𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 - kiara carrera¹

𝒙𝒙𝒊𝒙. 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒗𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒅

"I WILL LITERALLY BECOME YOUR PERSONAL MAID IF YOU LET ME SKIP OUT ON THIS ONE."

Heyward sighed at the young girl. He had no idea what was going on with her lately. And whenever he asked Pope, all he received was the most guilty look he had ever seen. Something was going on with these kids - his kids - and he needed to know what.

Every single year since she was seven years old, Tatum had begged Heyward to take her along with him to the annual midsummer garden party, hosted by the Camerons', to spectate the life of the rich - and usually to cause a little chaos, to be praised by her father later. But now she was begging him to make her stay?

"Hell no, you committed to this, you're gonna do it," he told her sternly in the tone he'd speak to his son. "You had the cops comin' into my shop this morning, an' now you want outa your job. Get yourself dressed and we're goin'. Call Pope out to come and help me out. Now."

Tatum threw her head back into a groan, but followed the man's orders anyway, and walked into his home to search for her friend. She really didn't want to go to this party. She didn't want to face Kie unless it was completely necessary. If she started to slowly push herself away now, it wouldn't hurt as much when she finally had to say goodbye. So right now, the last thing Tatum wanted to do was stroll into that party, find Kiara in a stunning dress, looking more beautiful than she ever had, and have to fight the urge to grab and kiss her. That was what she was going to do before Mrs Carrera so rudely interrupted her. Tatum was going to walk into that interrogation room, look Kie in the eyes and finally tell her she loved her. Of course, that didn't go to plan, but Tate still couldn't believe someone took the blame for her. She couldn't believe someone could care for her so much they were prepared to go to jail for her. And now she had to find some way to fall out of love with the one girl she had crushed on ever since the day she'd met her.

"Pope, your dad wants help," she announced, stepping into his room without bothering to knock, causing the shirtless boy to flinch. She smiled as she looked around his room. This was what she wanted. Everytime she stepped into the Heyward home, she imagined herself living there, with a family that loved her this much. She would do anything to have a family that loved her as much as Pope's did. "You talked to JJ?"

The boy shook his head, fixing up his tie in the mirror. "You spoken to Kie?"

"No."

Pope shrugged, putting on his waist coat and preparing to leave. "We'll see her tonight, and I don't doubt that JJ will make a guest appearance."

Tatum nodded. She wanted to see JJ - to make sure he was okay. When she came home that morning, Leroy and her father were telling her about how angry Luke was over it all. And it was no secret that Luke Maybank didn't mind taking out his drunken anger on his teenage son.

But she really wanted to avoid seeing Kie tonight. She was determined not to look at her, or allow her eyes to search for her. Because Tatum Quinn knew that once glance of Kiara Carrera, and she wouldn't have the willpower to look away.

"You can get dressed in here, if you want," said Pope, gesturing to the bag of clothes around her arm. "Be ready in ten or my dad will go homicidal," he joked before leaving the room.

Sitting down on the bed, Tatum sighed. Everything was a mess. She was a mess. Her family was a mess. Her friends were a mess. Her life was a mess. As much as she hated to admit it, Mrs Carrera was right - she would only ever drag Kiara down. Kie would have a good life without her. Stable, happy, rich - nothing that Tatum could give her.

As cold tears silently fell down her face, Tatum stood up and peeled off her bikini and the thick coat she was wearing regularly once again. She tied her hair into a professional bun, buttoned up the clean, white, long-sleeved shirt, and pulled up the black, pencil skirt. She hated these clothes. They clung to her skin in a way that made her sick. She could feel the tightness her belly, and was reminded of all the times her dad had touched it. Her scars could be seen through the shirt and it made her vomit. She rolled her eyes and wiped away the pathetic tears. She was stronger than this. Lastly, she took out the thick black tights she was ordered to wear. But she couldn't do it. They made her feel trapped. Inside her own body. Instead, she took out a pair of unprofessional, slutty fishnets, pulled them up, and allowed her legs to breathe.

She was sobbing now, and she hated it. She always promised herself she'd never be this girl. Wounded and victimised.

A/n: god, she's dramatic. seriously, babes, we get it - you were assaulted all your life, you killed someone, your friends treat you like shit, and your future girlfriend's parents hate you - suck it up