The Princess They made Me Out To Be, The Starving Girl I Was Chapter 05
The live broadcast paused immediately. I was escorted into a
private lounge where the doctor told me to lean back and stop eating.
A glass of water and stomach medication sat on the table
stared at the pills, cold sweat dampening my palms.
I had ruined everything.
Thomas had warned me never to mention money on camera,
yet I’d told the entire live audience. What would happen to
next month’s $300?
The door swung open. Mom stepped inside in a tailored black
suit, hair disheveled as if she’d run straight over.
I stood up automatically. “Mom.”
She halted by the doorway, looking me over. Her expression
wasn’t the icy anger I’d expected; shock, raw agony, white–hot
rage, and something I dared not name–regret–swirled in her eyes.
Sit down,” she said hoarsely. “The doctor says your stomach hurts badly.”
I slowly sank back.‘
She walked over and knelt right in front of me.
She knelt before me, brushing fingertips across my palm
marked with indentations from gripping the wicker basket.
Her fingers twitched. “Does it hurt?”
I shook my head. “It’s fine.”
The lie sounded ridiculous even to my own ears. I always answered that way, pretending I was never hurting.
Mom squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, she
held out her smartphone. “Hazel, look at this.”
The screen displayed a long list of bank transfers.
[Recipient: Thomas.]
Amount: $30,000.]
Note: Hazel monthly living and food expenses.]
Every first day of the month, without a single break.
I stared at that huge number, stunned, as if struck by a physical blow.
Thirty thousand dollars. Not three hundred.
Mom scrolled further down the history.
[Hazel university start–up fund, $20,000.]
(Hazel seasonal wardrobe allowance, $6,000.]
[Hazel dental and medical check–up, $10,000.]
[Hazel nutritional stipend, $8,000.]
Every line item bore my name. Each transfer glared up at me
exposing years of quiet deprivation I’d endured.
I could barely form coherent words. “All of this… was meant for me?”
Tears welled in Mom’s eyes. “Yes. I assumed you received every cent.”
Your father argued you were too young to manage large
sums without squandering everything. He claimed he would
hold the money and budget it responsibly for you.”
He told me even thirty thousand was never enough, that you
splurged constantly on takeout, jewelry, and designer clothes.”
He said you were endlessly greedy and ungrateful. And I believed him.”
Her voice shook violently. “I can’t believe I believed every lie.”
My phone had been returned by the staff, and I fumbled to open my bank transaction log.
typed my passcode wrong twice before finally accessing the records.
The list was pitifully short.
[Sender: Thomas.]
[$300.]
[$300.]
[$300]
One month only $280.
His attached notes were tiny, precise cuts.
[Don’t waste it.]
[Enough for meals.]
[Don’t trouble your mother.]
[Asking for more gets you nothing.]
handed my phone to Mom. “This is all I ever received. I
never knew you sent so much money. I always thought you…”
couldn’t finish the sentence.
I had thought you’d given up on me.
I had thought I was nothing but a burden to you.
had blamed myself, convinced I was incompetent and
wasteful even with a measly $300, always going hungry
Mom scanned my sparse history and froze as though wrapped in ice.
She didn’t sob loudly; heavy tears splattered onto the glass Screen.
She wiped them away, but more kept falling.
Seconds later, she stood up and called out firmly, “Lucas.”
Lucas pushed the lounge door open. “Ms. Sullivan?”
Mom placed both smartphones side–by–side on the coffee
table: her thirty–thousand–dollar transfers beside my
three–hundred–dollar deposits. The contrast was brutal, truth
laid bare between two screens.
Reconnect the live feed. Get Thomas on camera now and
demand an explanation.”
Lucas’s expression turned grave. “This is deeply private family
business. Are you certain you want to broadcast this live?”
Mom lifted her head, gaze sharp and unflinching.
When my daughter was paraded on this show branded a
spoiled brat, starving so badly she clung to cornbread, he
didn’t worry about privacy. Now it’s his turn to face the
cameras and answer for what he’s done.”
Ten minutes later, the livestream resumed
Thomas appeared via video call from his living room.
Behind him stretched a new display cabinet packed with
model kits, sneaker boxes, and collectibles–all belonging to Seth Fox.
Lidia Fox sat neatly beside him, makeup perfect; Seth
slouched lazily, showing off crisp white designer sneakers.
Thomas sighed. “Miranda, don’t let a few emotional words
from our daughter mislead you. At her age, she will
manufacture any sob story to win sympathy.”
Mom cut through his performance without hesitation,
holding both phones close to the lens.
Thomas, every month I send $30000 to you, clearly noted for
Hazel’s food and living costs. Why has she only ever gotten $300 in her bank account?”