Chapter 2 - The Digital Shockwave
The blue light of Lydia’s phone screen illuminated the dim kitchen, casting sharp, jittery shadows across her face. I stared at the display, my mind refusing to process the rapid succession of icons and comments accumulating beneath the video. Zoe had posted the footage to a public-facing community page used by students at her junior high. Within forty minutes, the clip of her shoving five-year-old Ollie into the bookshelf had garnered over twelve hundred views and dozens of gleeful, cruel comments from kids who didn't even know our last name.
*“Classic Golden Child behavior,”* one user named *SkaterGirl99* had written.
*“Bro got launched,”* another chimed in with laughing emojis.
"Will," Lydia whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator. "Look at the timestamp. She uploaded it while we were still cleaning up the living room. While my parents were loading their car."
The anger that rose in my chest was hot, sudden, and suffocating. I reached out and took the phone from her trembling fingers, scrolling down to read the full caption Zoe had attached. It wasn't just a video of an accident; it was a carefully curated narrative designed to portray our household as a toxic, favoritism-driven dictatorship where Ollie was treated like royalty and Zoe was treated like an imprisoned servant.
"Where is she?" I demanded, turning toward the stairs.
"Will, stop," Lydia said, catching my forearm with a grip that was surprisingly firm. "If you go up there shouting, it’s only going to validate whatever twisted narrative she’s spinning. Look at the comments. She’s replying to them."
I looked closer. At the bottom of the feed, an account under Zoe’s initials had posted: *Just wait until you guys see part two. They always cover for him.*
"Part two?" I echoed, the blood rushing in my ears. "What part two? There is no part two. That was the whole incident."
"Was it?" Lydia asked, her voice cracking as she buried her face in her hands. "That’s what terrifies me. If she’s willing to broadcast this to her entire school, what else has she recorded? What else has she been storing up in that room while we thought she was just quiet and creative?"
We spent the next hour sitting at the kitchen table in a heavy, suffocating silence, trying to formulate a response. We couldn't simply ignore it; the video was already spreading across local group chats. Kara, Ollie’s biological mother, texted at 9:15 PM asking if everything was alright after a mutual friend at the pharmacy mentioned seeing a strange video circulating online.
Lydia handled that call in the hallway, her voice tight and defensive as she reassured Kara that Ollie was safe in bed, though she omitted the full extent of Zoe’s digital sabotage. When Lydia returned to the kitchen, her eyes were dry and hard.
"We're going up there," she said, standing up with finality. "Together. No yelling. Just facts."
We climbed the carpeted stairs to the second floor, the house feeling twice its normal size. Zoe’s bedroom door was closed, a thin sliver of yellow light bleeding out from underneath. I knocked twice. There was no answer, only the faint, rhythmic scratching of a digital stylus against a tablet screen.
I turned the brass knob and pushed the door open.
Zoe sat at her sleek white desk, her back to us. Her oversized headphones were pulled down around her neck, playing a muffled, atmospheric indie track. On her dual monitors, digital art software was open on one screen, while a web browser displaying the viral video thread flickered on the other. She didn't turn around immediately. She took her time, swirling her stylus against the mousepad before swiveling her chair slowly to face us.
Her expression was a mask of calculated boredom.
"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness.
"You know exactly why we're here, Zoe," I said, keeping my voice level through sheer force of will. I stepped into the room, my eyes sweeping over the neat shelves, the art supplies, and the smartphone resting facedown near her keyboard. "Delete the post. Right now."
Zoe blinked, feigning complete innocence. "What post?"
"Don't play games with us," Lydia intervened, stepping past me into the room. Her voice was remarkably steady, though her hands were clenched at her sides. "We saw the video you uploaded. We saw the comments. You broadcasted your brother getting hurt to your entire school."
Zoe let out a short, dismissive laugh, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. "Oh, *that*. Everyone posts stupid stuff on TikTok and Reels, Mom. It’s not a crime to be honest about what happened in this house."
"Honest?" I stepped closer to the desk, the air in the small room feeling suddenly thin. "You shoved a five-year-old child into a wooden shelf, broke his birthday present, and then played the victim online for attention. That isn't honesty, Zoe. That’s malicious."
"He started it!" she snapped, her facade cracking for a split second as a flash of genuine anger crossed her features. "He wouldn't let me touch the stupid truck! You guys treat him like a prince and treat me like I'm invisible! Dad didn't even call me on my birthday, but you threw a whole circus for the golden boy!"
The mention of her biological father hung in the air like a physical object. I looked at her—really looked at her—and for the first time, I saw the deep, festering wound beneath her sarcasm. Erik Pruitt’s casual abandonment wasn't just a distant annoyance; it was a daily ache that she was projecting directly onto Ollie.
"Your father's absence is not Ollie's fault, Zoe," Lydia said quietly, stepping right up to the edge of the desk. "And it doesn't give you the right to terrorize your brother or humiliate our family online."
Zoe looked away, her jaw tight. "I'm not deleting it."
"You will unlock that phone and delete it right now," I said, holding out my hand. "Or your electronics privileges are gone for the rest of the year. No tablet, no computer, no phone."
Zoe stared at my outstretched hand for a long, tense moment. A strange, defiant smile crept onto her lips—a smile that sent a shiver straight down my spine.
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"You can take my phone," she said softly, sliding the device across the wooden desk toward me. "Go ahead. But you're too late, Will. It's already been downloaded by twenty other people. And besides... that wasn't even the best file in the cloud storage."
TITLE: The Golden Child and the Glass Wall
