Bitterness

Dinner with my family had always been a quiet affair, a forced routine of polite conversation and unspoken tensions. But tonight, as I sat at the table, lost in my thoughts, a small smile tugged at the corners of my lips. The memory of Ryder's playful grin and the rush of the race replayed in my mind, a secret thrill that danced beneath the surface.

My sister, Ellie, was the first to notice, her voice dripping with her trademark disdain. "What's got you so giddy, Emma?"

I glanced up at her, meeting her eyes briefly before turning my attention back to my plate. The last thing I wanted was a verbal sparring match with her. But my silence only seemed to amplify her curiosity.

Mom cleared her throat, her gaze fixed on me with a mixture of sternness and concern. "Emma, your sister asked you a question."

I sighed inwardly, my smile fading as I looked up at her. "Just had a good time with friends last night, that's all."

Dad remained silent, his eyes fixed on his plate as if he could will the tensions away. But Ellie's skepticism wasn't so easily quelled. "Friends, huh? Must have been some friends to put that look on your face."

Before I could respond, Mom's voice cut through the growing tension. "Ellie, I'll handle this."

I focused on my food, trying to tune out the impending storm. But when Mom's question came, it caught me off guard. "Where the hell were you last night?"

I looked up, puzzled. Hadn't I mentioned going to the convention? But as my mother's gaze bore into mine, I hesitated. "Uh, just hanging out with some friends at the cosplay convention."

My father's disappointment was palpable as he pushed an envelope toward me. My heart sank as I recognized the police photos inside – me in Ryder's car, running a red light. My breath caught in my throat as I studied the images, a wave of dread crashing over me.

Mom's voice was sharp, her frustration evident. "Your father had to get those before the press got their hands on them."

Confusion swirled within me, mingling with the disappointment that my harmless night out could taint my father's pristine image. "Mom, it was just a bit of fun..."

Her gaze met mine, her tone harsh. "Emma, your 'bit of fun' could have cost your father the mayoral election."

Anger welled up within me, a sharp retort on the tip of my tongue. "So that's all that matters to you? His campaign?"

Her voice was cold, her words a damning indictment. "Yes. Because it's not just his campaign, it's our family's future."

I turned to my father, seeking his support, but his expression was one of disappointment and resignation. My mother stood abruptly, dragging two suitcases to the door. My heart pounded as her words echoed in my ears.

"For the duration of the mayoral campaign, you are not to return home or mention any ties with this family."

The weight of her decision hung in the air, a devastating blow that left me stunned. Even Ellie's shocked silence spoke volumes. My mother continued, her tone calculated and chilling.

"As for your past records as our daughter, we will dilute the news until we find a cover story. We'll say you were adopted and went rogue because you felt out of place."

I tried to shake off the numbness that threatened to consume me, to rally some sort of response that would challenge this nightmare. "You can't be serious," I managed to say, my voice laced with disbelief.

My mother's gaze was cold, unyielding. "I've never been more serious."

Tears welled up in my eyes, my vision blurring as I struggled to process the enormity of what was happening. This couldn't be real – my own mother casting me aside as if I were a liability, a threat to her carefully constructed façade.

"You're being unfair!" The words burst forth from me, a mix of anger, desperation, and disbelief. "All of this, for what? A campaign?"

Her response was sharp, her voice cutting through the air like a knife. "You think this is about a campaign? This is about protecting what your father and I have built – our future."

The room spun around me, my thoughts a jumbled mess as I tried to grapple with the enormity of my mother's decision. I took a step forward, my voice cracking as I pleaded, "Mom, please, just reconsider. I'll prove that I won't affect Dad's campaign. I promise."

Her eyes bore into mine, her expression unyielding. "Emma, it's too late for promises. You've already made your choices."

Desperation clawed at me, the reality of what I was losing crashing over me like a tidal wave. I reached out toward her, my voice cracking as I pleaded, "Please, Mom, don't do this. I can change, I can make things right."

But her resolve remained unshaken, her words a final blow. "I've made up my mind."

I felt my heart shatter within me, the weight of her decision crushing me under its weight. As I stood there, on the precipice of a new, terrifying reality, tears streamed down my face, my emotions in turmoil. My family – the foundation I'd thought was unbreakable – was slipping through my fingers, and I was powerless to stop it.

With a heavy heart, I realized there was nothing left to say. As my mother called a cab meant to take me to an inn across town, I had no choice but to leave – to step out into a world that suddenly felt alien and unforgiving.

I walked away from the life I'd known, my heart heavy with a mix of betrayal and defiance. My footsteps led me to the only place I could think of, The Rusty Anchor.

***

Isabella stood behind the counter, her eyes widening as she caught sight of me. "Emma, you're back?"

A maelstrom of anger, frustration, and sadness churned within me. "Get me a drink," I snapped, the dollar bill in my hand slamming onto the counter with a harsh thud.

Isabella's gaze shifted from the bill to my face, her expression a blend of concern and empathy. "Emma, I can't—"

My glare could have cut glass, my words laced with bitterness. "Just pour the damn drink. Remember, the customer's always right?"

Her hesitant nod was all the permission I needed. The glass clinked as she poured, and I snatched it up, downing its contents in a single gulp. The burn of alcohol was a welcomed distraction, a fleeting escape from the reality that had so cruelly unraveled before me.

With the glass emptied, I held it out, a silent demand for more. Isabella's fingers hesitated on the bottle's neck, a mix of worry and understanding in her eyes. And then, with a resigned sigh, she uncorked the bottle and filled my glass once more.

I grabbed the bottle from her hands, the cold glass cool against my skin as I clutched it tightly. The liquid inside sloshed with my movements as I turned to leave, the bitter taste of the alcohol a fitting companion to the bitterness that now consumed me.