Alexie Douglas Facebook ad: “New book online！ click here to read it first”

About this ad

Meta Ad Library ID

1445932307436117

Platforms

Facebook, Instagram, Audience Network and Threads

Relaunches

0

How we count

Ad text

The night the tornado warning went off, my adoptive parents rejected all eleven of my calls for help so they could stay at their biological daughter's college banquet. The library was about to close. Outside, the wind was already tearing signs from their posts. I sent my location and a notice that the library was closing through our family’s scheduling app. The red EMERGENCY PICKUP button lit up eleven times. The screen flashed. Every single one was downgraded to a STANDARD REQUEST. When I called, my adoptive parents gave me one terse reply. “You’re almost eighteen. Find somewhere to hide and stop interrupting the banquet.” I clutched my phone. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t even cry. After my mother died when I was ten, they adopted me, promising they would treat me the same as their biological daughter. By “the same,” they meant we both had to schedule our parents’ time through an app. She had a cheering section at her polo matches. No one came to my state science competition. She got to go out for manicures, while my driving lessons were canceled. When I asked why, my adoptive parents always said the same thing. “She applied first. You were too late.” So I started applying earlier and earlier. I followed every rule. And every time, I was rejected anyway. I truly started to believe it was my fault—that I wasn’t mature enough to deserve being chosen. But this time, I wasn’t asking for their company. I was asking for help. They would rather tap away an emergency alert with their own hands than let their biological daughter’s banquet be interrupted for a single minute. As the wind slammed against the glass, the truth finally broke through. I wiped my eyes and wrote a single line in the escape plan I’d been hiding for a long time. My eighteenth birthday. Midnight. They still had no idea. Those eleven rejections were about to nail their so-called fairness to the wall for good. … After a night in a temporary shelter, I was brought home by a county deputy. Both my knees and one arm were wrapped in bandages. When I pushed open the door, the living room was so quiet it was as if nothing had happened. A letter from the bank sat on the dining table. It was addressed to Claire, but through the envelope’s clear window, I could see one line: *Important Notice Regarding the Mara Cole Education Trust* I had barely picked it up when Claire rushed out of the kitchen and snatched it from my hand. “Who said you could touch someone else’s mail?” “That’s my trust.” “I’m the trustee. I handle all matters related to it.” She hid the letter behind her back, her eyes cold, as if I were the thief. For the past seven years, I’d asked about the money my mother left me again and again. Claire always said, “We’ll talk when you’re an adult.” Or, “The money is perfectly safe. It’s growing.” I looked at the letter in her hand and decided to test her. “Can I start applying to colleges now? The tuition—” “The police had to call the house last night because of you, and the first thing you talk about when you get back is money?” She let out a cold laugh. “Mara, when are you going to learn to care about this family?” Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Sloane ran down, phone in hand, her face glowing with excitement. “Mom, I confirmed my enrollment! The system shows the deposit went through!” The chill on Claire’s face vanished. “Of course it did. I paid it for you ages ago. You just focus on getting ready for school.” “What about my graduation present?” Sloane looped an arm through hers. “I want a new car.” “Done. What color?” They started discussing makes and models as if a hundred-thousand-dollar private university tuition and a brand-new car were nothing more than pocket change. And just last night, I had sent eleven desperate pleas for help in the middle of a tornado. They’d thought I was interrupting the banquet. Claire quickly took the letter into the study. A few minutes later, the shredder whirred to life. When they left to go look at cars, I dug through the study’s trash can. Thin strips of paper were mixed with wet coffee grounds. I knelt on the floor, pulling them out piece by piece and fitting them together. Trust account number. Funds transfer authorization. Amount: one hundred thousand dollars. Date: last week. Receiving institution: the same private university Sloane had just been accepted to. I stared at the words, my fingers tightening. So that was what “safe and growing” meant. Using the education fund my mother had left me to pave Sloane’s way. I photographed every scrap, recorded a full video of the reconstructed letter, and stored the evidence in an encrypted folder. She had stolen from me in broad daylight and called it “sharing family resources.” … The next morning at breakfast, Claire pushed a carton of milk toward me. The top was already puffed out. It expired tomorrow. I glanced at the refrigerator door, where two bottles of fresh organic milk had just been delivered. Claire followed my gaze and said flatly, “That’s for Sloane’s smoothies. This one isn’t expired yet. Don’t waste food.” Sloane sat across from me, pouring the organic milk into a blender and adding half a carton of expensive blueberries. Just then, Evan walked into the dining room. He didn’t ask about my injuries. He didn’t ask about the shelter. He just pulled out a chair and sat down. “Have you reflected on your behavior yesterday?” I held the milk carton. “Reflected on what, exactly?” “The trust,” he said with a frown. “Claire is your trustee. She understands how to manage the funds better than you do. You accused her without reason, then went digging through the trash. It was incredibly disrespectful.” “That’s the money my mother left for me.” “It’s also a resource this family can use.” Evan’s tone was matter-of-fact. “A local community college is enough for you. Tuition is cheaper, and you can live at home. Once Sloane leaves for school, there will be plenty to do around here. We’ve raised you for eight years. It’s time you contributed.” They had already decided my future for me. Stay here. Cook. Clean. Be on call. And hand over my mother’s money to Sloane. My phone buzzed. It was an email from my school counselor, a reminder that the FAFSA deadline was approaching. The form needed a guardian’s signature, and missing the deadline could affect my eligibility for federal aid. I stared at the email, then decided to ask one last time. “Can you spare a few minutes tonight to sign my FAFSA? The deadline is soon.” Claire set down her coffee cup. “No.” “It only takes a few minutes.” “This isn’t about time. It’s about your attitude.” She looked at me, her eyes cold. “You still haven’t apologized for yesterday.” Evan picked up where she left off. “If you can’t learn to be grateful, you can deal with the consequences. We’ll talk about signing when your attitude improves.” “What if I miss the deadline?” “Then you can apply next year,” Claire said. “A year at home to cool off might do you some good.” My fingers tightened around my phone. Sloane bit down on her straw, then suddenly said, “Maybe you should just sign it for her? I mean—” “No.” Claire cut her off, though her tone softened for Sloane. “This is a matter of principle. We can’t let Mara think that if she throws a fit and blames everyone else, she can force us to give her what she wants. We’re teaching her to be responsible for her actions.” I hadn’t cried. I hadn’t thrown a fit. But to her, begging for help during a tornado was a tantrum. Asking about my own money was an accusation. And wanting to go to college was a privilege they could grant or withhold as they saw fit. I opened EqualTime. The eleven emergency requests from last night were still there. EMERGENCY PICKUP had been crossed out. Beneath it, in neat text, it read: *Processed by administrator.* *Priority: Normal.* *Result: Rejected.* Every single one showed the exact time Claire had made the change. At that moment, the library windows had been shaking and sirens had been screaming across the city. She had been sitting in a hotel ballroom, tapping *downgrade* again and again, then going right back to celebrating with Sloane. Only then did I finally, truly admit it to myself. It wasn’t that I hadn’t tried hard enough. It wasn’t that I was always one step behind Sloane. They had never intended to let me go. Refusing to sign the FAFSA wasn’t a punishment. It was a leash. They wanted to control my education, then my work, then my life, until I was stuck in that house forever, repaying the favor of my adoption. I turned off my phone and stood up to go upstairs. Behind me, Claire said with a sigh of irritation, “Let her think it over. She can’t get anything done without us.” Evan gave a quiet snort. “A little hardship will teach her who she depends on.” I didn’t look back. Once in my room, I locked the door and pulled a backup phone from the back of my closet. I logged into a new email account and wrote to the school district’s student support coordinator, Nadia Brooks. I briefly explained the long-term neglect I’d suffered after being adopted. I attached screenshots from EqualTime and the county police report number from the night of the tornado. At the end, I asked: *If my guardians are deliberately refusing to sign, can I apply for independent student status using police and CPS records and submit the FAFSA on my own?* The email sent. Downstairs, Claire was still waiting for my apology. She could wait forever. The thought of relying on them for another second made me sick.When I got home that evening, the smell of barbecue drifted from the backyard. Claire and Evan were toasting Sloane for getting her driver’s license. A set of new car keys sat on the table, tied with a red bow. No one asked where I’d been. No one even looked at me. I went straight upstairs and pushed open my bedroom door. My desk was empty. The laptop I’d bought with six months of part-time wages was gone. So were the charger and my external hard drive. I stormed down to the backyard. “Where’s my computer?” Claire flipped a steak on the grill. “Confiscated.” “I bought that myself.” “As long as you’re a minor, we have the right to monitor your online activity.” Her tone was casual. “We found you were searching for some inappropriate things.” “Applying for independent student status is inappropriate?” Evan set down his beer, his gaze turning cold. “Researching how to cut ties with your guardians is a betrayal.” Claire gestured to an old, chipped laptop on a nearby chair. “This was Sloane’s old one. You can use that until you learn some gratitude.” A crack ran along the screen, and two keys were missing. And in Sloane’s lap sat my laptop. Her fingers tapped across the silver case I knew so well. Her account was already logged in. I stared at her. “Give it back.” Sloane hugged it closer. “Mom said I could use it. Besides, if you’re just going to community college, you don’t need a computer this nice.” I turned back to Claire. “So you didn’t just take my laptop. You went through my private files?” “You don’t have privacy from your family,” she said. “We’re your guardians.” That line again. Guardians, so they could ignore my pleas for help. Guardians, so they could take my money. Guardians, so they could decide my future for me. A laugh escaped me. “You stole my trust fund, left me stranded in a tornado, and now you’re trying to sabotage my college applications. What else is there to take?” The backyard went silent. Evan shot to his feet. “We raised you for eight years. What’s wrong with using some of your money?” He grabbed my shoulder and shoved me hard against the exterior wall. My back hit the brick, and my vision went black for a second. “If it weren’t for us, you would have been in foster care at ten!” he roared, jabbing a finger at my face. “You eat our food, you live in our house, and now you think a few screenshots are enough to sue us?” “Evan!” Claire walked over. For one stupid second, I thought she was going to stop him. Then her hand cracked across my face. “You ungrateful parasite.” Claire stared at me, her elegant mask gone. “Your mother entrusted you to me, which means you will follow my arrangements. Community college. Living at home. Helping Sloane once she starts school. You don’t get a choice.” My cheek burned. And I laughed again. Reason, I realized, was useless. They had never seen me as a daughter. Just a bank account they could draw from and a free servant who had to obey. The moment Evan’s grip loosened, I lunged at Sloane, trying to snatch my computer back. Sloane shrieked and stumbled away. Evan seized me from behind and dragged me down the hall. He shoved me into my bedroom, slammed the door, and I heard the lock turn from the outside. I pounded on the wood. “Let me out!” Silence. Through the door, I heard Claire’s soft voice soothing Sloane. “It’s okay, sweetie. Mommy’s here. She just lost control.” Evan said, “The computer’s not damaged, is it? Dad will buy you a new case tomorrow.” Finally, the tears came. When I was ten, after my mother died, Claire had held me and promised, “This is your home now. I’ll protect you just like I protect Sloane.” Eight years later, she had slapped me with her own hand. I wiped my eyes and pulled my packed backpack from a false panel in the closet. My ID, my bank card, the trust documents, the police report, and the hard drive with my EqualTime backups were all inside. The time on my phone ticked forward. At exactly midnight, I turned eighteen. I used the spare key hidden under the bed frame to unlock the door. I set the house key on my empty desk, grabbed my bag, and went downstairs. The backyard lights were still on. I didn’t look back. Once the car to the airport was on the highway, I swapped in my new SIM card and snapped the old one in half. Then I logged into my cloud account. My laptop was still online, its location showing the Mercer backyard. I tapped *Restore to Factory Settings* and *Erase All Data*. My backups were already secure. All Sloane would get was a brick. Last, I opened EqualTime. My default profile picture was gray. Sloane’s had a gold frame around it, and beside it were the words FIXED PRIORITY. I took one last screenshot, uploaded it to my evidence folder, and then hit *Permanently Delete Account*. A prompt popped up. *Once deletion is complete, administrators will no longer be able to assign you family tasks or resources.* I pressed Confirm. My gray profile vanished from the family list for good. Outside the window, the lights of the airport drew closer. I let out a long, slow breath.Five hours after Mara left, the lights came on in the Mercer kitchen. Claire, wearing a crisp robe, folded fresh blueberries into pancake batter. Butter sizzled in the skillet, and soon the room filled with a warm, sweet smell. Only three place settings sat on the table. The chair Mara usually occupied had been pushed all the way in. Her mug was gone, and so was the jar of peanut butter she always used. Claire finished a stack of pancakes, arranged them in three perfect layers, piped whipped cream on top, and crowned them with the plumpest blueberries. “Sloane, breakfast.” Sloane came downstairs in slippers, the ribbon from her driver’s license celebration still tied around her wrist. Evan was already at the table watching the news. He took a sip of coffee and asked casually, “Want to take the new car to the mall today? I’ll come with you, help you get used to it on the road.” “Really?” Sloane’s face lit up. “Of course. But first, we need to add you to the insurance,” Claire said, setting the prettiest plate of pancakes in front of her. “And this afternoon we still need to get everything for school. Bedding, clothes, luggage… We’ll get all new things.” Sloane pulled out her phone and happily started scrolling through a shopping list. The three of them discussed car scents, dorm sheet colors, and which dress she should wear for welcome week. Upstairs, there was no sound. No one went to knock on the door. No one asked why Mara, who had been locked in her room all night, still hadn’t come down. To them, she was just throwing a tantrum. Missing one meal would teach her a lesson. Sloane ate half a pancake, then her gaze landed on the silver laptop sitting on the kitchen island. It was closed, its case gleaming in the morning light. Her fork stilled. “Mom.” “Hmm?” “Maybe… maybe we should give the laptop back to Mara.” Claire looked up at her. Sloane hurried to explain, “It’s not that I don’t want it. It’s just… she was acting so weird yesterday. It kind of scared me. She looked like she wanted to kill us.” “All the more reason not to give it back.” Claire set down her coffee cup. Her tone was gentle, but it left no room for argument. “Mara is going through a rebellious phase. She’s hostile to this family’s rules, and she’s trying to make dangerous decisions behind our backs. If we give in now, we’ll just be reinforcing her bad behavior.” “But she bought that computer herself.” “Money she earned as a minor is still subject to family oversight,” Claire said evenly. “Don’t let her temper tantrum make you think you did anything wrong. You didn’t steal from her. She’s the one who refuses to share.” Sloane pierced a blueberry with her fork. Purple-red juice bled into the pancake. “She also said she was going to sue you.” The table went quiet for a beat. Evan looked away from the television. Sloane lowered her voice. “She said she has screenshots. And bank records. What if she really finds a lawyer?” “She can’t even get out the front door. How is she going to find a lawyer?” Evan let out a dismissive laugh. “That was just talk. Once she’s been in that room long enough, she’ll understand that outside this house, she’s nothing.” “But—” “Stop thinking about it.” Evan picked up his phone. “Haven’t you been complaining that laptop doesn’t have enough memory? I’ll buy you a brand-new MacBook Pro today. Top of the line. And a pair of headphones to go with it.” Sloane’s eyes lit up. “The newest model?” “Of course.” Evan tipped his chin toward the kitchen island. “We’ll leave that old one for now. Once Mara admits she was wrong and apologizes, we’ll give it back to her.” Claire nodded, satisfied, and reached out to smooth Sloane’s hair. “Our Sloane is just too kind. Mara came at you like that, and you’re still thinking about her.” She sighed softly. “If Mara had half your thoughtfulness, she wouldn’t make this family so miserable. We’ve raised her for eight years, fed her, clothed her, planned her entire future, and instead of gratitude, she calls normal discipline abuse.” “I’ll talk to her when she calms down,” Evan said. “She owes you both an apology for last night.” The phone on the table suddenly rang. An unfamiliar number flashed on the screen. Evan frowned. He was about to ignore it, but it rang again immediately. “Who calls this early?” He answered, hitting the speaker button without thinking as he cut his pancakes. “Hello?” A calm female voice came through the phone. “Hello, may I speak with Mr. Evan Mercer?” “This is he. Who’s calling?” “My name is Nadia Brooks. I’m a student support coordinator with the school district. Is Ms. Claire Mercer present as well?” Claire set down her cup. “I’m here. Is there a problem at Mara’s school?” “Before I explain, I need to confirm your identities. Are you the legal guardians of Mara Cole?” Evan glanced at Claire. “Yes. We adopted her.” Claire corrected him instantly. “We are her parents. What happened?” There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. “I’m calling to provide formal notice. Regarding the incident a few days ago, in which Mara was stranded at the public library during a tornado warning and later transported to a temporary shelter by county police, the county has now filed an official report.” The impatience on Evan’s face vanished. “Wasn’t that already dealt with?” “No, Mr. Mercer.” Nadia’s voice remained level. “Based on the police report and information Mara provided, Child Protective Services has opened an investigation into possible neglect by both of you.” The sound of a fork scraped sharply against a plate. Claire’s hand froze in midair. Evan stared at the phone as if he hadn’t understood what she’d said. CPS. Neglect. Investigation. They looked at each other, stunned. A few seconds later, Evan finally found his voice. “...What investigation?”

Where the ad sends people

h5.reelshortnovel.com

New book online！ 🔞🔥click here to read it first👉