In my previous life, I had no idea the "exclusive 18th birthday bash" my daughter attended was actually a hunting ground. So, when she begged me to let her wear that new red slip dress out, I played the open-minded, cool dad and said yes. I stood by and watched my beautiful, butterfly-like daughter walk straight into a trap. It wasn't until 1:00 AM that she finally came home. Her red dress was torn. Her eyes were entirely hollow. I asked her what was wrong, but she just shook her head. I reached out to hug her, and she flinched, violently trembling. Seven days later, she jumped from our second-story balcony. It was only when I was packing up her belongings that I found the truth in her diary. That so-called coming-of-age party was a predatory trafficking ring cloaked in the guise of a high school milestone. I blinked, and suddenly, my daughter was standing right in front of me again. Her eyes were bright and full of life. "Dad, Spencer Sterling is throwing an exclusive 18th birthday party tonight. I want to go." The floral shears slipped from my hand and hit the counter. Half a rose snapped off. I heard my own voice, hoarse and trembling: "You're not going." Maya froze. She was still clutching that gold-embossed invitation card. It featured a silver galaxy motif, white roses, and an elegant script: To the best eighteen years. She stared at me for a few seconds, as if she hadn't heard me right. "Dad, what did you say?" I set the shears down. My fingertips were still shaking. "You are not going." This time, I said it with absolute clarity. The smile drained from her face, bit by bit. "Why?" I couldn't exactly tell her I had reincarnated, could I? So I just stared at the invitation and gave a dry excuse: "It’s not a safe place." Maya furrowed her brow. "It's at a private photography estate, booked by Spencer. His family is loaded, Dad. Why wouldn't it be safe?" Spencer Sterling. Just hearing that name made my stomach churn. In my past life, he was the one who pulled Maya into that group chat. He had smiled so brightly in his videos, claiming he wanted to shoot a "first-ever high fashion editorial" for every girl as a graduation gift. Later, I found out he got a commission for every girl he brought in. The pretty ones, the straight-A students, the soft-spoken ones—they all had different price tags. My daughter had been labeled the "Innocent Valedictorian Type." I reached out and snatched the invitation card right out of her hand. Maya’s face changed. "Dad, what are you doing?" "This thing is useless." I ripped the card in half. The sound of the heavy cardstock tearing was soft, but the living room instantly plunged into a dead silence. Maya’s eyes turned red. She had always been a good kid. She rarely talked back to me. She knew it wasn't easy for me to raise her alone while running a small florist shop, and she knew I hadn't remarried because I didn't want her to feel replaced. Because she was so understanding, my regret in the last life nearly destroyed me. How could I have sent such a sweet, obedient child straight into a predator's den with my own hands? "You've never been like this," she said, her voice shaking. "Haven't you always told me that I need to have my own social life? That I need to make my own choices?" My throat tightened. Yes. I had said that. In my past life, I even ironed that red dress for her. I gave her money for an Uber, told her to take it easy on the drinks, and to come home early. That night, I thought I was being a great father. Only later did I realize that sometimes, "respecting their choices" means pushing your child to the edge of an abyss and pretending it's freedom. "We can compromise on other things," I said. "But not tonight." A tear slipped down her cheek. "All the senior girls are going. Spencer specifically invited me. Dad, I've never been to an exclusive party like this. Just this once." "There won't be a 'this once'." "You won't even give me a real reason!" "I did." "You said it’s not safe, but you have zero proof!" Proof? Does her suicide note from the previous life count as proof? Do the un-washable bruises on her wrists count? Does her pale, lifeless face in the funeral home count? I gripped the edge of the table, barely able to stand. Seeing my pale face, Maya looked momentarily panicked. But she quickly bit her lip, hardening her stance. "Dad, I'm almost eighteen. I'm not a little kid anymore." I looked at her. She was still nineteen days away from her eighteenth birthday. But those monsters wouldn't wait for her to blow out her candles before making their move. Her phone suddenly buzzed. She glanced down at it and immediately flipped the screen over. I held out my hand. "Give it to me." She stepped back. "This is my private phone." I stepped forward and grabbed her wrist. She had never seen me this aggressive. She completely froze. As I yanked the phone away, she screamed through her tears: "Arthur Hayes, you are crossing a line!" It was the first time she had ever called me by my full name. It felt like a needle driving straight into my heart. I unlocked the screen. A new message popped up in a private group chat. Spencer had sent a photo. A dozen red slip dresses hung on a rack under dreamy, soft studio lighting. His caption read: "Everyone needs to look flawless tonight. No parents allowed, obviously. If adults show up, the vibe is totally killed." The chat erupted with cheers and heart emojis. Chloe Bennett sent an audio message: "Maya, is your dad seriously not letting you come? How old are you, why is he still locking you down like this?" My thumb hovered over the screen. Maya reached out to snatch the phone back. "You're invading my privacy!" I didn't hand it back. I gripped the phone tightly in my palm and said, word by word: "Starting tonight, you are not going anywhere." Maya locked herself in her bedroom. When the door slammed, the framed photo on the hallway wall rattled. It was a picture from her middle school graduation. She was hugging a certificate, smiling goofily, her braces fully on display. I stood outside her door, my fingers resting against the wood. I could hear muffled crying from inside. "Dad, you're literally suffocating me." Those words hit me so hard my vision went dark. In my past life, she had written something similar in her diary. She said she hadn't dared to tell me what happened that night because she was terrified I would break down, that I would blame myself, and that the whole town would find out what she went through. She was thinking of others right up until her dying breath. So in this life, it was my turn to be the villain. I walked back to the living room and opened her laptop. I knew the password; it was her childhood dog's birthday. I didn't want to snoop. But I no longer had the luxury of playing the respectful parent. Her messaging apps automatically logged in. Aside from the massive senior class chat, there was a smaller group called "VVIP Seniors." It had twenty-six members. Most of the avatars belonged to teenage girls. Spencer had dumped dozens of photos into the chat. Venue layouts, dress fittings, vanity stations, champagne towers, a red-carpet backdrop. Every single picture was glamorous. Glamorous—like bait. I scrolled up. Just last night, the party was supposed to be at a downtown bistro. Then, at noon today, Spencer abruptly announced the venue was changing to "Misty Ridge Estate" out in the suburbs. His excuse was a sudden power outage at the restaurant. But I remembered this clearly. In my past life, they pulled the same last-minute bait-and-switch. That estate was isolated. There were no shops nearby, and cell service was spotty. Uber drivers hated going out there. Someone in the chat asked if their parents could drop them off. Spencer replied: "Please don't. Tonight is our night. Having parents roll up is a massive buzzkill." Cassandra Vance’s profile picture also popped up in the chat. She introduced herself as the photography director, speaking with professional warmth. "Girls, once you arrive, you'll change into the provided dresses. Your phones will be collected by my assistants to prevent any leaks before the official edits drop. We have professional videographers handling the livestream, so don't worry about content!" I stared at the words "phones will be collected" and a cold sweat broke out on my back. In my past life, Maya wrote about this in her diary. She wanted to call me. But her phone was gone. Someone told her, "Everyone else handed theirs over, why do you have to be so difficult?" I kept taking screenshots. "We have VIP scouts watching the stream tonight. Girls with the best presence might score brand modeling contracts." "Don't be shy, it's a coming-of-age party. Let loose!" "We only have light hard seltzers and fruit wine. A few sips for the vibe won't hurt." Maya had only replied once in the chat. "I'm not eighteen yet, is it okay if I don't drink?" Chloe replied almost instantly: "Omg, it's literally like two weeks away. Don't be such a square. Are you scared of your dad or something?" Followed by a string of crying-laughing emojis. I saved every single message. Suddenly, the front door opened. Maya stood in the doorway, her eyes swollen. When she saw the laptop screen, the color drained from her face. "Are you actually going through my messages?" I looked at her. "None of this is normal." She lunged forward to slam the laptop shut. I held it open. "The venue changed at the last minute, parents are banned, they’re confiscating your phones, and they're pushing underage girls to drink. Maya, can't you see it?" Her chest heaved. "You think the absolute worst of everyone." "I'm not just thinking it." "Then what is it?" I fell silent for a second. "I'm terrified." She froze. I wanted to pour out the entire truth right then and there. I wanted to tell her: You will be so traumatized you won’t be able to sleep with the lights off. You will take scissors to that red dress and bury it at the bottom of the trash. You will write in your diary that you feel completely ruined. But I couldn't. All I could say was: "Dad is terrified something will happen to you." For a split second, I saw her waver. But then the phone in my hand lit up again. A text from Chloe: "Is your dad hovering? Don't let him brainwash you. If you bail tonight, literally no one is ever going to invite you to anything again." The next message was from Spencer: "Maya, I literally had a dress tailored to your exact measurements. I'm going to be so crushed if you don't show." Watching those two messages, Maya’s expression shifted. It was a look I knew all too well. The desperation to be seen. To be wanted. To be pulled into the inner circle by the popular, glittering kids. My daughter was brilliant, but she had never been confident. She always felt she was just "average," just a nerd, while the trendy, social girls lived in an entirely different universe. Spencer knew exactly how to exploit that. "Dad," Maya whispered. "Do you have any idea how hard I worked just to get them to notice me?" I looked at her. Tears were tracing down her cheeks. "You're not protecting me. You're just forcing me back into isolation." My heart cramped violently. Her words were vicious. But I knew that nothing was more vicious than the fluorescent lights of a morgue. I closed the laptop. "I'd rather you hate me." She stared at me in pure disbelief. I powered down her phone, locked it in a desk drawer, and pocketed the key. "You're staying home tonight." Maya took two steps back, looking at me like I was a total stranger. "Dad, I hate you." I nodded. "That’s fine." As long as you’re alive. You can hate me all you want. By 4:00 PM, a few pickup orders came into the florist shop. I didn't open the doors. I pulled the security gate halfway down. The shop was dim, and the overpowering scent of lilies gave me a headache. There was no sound coming from Maya's room. It was too quiet. And that scared me even more. After she was assaulted in my past life, she was exactly this quiet. I dragged a chair to her bedroom door and sat down, keeping my phone in my palm, constantly refreshing the 911 dial screen. The laptop was still open on the counter. I kept monitoring the group chats. Spencer was doing a hype stream. On screen, he wore a metallic red blazer, his hair slicked back, standing in front of a starlight backdrop. "Tonight at 8:00 PM, the Galaxy Senior Bash officially kicks off. We aren't just saying goodbye to high school; we're meeting our true selves." People were tipping him in the chat. But a few comments clearly didn't belong to high schoolers. "What time do the girls in red go live?" "Heard there's a straight-A virgin in the mix, true or false?" "Where's the link to the private room?" Spencer smiled, dodging the questions smoothly. "We’ve got a lot of surprises tonight, fellas. Make sure you stick around." My hands and feet turned to ice. In my past life, I only knew what happened to my daughter, but I never saw the sickening buildup. Seeing these comments, I finally realized: this wasn't a party that just got out of hand. This was a calculated, premeditated auction. I screen-recorded the stream. I clicked through the links to the event's landing page. The host was listed as "Misty Ridge Studios," directed by Cassandra Vance. At the bottom of the page was a digital waiver. Buried in the fine print was a clause: Participants grant default consent for their likeness to be used for commercial promotion. And another: Participants assume full responsibility for any consequences arising from their voluntary participation in interactive events. Voluntary. Yet half the kids going hadn't even turned eighteen. I took more screenshots. Suddenly, my phone rang. It was an unknown number. I picked up. An impatient woman's voice barked through the speaker. "Is this Maya's dad? This is Chloe Bennett's mother." I didn't speak. She kept going: "The kids just graduated, they want to celebrate, and you're making things incredibly awkward for everyone. Chloe says Maya's been crying all day. You're ruining the vibe of the whole group." I let out a dark laugh. So the gaslighting started this early. "My daughter staying home doesn't affect your kid." "Of course it does! The Sterling boy already paid for the headcount, the dresses, the photographers. You pulling her out at the last minute makes everyone look bad." I asked her: "Did you know they moved the venue out to the suburbs?" "Yeah, so? Bigger space." "Did you know they're confiscating the girls' phones at the door?" "It's a professional shoot, they need to manage distractions. Totally normal." "Did you know there's alcohol on site, and adult men tipping on hidden livestreams?" The line went quiet for a second. Then, her tone grew even more annoyed. "Aren't you being a little paranoid? Kids love streaming nowadays. Look, if you want to be a helicopter parent, fine, but don't try to scare the rest of us." She was exactly the same in the last life. Before the tragedy, she accused me of overreacting. After the tragedy, she cried in the parents' Facebook group, screaming, Why didn't anyone warn us?! I hit the record button on my phone. "Mrs. Bennett, you are completely aware and consent to Chloe attending this event?" "Obviously. My daughter isn't a prisoner. I don't lock my kid in the house like a psycho." I kept my voice dead level. "Good. I hope you remember saying that." She scoffed. "What is that supposed to mean?" I hung up. Not long after, the senior parents' WhatsApp group blew up. Someone posted passive-aggressively: "Some parents really have control issues." "If you won't even let them go to a graduation party, how are they going to survive college?" "Stop projecting your paranoia onto our kids." Spencer's mother even dropped a lengthy voice memo. "My Spencer is just trying to do something nice for his class. We fronted all the costs. If certain parents are that untrusting, they don't have to come, but please stop with the malicious rumors." I didn't reply to a single message. I backed up the group chats, the livestream recordings, the waiver, and the phone call to my cloud drive. Then I texted an old customer of mine. She was a legal consultant for a local news station and had tight connections with the police department. I asked her: "If minors are lured to a private estate under false pretenses, and there's evidence of underage drinking, illicit streaming, and confiscation of communication devices, will the police act on it immediately?" She replied instantly: "If you have the address and proof, call 911 right now. Do not wait." I stared at those three words. Do not wait. In my past life, I hesitated for an entire night. In this life, I wouldn't. At 6:30 PM, I carried a plate of beef stew and rice to Maya's door. "Maya, eat something." Silence. My heart plummeted. "Maya?!" Still nothing. I shoved the key into the lock, my hands shaking so badly I could barely turn it. The second the door swung open, a cold draft hit my face. The window was wide open. Bed sheets were tied together, looped around the heavy desk leg, the other end dangling out the window to the ground below. The room was empty. The plate slipped from my hands, shattering and splashing stew across the floorboards. I didn't scream. I didn't run outside in a blind panic. The agony of my past life had trained me to stay ice-cold in a crisis. I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. When dispatch answered, my voice shook, but I enunciated every single word. "My daughter, Maya Hayes, 17 years old, high school senior. She was coerced into sneaking out of the house. Her destination is the Misty Ridge Estate in the suburbs. It is an organized event suspected of serving alcohol to minors, operating illicit pay-per-view streams, and confiscating minors' phones. I have chat logs and live links." The dispatcher asked: "Can you reach the child right now?" "No. I took her phone. They explicitly coached her on how to attend off the grid." "Sir, do not approach a potentially dangerous location yourself. We are dispatching units to investigate." I said: "I am forwarding the evidence cache to the precinct's tip line now." After hanging up, I emailed the zip file to the police. Then I sprinted downstairs. There were footprints in the flowerbed. The bottom of the bedsheet was caked in mud. I leaned against an oak tree, looking down, and spotted a tiny piece of a broken acrylic nail. My chest seized. She definitely hurt herself on the drop. But she still went. My phone buzzed. Chloe had texted me from a burner number. It was a photo of Maya sitting in the backseat of a car, a hoodie pulled over her head, her eyes completely red. Chloe’s caption read: "Mr. Hayes, Maya just wants to celebrate her graduation. Please stop suffocating her." I stared at the photo, my breathing ragged and tasting like iron. They already had her. I instantly forwarded the photo and the burner number to Detective Miller at the precinct. Sitting in the back of the police cruiser, my palms were drenched in cold sweat. Outside the window, the city lights blurred past. In my previous life, at this exact moment, I was standing in the shop, wrapping a bouquet of sunflowers for a customer. I had even texted Maya: "Have fun sweetie, come home soon." She replied with a little rabbit emoji. That was the last time she ever spoke to me like a normal teenager. I bowed my head, and the tears finally broke. The road to the estate grew darker and more desolate. Streetlights became scarce. When the GPS showed two miles left, a massive glow appeared over the tree line. It looked like a pop-up wonderland. White floral arches, balloons, fairy lights, and several black SUVs parked on the lawn. Even through the cruiser's thick glass, I could hear the heavy bass of the music. It sounded joyful. Energetic. Like nothing sinister was happening at all. The cruisers rolled up with their sirens cut off. Multiple units boxed in the exits. At the front gates, two bouncers in black suits were checking names off an iPad. When they saw the badges, panic flashed across their faces. "Hey, this is a private event, you guys can't—" Detective Miller flashed his badge. "Routine inspection. Get the owner out here." The music inside cut off abruptly. Then, someone frantically cranked it back up. I pushed past the uniform cops and saw the massive vanity mirrors deep inside the main hall. A row of girls sat in front of them. Matching red slip dresses. Matching curled hair. Matching glittery makeup. My daughter was sitting in the third chair. Her shoulders were so thin it looked like they could snap. When she saw me, she froze. Then, a deep, burning red flushed her face. It wasn't fear. It was pure, unadulterated humiliation. And rage. She stood up, tears spilling over her mascara. "Dad... you seriously called the cops on me?"
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