A FATHER'S DESPAIR

The air hung thick with silence after Rohan spoke. His voice had been steady, yet there was a slight tremor when he addressed the cameras, the press, and the world:

"I forgive them."

He truly believed it. At least, he thought he did.

For a brief moment, there was a sense of calm. The crowd shifted awkwardly, reporters hurriedly jotted down notes, and in a quiet corner of his mind, Rohan hoped his daughter would have felt proud of him for choosing grace over resentment.

But in this age of screens, peace is fleeting.

In just minutes, his words escaped the room, racing faster than breath, quicker than thought, spreading across timelines and social feeds. His heartfelt statement was stripped of its depth, its sorrow, its humanity, leaving behind nothing but a headline and a battleground.

A Surge of Noise

NEWSNOWLINE
"Rohan Reid forgives the very bullies who pushed his daughter to the brink. Is it mercy or madness?"

DAILYVERSE
"Forgiveness or failure? A grieving father stuns the nation."

CHRONIX FEED
"‘I forgive them’ – Rohan Reid ignites outrage after minimizing bullying tragedy."

The articles erupted like wildfire, one after another, recycling the same phrase with bolder fonts, sharper angles, and harsher twists.

And then the comments rolled in.

Twytter
@DarkHeroJosh: Forgive? If my kid died like that, I’d NEVER be able to forgive. Rohan Reid is just pathetic. He doesn’t deserve to be called a father.

@FayeLyn98: This guy is disgusting. Your daughter went through so much pain, and you just let it go???

@EchoMan_: "I forgive them." Seriously? You just told every bully out there they can get away with anything.

InstaFrame
user: brokenangel
Screenshot of headline
Caption: A father who doesn’t stand up for his child isn’t a father at all. That’s just weak.

user: reignofsalt
I can’t believe people are calling this man “strong.” He just disrespected his son’s memory. #CancelRohanReid

FaceWorld
Leah H.
As a mom, this makes me sick. If something like this happened to my child, I’d be demanding justice, not forgiveness. Rohan Reid is a coward.

Daniel C.
Honestly, I don’t think he cared about his kid at all. Who forgives monsters like that? This is just PR nonsense. He’s trying to save face.

VidTok (clips circulating)
Clip of Rohan’s statement with sad piano music playing in the background. Comment section:

“Bro’s just trying to get sympathy points.”
“This isn’t noble; it’s cowardice.”
“I’d haunt my dad if he said this about me.”

By midnight, his name was trending everywhere. Not Rohan Reid, grieving father. Not Rohan Reid, the man who lost his daughter.

Just Rohan Reid: Coward. Failure. Forgiver of Monsters.

Every notification on his phone felt like another stone thrown at him. Every article was another twisted knife. Every comment was a reminder that in this world, grief isn’t private, forgiveness isn’t sacred, and the mob is always hungry.

The city outside his penthouse office was drenched in rain, with neon lights bleeding into the dark puddles below. Rohan sat alone at his mahogany desk, the soft glow of his monitor casting light on a face that seemed chiseled from stone.

His tie hung loose, his jacket tossed aside, and his sleeves rolled up, as if the weight of grief had turned into a laborious task.

The whiskey glass in his hand shook slightly not from weakness, but from the tempest raging inside him.

He scrolled.

And scrolled.

Every headline. Every nasty comment. Every twisted take.

“Weak father.”

“Failed protector.”

“PR puppet.”



Each one felt like a dagger, sharpened by strangers who had never even uttered her name. The whiskey burned as it slid down his throat, but it wasn’t enough. His grip on the glass tightened.

Until—

CRACK.

Shards splintered in his hand. Whiskey spilled over the polished wood, mixing with his blood. Crimson dripped down his wrist, staining the cuff of his shirt. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t curse. He simply stared at the shattered glass, as if it had betrayed him.

A dark smile crept onto his lips not one of sorrow, but something far more sinister.

He had publicly forgiven them because he had no other option. For the cameras. For the investors. For the fragile reputation of White Feather.

But deep down?

In his heart, he craved for them all to feel pain.

His daughter’s face flashed in his mind, her laughter now just a haunting memory, her absence creating a hollow ache that gnawed at him relentlessly. The world could judge him for his weakness, label him a coward, and ridicule his name. Let them. They had no idea of the fire raging within him now.

A knock broke the stillness.

Sharp. Controlled.

He hesitated at first, his eyes fixated on the blood seeping onto the carpet, red spreading across the fibers like a fresh wound.

Another knock.

“Come in.”

The door swung open. His personal assistant stepped inside, her voice steady and professional, yet laced with caution.

“She’s here.”

For a brief moment, Rohan’s face was a mask of unreadable emotions. Then slowly his lips twisted into a sinister smile, one that never reached his eyes.

“Good,” he said, flexing his bloodied hand. “Let her in.”

Rohan swirled the amber liquid in his glass, setting it down halfway full, his eyes locked on the girl sitting across from him. The lamplight flickered softly, casting long shadows around his office.

“You’ve been here a few weeks now,” he finally broke the silence, his voice steady and inquisitive. “So, tell me… have you settled into life in England?”

The girl tilted her head slightly, a faint smile playing on her lips. Her uniform blazer still held the scent of the rain from outside. “England… the weather is dreadful, the people are polite in ways that feel insincere, and the food is… well, edible at best.” She shrugged. “But I’ve dealt with worse. I can handle it.”

A dry chuckle slipped from Rohan’s lips. “Handle? That’s not quite the word I’d use for someone like you.”

Her smile sharpened, her eyes narrowing with amusement. “Then what word would you choose?”

Rohan leaned in, resting his elbows on the polished desk. The atmosphere thickened, his next words slicing through the tension in the room. “Liliana Karma.”

The girl’s expression didn’t waver, not even for a moment. Instead, she smirked, leaning back as if the name itself was an old acquaintance. “So you do know. I was curious how long you’d keep pretending otherwise.” Her voice turned colder, smoother. “Yes. Liliana Karma. That’s me.”

Her gaze met his fully, and for the first time, her smile transformed into something predatory. “Stepfather.”

The word hung in the air like smoke.

Rohan didn’t reply right away; instead, he poured himself another glass of whiskey. The sound of glass clinking was the only noise in the room. “And now that the small talk is out of the way…” he began, his eyes snapping back to her, “…you know why you’re here.”

Liliana didn’t shy away from it. Instead, she traced her finger along the edge of her teacup, humming softly. “Of course.”

The assistant, who had been anxiously hovering by the door, finally took a step forward. “Sir,” she said, urgency lacing her voice, “it’s getting late. Shouldn’t Miss Karma be getting ready for school?”

The words tumbled out before she could catch them.

Liliana blinked, then let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “School?” She tilted her head, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Oh, so that’s the role you’ve picked for me.” She rested her chin on her hand. “Me, sitting in a classroom, jotting down notes and pretending to care about math.” She giggled lightly, shaking her head. “How charming. Someone like me, playing the schoolgirl.”

“Enough,” Rohan said, his voice low yet firm. His gaze pierced through her, sharp as glass. “School isn’t a disguise; it’s the battleground. And while you’re there, you’ll follow my orders.”

Liliana raised an eyebrow, pretending to be uninterested. “Orders?”

“Yes.” He leaned back in his chair, exhaling a puff of smoke from the cigar he’d lit. “First, you’ll make friends.”

For the first time that evening, her smile wavered just a bit. A tiny crack. Her eyes narrowed, and she held her silence longer than expected. She already understood what he meant by that word—friends. Not companions. Not equals. Something entirely different.

Her lips finally curled again, sly and mocking. “…Playthings.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, but the venom was unmistakable. “Little toys to keep me amused. That’s what you really mean, isn’t it?”

Rohan didn’t flinch. His silence spoke volumes.

Liliana leaned back, her laugh low and soft, like a cat purring after a successful hunt. “Fine, stepfather. I’ll play your game. Let’s see how long these toys last before they shatter."