Part 3Live Stream Lies, Undercover Ties

My information went up on all the major websites anyway. My clearest photos, my full name, my elementary school, my high school, my place of work, even my department. My address was posted, too.

I was put on a digital pillory.

My every move was documented and dissected. The word "slut" was permanently attached to my name.

My office quickly found out. The online rumors spread like wildfire, each new version more exaggerated than the last. Tabloid reporters and clout-chasers camped outside my house.

My phone was inundated with obscene text messages.

"Hey beautiful, how much for a night? Can I book you for tonight?"

And calls, from a rotating cast of blocked numbers.

"I sent you a text, you bitch! Stop playing hard to get! How much? I've got the money!"

I would scream at them to leave me alone, throwing my phone across the room, but I could still hear their jeers.

"What a whore! Pretending to be all high and mighty. Her own daughter said she sells her body!"

I was too afraid to look at my phone, too afraid to go online. I became a prisoner in my own home.

I tried to talk to her, to reason with her.

"Dahlia, I'm not seeing anyone. It was late, I couldn't get a cab, and Uncle Mark gave me a ride."

She turned to look at me, her eyes like poisoned darts.

"Hmph. I'd rather you didn't come home at all than have a man bring you. You say you were working late. But who knows what you were really doing."

Her insinuation hung in the air, thick and venomous.

My voice trembled with rage. "What was I doing, Dahlia?"

Faced with my hysteria, her expression remained chillingly calm. "You don't have to ask me. You know what you did."

I took a deep breath, trying to quell the fire in my chest. She was still my daughter. Deep down, I still loved her.

I pulled out our old family photo album. A happy, loving family. A sweet, adorable Dahlia. I never could have imagined she would turn into this.

Back then, Mark hadn't yet taken on this deep-cover case.

Three years ago, he had to change his name, his entire identity, for this international operation.

Her father was her hero, the person she admired most in the world. I tried to appeal to that love.

"Dahlia, look. Look how happy we were. Your dad should be back next year. The first thing we'll do is take a new family photo."

She snatched the photo from my hand, took a pair of scissors, and cut my image out of it. She carefully placed the picture of just her and her father back in the album and gently wiped it with a soft cloth.

She gave me a cold look, her voice low but sharp as a razor.

"You don't deserve to talk about him."