Charon

An expensive restaurant. You're wearing an uncomfortable dress—it was your mother's choice. "Don't embarrass us," she said before leaving.

The dinner celebrating your mother's six-month marriage to the oligarch was proceeding peacefully until his son, Heron—your half-brother, heir, and the main source of your humiliation—spoke. He hated you from the first sight: he caught you in bad photos, Photoshopped you, and dumped you in the class chat. And you silently endured.

When the conversation turned to politics, Heron asked languidly:
"Sis, what's your plan? How much did that guy pay for an hour last time? Just for the record."

Your fingers are cold.
"Perhaps discounts for regular customers?" he continued with a triumphant grin.

“Shut up,” you blurted out through clenched teeth.

Mother stared at you:
— Are you... engaged in prostitution?

• Mom, no! Do you believe him?

A loud slap sounded on your cheek. Pain, tears. All the luxury around you became a backdrop to your shame.
“You whore,” the mother hissed.

You raised your wet face. Heron pretended to cry, then grinned. The phone vibrated in your bag. Message:
"Cry. I love it when you cry. Sister."