery.”
“Let go.”
“Why can’t you just admit it?”
“Admit what? Something I didn’t do?”
His grip tightens.
“You’ve been lying all night.”
“About what?”
“Your money. Your past. Now this.”
“My money?”
I stare at him.
“You’ve never once asked what I actually earn.”
Vanessa cuts in.
“Ethan, don’t bother. Women like her lie until they’re caught.”
I turn toward her.
“Stay out of this.”
She smiles. “Or what?”
I step closer.
Ethan moves between us.
“Avery, stop.”
“Move.”
“No.”
“Move.”
I try to go around him. His hand comes up.
The slap cracks across my face.
My cheek burns.
Ethan stares at his own hand as if he can’t believe what he just did.
“Avery…”
I touch my lip.
Blood.
Something inside me goes very still.
No more arguing.
No more trying to convince him.
I glance around the room instead.
Twenty witnesses.
Security cameras near both exits.
My phone is still recording.
Good.
“Avery, I didn’t mean—”
I walk away.
My phone vibrates.
A message from my investigator.
We found the account. You need to see this.
I open the link.
Vanessa’s Instagram appears.
At first, I don’t understand. Then I start scrolling.
A photo from Florence. My trip.
A museum in Boston. My photo.
My college graduation. My campus.
My life. Except in every picture where I should be standing, Vanessa has replaced me with herself.
She hasn’t just stolen photographs.
She’s built an entire identity out of pieces of my old public posts—without ever realizing whose life she’d stolen.
Another message appears.
We also traced the “before surgery” photo.
My thumb freezes above the screen.
We know who the woman is.
I type back.
Who?
I stare at the message.
Slowly, I look across the ballroom at Vanessa.
For the first time tonight, I almost smile.
“Come to the gala. Bring everything,” I text.