Marina
I didn’t want to believe it at first when Marcus burst in and interrupted our kissing session.
But there it was. A headline flashing across every tennis site, news outlet, and social media app in real-time:
“Vincent Chen Holds Press Conference Regarding Daughter’s Mental Decline and Coaching Scandal”
And that’s when I knew—I couldn’t stay quiet anymore about my father.
“Are you sure about this?” Eli asked, kneeling beside me on the floor of his apartment as we sorted through the folders, emails, and handwritten notes I’d kept over the years. “Once you go public, there’s no going back.”
“I’ve gone back too many times,” I said quietly. “Not this time.”
We had laptops open. My old training logs. Dozens of schedules with sixteen-hour days. Emails from my dad to sponsors, written like I was a product instead of a person. One where he told a brand I’d be ‘back in top shape once she stops getting emotional.’ Another where he pushed my medical checkups back to prioritize an exhibition match. It was all there.
And it wasn’t just emails.
I found old texts too. Ones that used to make me cry and delete the conversation.
“Don’t embarrass me again.”
“You don’t cry. You win.”
“If you speak about this publicly, you’ll ruin everything I built for you.”
I forwarded them to Eli’s laptop. He glanced through, his jaw tightening.
“Let’s build your statement,” he said softly.
I looked at him—this man who never tried to control me. Who only ever stood beside me, not in front of me. And I nodded.
I wore white. Clean, sharp, untouchable.
A tailored suit that screamed professional, not emotional. My hair slicked into a low ponytail, no makeup except for lip gloss and conviction. If my father wanted the world to see a cracked, fragile version of me—he’d be disappointed.
Eli drove us to the press conference venue. I stayed quiet the whole ride, scrolling through my speech, checking the files. My hands shook a little.
He reached over and held one, warm and steady.
“You’ve got this,” he whispered. “Let them hear you. Not him.”
I squeezed his hand back. “Thanks for standing with me.”
He smiled. “Always.”
By the time we arrived, my father was already mid-interview.
The conference room was packed—reporters, sponsors, camera crews, all gathered in the glitzy ballroom of one of the sponsor hotels. Vincent stood in front of a backdrop printed with his academy logo, looking calm. Polished. Like a man who’d spent his life rehearsing.
“We’re deeply concerned,” he said, voice smooth. “My daughter has recently made decisions that not only endanger her career, but raise questions about her mental and emotional capacity. Pairing with Mr. Santiago—a man with a known history—was not a strategic decision. It was impulsive. Manipulated. He’s taken advantage of her vulnerable state.”
I stepped into the back of the room. Eli gave my hand a squeeze and let go.
My heels clicked against the marble floor. My presence silenced the room. My father’s eyes widened. For the first time, I saw him falter.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said, walking straight to the podium. “But I believe I deserve a chance to respond.”
The reporters scrambled. Flashes went off. My father leaned toward the mic.
“This is not the time—”
“It’s exactly the time,” I said firmly.
I turned to the crowd, my voice steady.
“My name is Marina Chen. I’m not here to fight my father. I’m here to tell the truth.”
I pulled out the tablet and held it up.
“For years, I’ve trained under my father’s guidance. I’ve been shaped, scheduled, and silenced. Behind every interview and photo op was a girl trying not to fall apart. I was told to hide my anxiety. I was pushed through injuries. I was told emotions made me weak.”
Vincent stepped forward. “Marina, stop this—”
“No,” I said sharply. “You don’t get to talk over me anymore.”
I clicked to the first email and projected it onto the screen behind me.
“Here’s an email from 2020, where my father told a brand I was ‘too fragile for front-facing campaigns until I toughened up.’”
Gasps. Cameras flashing.
“Here’s another from 2021, where he postponed my therapy sessions to schedule a private match for a sponsorship bonus.”
My father’s face was pale now. And then I looked at him.
“You made me feel like my worth was tied to wins. Like if I cried, I’d lose everything. I kept silent because I thought I owed you everything.”
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
“I’m not your product,” I said, my voice trembling now—but not from fear. “I’m your daughter. And I’m done with you dragging me down.”