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Chapter Text

“And the winner is… Violet Beauregarde!”

Damn right, it was.

Violet’s heart swelled as the crowd erupted into cheers and applause. Her lips parted into her brightest, most dazzling smile, perfectly crafted for the judges and the cameras. She descended the stage with practiced grace, her gown flowing behind her like liquid silk. Every step was deliberate, every movement calculated.

As her gaze swept across the crowd, she caught sight of her mother near the front row. Her mother’s expression was calm but pointed, and with a subtle gesture, she trailed her fingers down her cheeks—a silent reminder. Violet’s stomach flipped. She had nailed every part of the performance, from the speech to the hug she’d given the runner-up. But in the rush of adrenaline, she’d forgotten the tears.

The winner’s tears.

It was a rookie mistake, but she could still recover. This moment wasn’t lost yet.

Her focus sharpened as she approached the judge holding the gleaming trophy. All she had to do now was stick the landing.

Avoid Mom’s camera, she reminded herself, her smile never faltering. Focus on the cameras to the right of the stage.

She glanced subtly to her left. The exit doors were over there, which meant the lower-tier, “sneaky” photographers—the ones who sold stories to insider blogs and gossip sites—would be stationed closer to that side. To the right, however, were the RSVP photographers, the ones shooting for high-profile magazines.

That’s where the real coverage is. Smile to the right.

With a flick of her head, Violet turned her attention toward the better-lit side of the stage. The cameras flashed in rapid bursts, and she made sure to angle her face perfectly, her trophy gleaming in her hands as though it were an extension of herself. Her smile widened just a touch, not too much, just enough to seem genuine.

Her mother’s gaze burned into the side of her face, but Violet ignored it. There’d be time for critique later. Right now, she was exactly where she needed to be: in front of the cameras, basking in the spotlight.

“Miss Beauregarde, how does it feel to be Little Miss Dentaglow for the third year in a row?!”

The announcer’s voice boomed through the microphone, electrifying the audience as they leaned forward for her response. Violet tightened her grip on the sparkling trophy, her face lit by the blinding flashes of the cameras.

“It feels…” she began, her voice trembling just enough to hint at an emotional undercurrent. She let the pause hang in the air, carefully crafting the moment.

To summon the tears, she let her mind drift to images designed to pull at her heartstrings—abandoned puppies shivering in cold shelters, the barren wastelands left behind by deforestation, sea turtles choking on plastic in the polluted ocean. The sadness began to bubble within her, but she needed more.

Then, unbidden, came the sharpest pain of all: her parents’ arguments. Their raised voices echoed in her memory, each bitter word laced with tension. And at the heart of it all was Maggie. Maggie, her older sister, who had stormed out of the house one night, suitcase in hand, never looking back. What had it been that finally broke them? She could still hear her mother’s voice trembling with desperation and her father’s curt, clipped replies.

Her chest tightened. Perfect.

“Oh! Would you look at this, folks?” the announcer exclaimed, his voice brimming with awe.

A chorus of sympathetic “awws” swept through the audience, their collective adoration palpable. The cameras went into overdrive, flashbulbs popping in a chaotic rhythm as photographers on both sides of the stage scrambled to capture the moment.

Violet’s carefully constructed tears trickled down her cheeks, delicate and shimmering, just enough to add an emotional glow to her otherwise flawless appearance. She raised a hand to her face, as though attempting to shield her vulnerability, but only partially—it wouldn’t do to obscure the shot completely.

She sniffled softly, her lips trembling just so, the picture of poise wrapped in raw emotion. The audience was eating it up, and she knew it. The moment was hers, every tear perfectly timed, every gesture deliberate yet seemingly unintentional.

This was more than a victory. It was a performance.

“I’m sorry,” Violet choked out, her voice trembling as she let out a series of carefully orchestrated sobs. The tears had mostly subsided, but she knew how to maintain the illusion. She covered her mouth with one hand, squinting her eyes just enough to suggest the depth of her “emotions.” No one would notice the difference.

The announcer, ever the gracious host, leaned in to offer a comforting side hug while simultaneously presenting her with the gleaming trophy. Violet accepted it with a small, trembling smile, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with her free hand. She drew in a long, shaky breath and let her shoulders fall, signaling her composure was slowly returning.

“Let’s hear it for Violet Beauregarde, everyone!” the announcer boomed, the audience erupting into cheers and applause. He turned back to the microphone, seamlessly transitioning into the closing remarks.

He rambled on about the youth of America, the importance of good oral hygiene, and how bright, ambitious young girls like Violet were destined to become the leaders of tomorrow. Toothpaste, leadership, empowerment—blah, blah, blah. The words blurred together in Violet’s mind, a predictable script she had heard a hundred times before. These closing speeches always dragged on, endlessly self-congratulatory and devoid of substance.

As the announcer spoke, Violet discreetly shifted the piece of gum she had tucked between her lower jaw and molars, biting down slowly and methodically. She chewed with her mouth slightly open, savoring the fleeting satisfaction it brought.

Then, a sudden chill ran down her spine.

Her gaze flicked toward the crowd, scanning the faces until she found the one she had been dreading. Her mother.

Her mother’s eyes weren’t buried behind the familiar blue glow of her phone screen, scrolling through comments or reviewing footage. No, they were locked onto Violet, unblinking and sharp as a predator’s. The intensity of her mother’s stare sent a wave of unease rippling through her. It wasn’t approval or pride; it was something far colder, something calculating.

Violet swallowed hard, her confidence faltering. She felt like a wounded deer caught in the sights of a tiger, every muscle in her body tensing in response to the silent threat. Her mother didn’t need to say a word. The message was clear: This performance better have been convincing.

“Oh my goodness, Vi! Three years in a row! I am bursting with pride right now!” her mother gushed, her voice effervescent as she angled the bright glow of her phone’s light far too close to Violet’s face. Violet blinked, forcing herself to maintain her polished smile as her mother turned her attention back to the live stream.

“And a huge shoutout to all of you tuning in live, showing your love and support on Vi’s special day!” her mother continued, her tone dripping with practiced enthusiasm. “She was a bundle of nerves this morning—weren’t you, sweetheart? But honestly, reading all of your incredible comments fills her with confidence every single time! So, a massive thank you to everyone who’s been part of Violet’s journey since day one, and even to those of you who’ve just discovered our very own Princess of Pop!”

Her mother paused for dramatic effect, making sure her words would hit just the right note. “That’s a wrap for today, folks,” she concluded, her voice lifting with excitement. “But don’t go too far! Stay tuned for our next fabulous installment: ‘Get Ready with Me, Pageant Winner Edition!’”

The camera shifted focus to Violet, who instantly brightened her smile, dazzling and radiant. “Thank you, everyone!” she chimed in, her voice sweet and clear, brimming with just the right amount of gratitude. “This is Violet Beauregarde, reigning champion of Little Miss Dentaglow three times over and your one and only Princess of Pop! Goodnight, all!”

She added the final flourish, playfully blowing a kiss toward the camera. Her demeanor stayed cheerful and poised, even as her mother finally lowered the phone and tucked it away in her pocket. Only then did Violet allow her shoulders to relax ever so slightly.

But the moment of relief was fleeting. Her mother’s eyes, sharp and ever-watchful, turned back to her like a hawk assessing its prey. Violet was used to this gaze, the silent calculation, the expectation that no detail of her performance would go unexamined.

Online, a few viewers left sympathetic comments, speculating about how lonely it must feel to always face the camera instead of her mother’s undivided attention. But truth be told, Violet found a strange comfort in it. The lens was predictable, impartial, even kind in its own way. It didn’t critique, didn’t scold.

And for Violet, that was enough.

“C’mon, honey, let’s fix your makeup before all the cameras show up,” her mother murmured, her voice soft and saccharine. The grip on Violet’s wrist, however, was anything but gentle as she steered her with purpose, cutting a direct path through the crowd toward the family bathroom.

The room was small and clinical, a single, windowless space with no stalls to shield what came next. The door shut with a hollow thud, and the lock clicked into place.

The moment they were alone, her mother’s expression hardened, sweetness dissolving into simmering rage.

“What the hell was that?” she spat, her voice sharp enough to make Violet flinch.

“What was what?” Violet asked, her tone feigning innocence, though her stomach twisted in anticipation.

Her mother’s eyes flashed with anger. “Don’t play dumb with me,” she snapped, punctuating the words with a quick, sharp smack to the side of Violet’s head. The blow wasn’t hard, but it was deliberate, enough to send Violet’s half-chewed piece of gum flying from her mouth. It tumbled onto the cold linoleum floor, coming to a stop near the wall.

Her mother’s eyes followed the gum for a brief second before snapping back to Violet, her fury boiling over. She stepped closer, maneuvering Violet into the corner of the room like a predator cornering its prey.

“Do you even know what people were commenting during the live?” she hissed, her voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper.

Violet shook her head, gripping the base of her trophy so tightly her knuckles whitened.

“They were questioning if you were chewing gum on stage. Chewing gum on stage!” Her mother’s words came faster now, each one sharper than the last. “Because if you were chewing gum on stage, that would mean you weren’t chewing your world-record piece of gum, which would mean—” she jabbed a manicured finger toward Violet’s chest, “—it’s not a world record anymore! And if it’s not a world record, then guess what? You’re not the Princess of Pop! And if you’re not the Princess of Pop, then suddenly the entire Beauregarde family becomes a bunch of liars!”

Her voice echoed off the tiled walls, the word liars hanging in the air like smoke.

Violet swallowed hard, her throat dry, and clutched her trophy even tighter. The sharp sting in her wrist from her mother’s earlier grip was still fresh, but she remained silent, her lips pressed together in a tight line.

“I’m just at a loss, Violet!” her mother’s voice cracked, rising in pitch as frustration welled up inside her. Tears began to shimmer in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall just yet. “What on earth do I need to do to make you understand? Please, tell me, because I’m utterly lost here! I just don’t get it anymore.” She took a step forward, her hands trembling as they clutched at the air in front of her. “Seriously, go ahead. Enlighten me. Share your infinite wisdom on how to make you see that everything I do is for your benefit!”

Her voice grew louder, almost pleading. “This channel is the only source of income for your father and me, Violet! Do you grasp the gravity of that? Every single dime we’ve spent on your pageant entry fees, those meticulously crafted pageant dresses—those aren’t just clothes, Violet, they’re investments in your future! Our meals, our home, everything we have, comes from this channel! What part of that are you not getting?!”

Violet stood frozen, her gaze trained on the chewed piece of gum stuck between her and her mother, the thin, sticky object now an absurd symbol of the divide between them.

“I’m sorry…” Violet mumbled, her voice small and distant.

Her mother’s expression shifted, her anger melting into something darker. Slowly, she backed into the wall, her shoulders sagging as though the weight of her words had just crumpled her. She slid down the wall, the sound of her sobs filling the room as she buried her face in her trembling hands.

“I just can’t fathom how you could be so selfish… I just don’t understand…” Her voice broke apart with the force of her sobs, and she gasped for breath in between the waves of emotion. The rawness of her pain was almost unbearable. “Maybe it’s my fault,” she whispered hoarsely, her sobs intensifying. “Maybe I’ve spoiled you too much. I don’t know. It’s just… it’s so hard, Violet, being a parent… especially to someone as special as you.” Her voice cracked again, and she wiped at her eyes with trembling hands.

“I just wanted to give you and your sister the opportunities I never had.” She paused, staring into nothingness, as though the weight of her own words had struck her in a way she hadn’t expected. “Your father and I—we gave up our careers, Violet. We sacrificed everything to build this channel for you. We do all of it—editing, finances, the business, everything. We carry this burden, and you… all we ask from you is one simple thing.”

Her voice trembled with raw emotion, her hands clenching into fists as she looked up at Violet, her eyes filled with desperate vulnerability. “Just chew a piece of gum, Violet. Was that request really so horribly selfish of me?”

“No, Mama…” Violet strained, her voice trembling as she knelt beside her mother, who was still hunched on the floor, tears staining her face. Violet reached out, her hands shaking as she gently tried to comfort her. “I’m so sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean it. I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted a fresh piece of gum to calm my nerves before the show. I was only thinking about myself… It was stupid. It was selfish. I know how much you and Dad sacrificed for me, and I—I’m so grateful for everything.”

Her mother’s sobs softened slightly, but there was no mistaking the pain in her voice when she spoke again. “Maybe this is my fault, Violet. Maybe I’ve failed as a mother. Maybe I’ve spoiled you too much…”

Violet’s heart clenched, her chest aching as she shook her head, her hands still holding her mother’s trembling ones. “No, Mama, no,” she pleaded, her voice filled with desperation. “You’re a good mom. You’re the best mom ever. You gave up everything for me, for us, and I didn’t appreciate it. I was just… I was just being selfish. But I’ll make it right, I swear. I’ll go on live tonight and tell everyone that I wasn’t chewing gum at all—that I was just biting my cheek, and it only looked like I was chewing another piece. I’ll fix it, Mama. I’ll fix it.”

Her mother looked up at her, her face softened by the gesture, though the lines of worry still creased her forehead. She gave Violet a faint, weak smile, the kind that felt too fragile to be real. Slowly, her hand reached up to caress Violet’s face, her fingers brushing softly across her cheek as if savoring the moment, as if trying to find some peace in the midst of the chaos.

“How did I get so lucky…” Her voice cracked, and she gave a small, wistful laugh, though it was barely audible. “How did I get so lucky to have such a sweet kid?”

Violet chuckled softly, a warm sound that felt foreign after the tension of the past few moments. She wrapped her arms around her mother, drawing her into a tender embrace. As she leaned into her, her body seemed to melt, the stiffness in her shoulders gradually dissolving, the weight of the day lifting from her neck. Her jaw, which had been clenched in nervous habit, finally loosened. She closed her eyes slowly, allowing herself to savor the fleeting sensation of her mother’s presence—soothing, comforting, like a wave that washed over her and momentarily eased the noise in her mind. For just a moment, it was enough to forget everything else.

Her mother pulled back first, wiping her eyes quickly and forcing a smile, though it was still strained at the edges. “Well, come on now,” she said, her tone shifting back to something sharper, more businesslike. “We shouldn’t stay in here all night.” She gently pushed Violet’s embrace away, her hands still trembling but firm. “The public is eagerly waiting, my dear. It’s the regrettable trade-off of fame, but it’s our responsibility.” She gave Violet a brief, calculating look. “Make sure you touch up your cheeks with more blush; we can’t afford you looking streaky in the photos.”

Violet nodded, though a small part of her felt the warmth from their moment of closeness dissipate as her mother’s relentless drive kicked back in. There was no room for softness in their world—only appearances.

With her mother’s words still ringing in her ears, Violet scanned her surroundings and felt a chill settle in her bones. The comfort of her mother’s embrace, however fleeting, had already been replaced by the stark, cold reality of the small bathroom. The floor beneath her was a harsh, clinical shade of linoleum, marred by a discarded piece of gum floating in a small puddle of saliva at its center. The space, scarcely larger than a broom closet, seemed to stretch endlessly in its monotony, the tiles stretching out before her like an ocean of sterile white. She curled her legs up to her chest, resting her forehead on her knees as she stared at the crumpled candy.

“Selfish,” it seemed to accuse her. The word echoed in her mind, louder than any of the harsh criticisms her mother had voiced. She was a self-absorbed child, ignorant to the blessings around her. A spoiled brat who had failed to appreciate the incredible opportunities given to her—opportunities that many other children would have given anything to have. Some lived in neglect and abuse, lacked food and water, while she had everything she could ever want. She had parents who had sacrificed their own livelihoods to ensure she had a future, and yet, here she was, nearly throwing it all away for a fleeting moment of indulgence—a piece of gum.

Violet sighed, shaking her head in frustration at herself. She stood up quickly and grabbed a handful of toilet paper, wrapping the chewed gum securely before flushing it down the toilet with a swift, decisive motion. It was gone now, completely erased, leaving no evidence behind—no trace that could point back to her. She stood there for a moment, staring at the swirling water, as if it could wash away her shame too.

Her eyes fell on her mother’s purse, carelessly abandoned in the corner of the stall. It was always in the most inconvenient places, and Violet couldn’t help but wonder why they never thought to incorporate pockets into the extravagant puffball dresses they insisted on wearing. Shrugging the thought off, she crouched down and carefully sifted through the purse’s chaotic contents: a jumble of receipts, crumpled notepads filled with scribbled memos and video concepts, travel-sized cans of hairspray, tiny bottles of fragrance, caffeine pills, and several five-hour energy shots. It was a mess, yet somehow comforting in its familiar disarray.

Finally, her fingers found the blush compact and blending sponge. With practiced ease, she touched up her makeup, brushing the delicate pink powder over her cheeks to conceal the streaks left from her earlier tears. As she worked, she took a deep breath, rehearsing her smile three times in the mirror. She wanted to feel confident again, wanted to believe that she was ready to face whatever came next. As the final layer of blush settled into place, she couldn’t help but feel a small wave of relief wash over her. The gum was gone. No one would ever know about her momentary lapse in judgment.

Her makeup flawless once more, Violet shifted her gaze to the corner of the stall, where a small, bedazzled plastic case sat. She couldn’t help but smile slightly as she reached for it. It held her greatest triumph: the peculiar, gray, brain-like gum that had become her secret weapon. The first time she had tasted it, it was awful—like chewing on an old car tire—but Violet had pushed through, knowing that with time it would soften and become familiar. Now, as she held the case in her hands, it was a symbol of her determination, her ability to endure.

With one last glance at herself in the mirror, her smile perfected and her nerves somewhat eased, Violet was ready. The moment of doubt was behind her. With the bedazzled case in her hand and a deep breath filling her lungs, she braced herself for the flashing cameras and the deafening cheers that awaited her just beyond the door.

The moment Violet stepped out of the bathroom, the scene exploded into chaos. Flashes from cameras hit her like a barrage of light, blinding her for a split second as the air was thick with the hum of reporters’ voices. Questions came at her from all directions, sharp and overlapping, demanding her attention. “How does it feel to be Little Miss Whatever?” one reporter shouted, followed by another voice asking, “Who would you like to thank?” The standard questions, the ones she had rehearsed a thousand times in front of a mirror, echoed in the air like a cacophony.

Violet responded with practiced ease, spitting out the same generic answers she had used a million times before, hoping the journalists would latch onto the most convenient responses. “It feels amazing,” she said, offering a bright, forced smile. “I want to thank my family, my supporters, and of course, all the people who made this possible.”

Her eyes flicked around the room, searching for the reassuring, albeit intimidating, presence of her mother’s gaze. It wasn’t hard to spot—the piercing, calculating stare that followed her every move, silently urging her to remain perfect. As she chewed her gum with increasing intensity, the tension inside her grew, but she masked it with another smile, keeping her face composed.

The crowd closed in around her, pressing in from all sides, their faces blurring together as they jostled for position. She tried to move, to shift away from the suffocating mass, but it was useless—her legs felt like they were frozen to the floor, as though gravity itself had doubled its hold on her. The questions kept coming, but they became a blur, indistinct and muddled by the noise of the crowd. The voices swirled together in an unending murmur, like waves crashing against the shore, threatening to overwhelm her.

Her mission was simple, yet suffocating in its urgency: maintain the smile, nod politely, and don’t overthink it. Just survive this moment, and the next one would come—smooth, effortless, as rehearsed.

The question hit her like a slap. “Violet, there have been claims from anonymous sources suggesting you were chewing gum on stage, and some allege they saw you place it into a case before your performance. How do you respond to these allegations?”

Her mind, momentarily adrift, snapped back to the present. Her eyes locked onto the reporter’s, and she immediately felt a cold rush of panic. Her mother hadn’t prepared her for this—how could she? The question wasn’t supposed to be asked. It was a threat, one that loomed large and unexpected. Violet’s thoughts scrambled, her mind racing to find a plausible response. Her fingers tightened around the gum in her mouth, chewing faster, her jaw working mechanically as she tried to compose herself.

She had already thought this through in the bathroom. It wasn’t gum, she had told herself; it was just her biting her cheek. Simple. Harmless. A mistake in perception. But the words she needed wouldn’t come. Her throat felt tight, constricting with every attempt to speak. She opened her mouth, but no sound escaped, only the barrage of camera flashes blinding her vision. The flashes snapped her into further silence, each one deafening her as it drowned out her thoughts.

She searched the crowd, frantically looking for the familiar, commanding presence of her mother. Where was she? Her mother always knew how to handle these moments, how to smooth over any misstep. But today, there was no sign of her. It was just Violet, standing alone in the center of the storm, motionless as if trapped in a glass box. She could feel her heartbeat echoing in her chest, a rapid thrum that seemed to synchronize with the rhythm of her chewing. The thud of her pulse grew louder, louder, and more frantic. It was as if her heart might leap from her chest at any moment, the pressure threatening to crack her open.

The crowd, the cameras, the reporters—all of them loomed larger, towering over her. The space seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as she struggled to regain her voice.

“Excuse me,” came a distant, yet strangely familiar voice, cutting through the cacophony of flashing cameras and shouting reporters. “Miss Beauregarde is taking no further questions at this time. Thank you.” The voice held a firm authority, and before Violet could process it, a delicate hand wrapped around her wrist, pulling her away from the frenzied crowd.

She was yanked from the chaos, her body propelled forward, and within seconds, she found herself stumbling through a series of narrow hallways. The noise dimmed, the overwhelming crush of reporters faded, and a sense of air returned to her lungs. She blinked rapidly, trying to steady herself, the sharpness of the situation beginning to soften.

“Thanks, Mom,” she gasped, clutching her chest to regain her breath.

“Mom?” The woman chuckled, a sound that was both light and knowing. “As if Mom would ever walk away from a camera.”

Violet’s gaze snapped up, and to her surprise, it wasn’t her mother standing before her. Instead, a tall woman with sun-kissed skin, radiating calm, looked down at her with an amused expression. She was dressed in a flowing skirt that swayed with each step, her neck and wrists adorned with an assortment of jade and wooden jewelry.

It took a moment for Violet to process the image, the realization slowly dawning on her.
“Maggie?” she breathed, still trying to catch her breath.

Maggie grinned, her smile both warm and familiar, a rare comfort in the madness. “Hey, Vi,” she said, her voice soft and reassuring. “Long time no see.”

Chapter Text

Violet stood frozen, her mind reeling in a dizzying whirl of conflicting emotions. Every thought seemed to collide with the next, each offering a different response to Maggie’s sudden appearance. She was overwhelmed—torn between the urge to run into Maggie’s arms, to pull her close and beg her never to leave again, and the instinct to push her away, to scream, to demand that she just go. How could she come back now, after everything? After all the time apart? The hurt? The mess Maggie had left in her wake? Part of Violet wanted to shout at her to leave, just as she had done before, as if Maggie’s departure had somehow caused the world to break into a thousand pieces. She felt betrayed, even though her heart longed for things to be different. She wanted things to go back to the way they used to be—before the fighting, before everything had unraveled.

Her eyes locked with Maggie’s, and the tension between them was palpable. There was so much she wanted to say, so much anger and hurt, but instead, she bit her lip and forced herself to speak.

“When did you come to town?” The question slipped out before she could stop herself, more out of necessity than curiosity. She didn’t want to show how much her sister’s return affected her.

Maggie hesitated for a moment, clearly expecting a stronger reaction. “Um, I just arrived last night,” she said softly, as if unsure how to gauge Violet’s response.

Violet raised an eyebrow, skepticism and disbelief coloring her expression. “Why?” It was a simple word, but it carried so much weight, dripping with the complexity of their history.

Maggie, sensing the tension, knelt down to bring herself closer to Violet’s level. She reached out, gently clasping both of Violet’s hands in her own. The gesture was tender, but there was an urgency to it, as if she were trying to bridge the gap that had grown between them over the years.

“For you, Violet,” Maggie said, her voice softening with a sincerity that made Violet’s heart ache. “I—”

“VIOLET!” Before Maggie could finish her sentence, she was cut off by a shrill, blood-curdling wail, as if the very walls of the hallway were trembling in terror. Mrs. Beauregarde came barreling toward them, camera clutched in her hand like a weapon. Behind her, Mr. Beauregarde followed at a slower pace, lugging a collection of bags, coats, and other random supplies. To anyone who might have been observing from a distance, he would have appeared more like a flustered assistant than the father of the girl at the center of the storm.

“Violet, honey, are you hurt?! Are you okay?” Mrs. Beauregarde’s voice quivered with a dramatic, overblown concern as she swung the camera around to capture every moment. “I thought you were right behind me, and when I looked, you were gone! Oh my god, what were you thinking, wandering off like that?! You could’ve been kidnapped! I can’t even imagine what could’ve happened to you.”

Her face twisted into an expression of exaggerated relief, and with a fluid motion, she passed the camera to Mr. Beauregarde, who fumbled to take it. Without missing a beat, Mrs. Beauregarde pulled Violet into her arms for an overly dramatic embrace, her face streaked with faux tears. She shot Maggie a cold, venomous glare as she squeezed Violet tighter, making sure to capture the perfect shot for the camera, her eyes blazing with unspoken warning.

“And you!” Mrs. Beauregarde barked, her voice laced with venom as she stormed toward Maggie. Her posture stiffened with indignation, and she pointed a trembling finger in Maggie’s direction. “What the hell do you think you’re doing with my daughter? I could have you arrested for kidnapping!” She paused, her gaze lingering on her eldest daughter, as if appraising a threat. Then, as if the words were too heavy to speak aloud, she muttered, “Maggie?”

Maggie stood firm, arms crossed and exhaling sharply as she rolled her eyes. “Cut the dramatics, Mom. I told you I was coming. For god’s sake, I even asked Dad for directions to the hotel.”

“Wait, you knew Maggie was coming?” Violet interjected, her tone sharp with disbelief. Her eyes darted between her mother and sister, trying to process the revelation.

Mrs. Beauregarde’s face drained of color, and for a fleeting moment, the mask of exaggerated concern slipped, revealing an edge of annoyance beneath the surface. Her posture shifted from frantic to dismissive. “Raymond, turn off the camera. I said turn off the darn camera!” Her words were clipped, edged with irritation as she snatched the camera from her husband’s hands.

Mr. Beauregarde fumbled awkwardly, juggling the assortment of coats, bags, and other paraphernalia clutched in his arms. After a few moments of frantic tapping, he managed to silence the camera on his wife’s phone, the whirring finally coming to a stop. Mrs. Beauregarde, however, remained unfazed as she fixed Maggie with a look that was as sharp and cutting as a blade. It was the kind of gaze a socialite might cast at a fish struggling to breathe on the polished deck of her luxury yacht—both dismissive and calculating.

“What, am I some kind of monster for indulging in a bit of drama?” Mrs. Beauregarde sneered, her voice laced with scorn.

Maggie didn’t flinch, her eyes locking onto her mother with unyielding resolve. “Only when you use your children as pawns in your little theatrics,” she shot back, each word aimed like a dart.

Mrs. Beauregarde’s expression darkened, and she leaned in, narrowing her eyes as she smirked. “Please, step down from your self-righteous perch,” she retorted with an air of superiority. “Violet is more than old enough to understand the realities of the entertainment business. Sometimes, we have to stretch the truth a little to make things… more appealing. And trust me, she gets that—more than some people in this family, it seems.” She shot a pointed glance at Maggie. “It’s show business, not child abuse. And if you can’t accept our approach, there’s always the door. But you’ve already figured that out, haven’t you?”

Maggie inhaled sharply, her chest rising with the effort, but her focus never wavered as she locked eyes with her mother, an unspoken challenge passing between them. The air around them crackled with tension, like a battle for dominance. Maggie stood her ground, resolute—she couldn’t afford to blink first. If she did, it would be over. Her mother would win, as she always did, her sharp gaze slicing through her like a blade. But Maggie refused to let that happen.

Just as the silent standoff reached its peak, Violet’s voice cut through the charged atmosphere, sharp and loud.

“Hey!” she shouted, startling both women. The power struggle was abruptly shattered. “What the hell is going on?”

Her mother turned to her in an instant, her lips tightening in disapproval. “Violet, don’t swear. Someone could overhear you.” The reprimand came swift and cold, her tone a mixture of irritation and concern. “Do you have any idea how many brands we work with? If the Princess of Pop suddenly had a potty mouth, we’d lose sponsorships faster than you can say ‘PR disaster.’ One video, one viewer, and we’d be done.”

Violet’s jaw clenched with increasing force as she chewed, each bite deliberate and defiant. With every word she wanted to shout at her sister, her mother, and even her father, she responded only with another sharp chew. Her teeth ground together, the ache in her jaw growing as the words she couldn’t speak piled up like an insurmountable weight.

“And don’t chew with your mouth open,” Mrs. Beauregarde continued, her voice clipped and critical. “It’s rude, and people in the comments are complaining.”

“Of course, because what the comments say is the gospel, right?” Maggie muttered under her breath, bitterness lacing her words.

“If you came here just to criticize my parenting, congratulations. You’ve succeeded. You’re free to leave anytime,” Mrs. Beauregarde shot back, her eyes narrowing.

Maggie’s gaze shifted to Violet, who stood awkwardly caught between them. She sighed, clutching her worn brown satchel with a quiet but deliberate firmness. “Actually, that’s not why I’m here,” she said calmly, her voice low but steady. She turned back to Mrs. Beauregarde, before adding with a slight glance at Violet, “But I think we should talk about why I’m here… in private.”

“Anything you have to say, you can say to both Violet and our audience,” Mrs. Beauregarde hissed, clearly uncomfortable, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“Yeah, you can tell me,” Violet added, though her voice felt small, almost lost in the shuffle of the argument.

Maggie stood tall, her chin lifted with quiet authority. “No. This isn’t something for Violet to be part of right now. This is between you and me. I need to have a private conversation—no cameras, no livestreams, no audience. Is that understood?”

Violet’s chewing quickened, her irritation seeping through the rhythm of her jaw. “Right now?” she echoed, her tone sharpening. “What do you mean, right now? Why can’t it be now?”

Her mother faltered, a brief flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. She whispered, “Yeah,” before pausing, her voice soft but firm. “Yeah, we can do that.”

Violet desperately wanted to speak, but she knew it was pointless. Her words would be drowned out, as easily forgotten as a lone leaf falling from a tree as autumn took hold. So, she continued chewing her tasteless gum, her mouth sealed tight. It was the one thing she could do right, the one responsibility she could fulfill without failure. Maggie tried to catch her eye, a silent promise in her expression to explain everything later, but Violet’s gaze remained distant, unyielding.

“Come on, Vi,” her mother snapped, breaking the silence and steering Violet toward the elevator. “We still need to film our Night Time Routine.”

Violet followed her mother in silence, glancing back at Maggie, who seemed to shrink with every step they took down the hallway. Maggie’s steady gaze never left Violet, her grip on her bag tightening as they distanced themselves. Violet’s eyes dropped to the trophy in her hand, and a heavy loneliness settled in her chest. She had poured countless hours into perfecting her routine, juggling homeschooling, dressage, karate, ballet, and vocal lessons—all documented and shared with her mother’s audience. The strangers online had showered her with praise, calling her gifted and extraordinary. Yet, among the dozens of trophies that would soon fill the grand trophy room, no one seemed to care enough to offer even a simple congratulations for her latest win.

“Alrighty, folks! Here’s a sneak peek into our nightly routine,” her mother’s bright voice broke through the silence as the camera rolled. Violet, reclined in her plush hotel bed, wore a chic charcoal mask, with a zesty glass of lemon water sitting on the bedside table. “This is the Pageant Winner Edition, but let’s be honest, we should just call it the Pageant Edition, because the Beauregardes are, well, unbeatable. What do you think, Vi?”

With perfect timing, the camera zoomed in on Violet’s face just as she took a sip of her citrusy drink. “Well, I did snag second place at Nationals,” Violet replied, her voice carrying a subtle touch of humility.

“Aw, c’mon, you know those Nationals were totally rigged,” her mother teased, the playful lilt in her voice unmistakable. “But you know what? We’re not letting a little ‘rigging’ slow us down. This year, Violet’s bringing home the gold. Huge shoutout to everyone who’s been part of this amazing journey with her. We’re calling it a night because, let me tell you, it’s been a day! And—Violet,” her mother added with a mischievous grin.

For a brief moment, confusion flickered across Violet’s face, but it quickly turned to realization. Her gum was still stuck to her mouth. “Whoops, my bad, Mom,” she chuckled, casually placing the gum into its case on the nightstand.

“You see, the Princess of Pop never quits,” her mother sighed dramatically. “Don’t forget to tune in for tomorrow’s episode, ‘Pageant Nationals Training Part 5.’ Until then, this is the Princess of Pop, signing off!”

Violet let out a long, audible groan as her mother switched off the camera, though she had a feeling some covert, late-night filming was still on the horizon. “So, National training tomorrow?” she asked reluctantly.

Mrs. Beauregarde shot her a look that could melt steel. “Well, darling, it’s not mandatory. We could always stay in bed all day, binge on cookies, watch TV, pack on a few extra pounds, and gracefully wave goodbye to any chance of getting through that admissions gate.”

Violet’s eyes rolled so far back it almost seemed like they might get stuck. The audacity of her request for a single day off felt completely reasonable, especially considering her recent first-place win. But this was her mother’s world, where one victory was never enough—it was all about the number of crowns you could collect. Violet secretly longed for a day off to properly see Maggie again, perhaps enjoy a quiet, normal family lunch. But she could already hear her mother’s inevitable reply: “Sure, we can grab lunch. But it has to be at one of our precious sponsor’s places. Maggie would probably throw a fit if she had to be in another video. It’s for the best, really. All our sponsorships are burger joints, and, you know, no fast food during training mode. We can do a quick promotion for Green Life instead – maybe one of their ‘super-nutritious’ drinks for lunch, only 80 calories!” It was uncanny how perfectly Violet could mimic her mother’s voice inside her head.

The sharp sound of a knock echoed through the penthouse—definitely Maggie. Violet watched as her mother quickly stood up from the bed, swiftly shutting the door behind her. It was one thing she hated about these fancy penthouses: having her own room was a perk, but it meant she missed out on all the grown-up talks. In a standard room, she would’ve been right there with them, no questions asked. But her mother insisted that the penthouse rooms drew in more views, and as usual, she was right. Their videos always performed better when they stayed in the most luxurious spaces, a strategy that would pay off handsomely once the room tour was posted.

“YOU CAN’T DO THIS!”

Her mother’s piercing scream shattered Violet’s thoughts, signaling the start of something much bigger. Though she couldn’t make out the exact words, the voices were unmistakable. It began with her mother, then Maggie’s voice joined the fray, only to be cut off by her mother’s sharp retort. They went back and forth like opposing forces, with even her dad chiming in every so often. This was no small argument. Cautiously, Violet slid out of bed, quietly cracked the door, and peered into the living room to see what had sparked the verbal battle.

Maggie’s voice rang out with a desperate urgency. “For once in your life, think about what’s best for her!” She was clearly trying to keep her tone controlled, but the emotion behind it was impossible to miss.

“And you think you know what’s best for her?!” Her mother screamed, her voice rising with fury, showing no effort to soften her words. “You spoiled, ungrateful little brat! She’s happy, we’re all happy! You left! You’re free from this family! You’re no longer part of our business!”

“We’ve got a lawyer,” Maggie shot back, her voice laced with frustration. Then, her face flushed with embarrassment when she caught sight of Violet peeking through the crack in the door.

Her mother’s surprise was evident, though she quickly masked it. “Well, good for you. So do we!”

“Mom, stop,” Maggie said, her eyes locked on Violet, her voice softening.

“Don’t you dare—”

“Mom!” Maggie yelled, gesturing urgently toward Violet. In response, Violet quickly closed the door, pretending to be asleep.

Both Maggie and Mrs. Beauregarde fell silent, the tension thick in the air. Her mother, now flushed with embarrassment, quickly covered her mouth with her hand. In the corner, Mr. Beauregarde sat quietly, his eyes shifting nervously as he attempted to adjust the secret camera without drawing attention. Maggie exhaled sharply, the weight of the situation pressing on her. She couldn’t deal with that right now. There was something more pressing at hand, and she moved toward Violet’s door.

“If you think for one second I’m going to let you get near my daughter,” Mrs. Beauregarde hissed, stepping in front of Maggie to block her path.

“Mom, if you really want me to believe you care about her, then prove it. Let me talk to her,” Maggie said, her voice unwavering.

Mrs. Beauregarde hesitated, her eyes narrowing in frustration, before finally stepping aside. Maggie moved past her, flicking the light switch as she entered Violet’s room, finding her curled up in bed, snug beneath the covers.

“I know you’re not asleep,” Maggie said softly, settling at the foot of the bed. “Might as well come out of your hidey-hole, little bunny.”

Violet slowly peeked her head out from under the covers, startled to see her sister instead of their mother. She sat up, savoring the rare moment when it was just the two of them in the room. But then, a thought crossed her mind—her mother could have hidden cameras in here. Why else would she have let Maggie in?

As if reading her thoughts, Maggie stood and began rummaging through the dresser, pretending to inspect books and pencils. After a few moments, she uncovered a hidden camera disguised as a stick of deodorant. With a quick flick, she turned it off and tucked it carelessly into a drawer.

Violet couldn’t help but smile slightly. It was reassuring to know that, for now, it really was just the two of them. Despite the weight of the tension between their families, this moment felt private, like a secret meant only for her.

“Congratulations on first place,” Maggie said, gesturing to the trophy that lay discarded in the corner. “I meant to say it earlier, but you were kind of overwhelmed by those vultures.”

Violet, however, wasn’t about to let her sister change the subject. “What’s going on?”

Maggie sighed, running a hand through her hair. “I should’ve known you’d catch on,” she said with a short laugh before her expression grew serious. “Vi, I didn’t want to drag you into this, especially with everything you’re already dealing with. But I’ve been watching Mom’s videos. I see everything—your competitions, school, pageants, training, dance, and the horse stuff…”

“It’s called dressage,” Violet corrected quickly.

“What?” Maggie raised an eyebrow.

“The horse stuff,” Violet clarified again. “It’s called dressage.”

Maggie chuckled softly, glancing at her sister with a hint of admiration. “Sorry, dressage. Whatever it’s called, you’re amazing at it. But…” She paused, clearly choosing her words carefully. “You remember that great guy I met when I left for college?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Violet answered, the memory hitting her hard. That night—the night Maggie left—was etched in her mind, her fallback for moments when she just needed to cry.

“Well,” Maggie continued, a hint of hesitation in her voice, “we’ve been living together for a while now, in some not-so-great apartments. Nothing serious, but… I graduated a few months ago, and I landed a really good job at a hospital here in New York. He proposed, and with both of our incomes, it seemed like the right time to buy a house.”

“That’s awesome. I’m happy for you,” Violet said, though she couldn’t help feeling a little confused. What did this have to do with her? Was Maggie really here, at her pageant, just to tell her mom she was doing fine without them?

“And,” Maggie continued, “I was talking to him the other night. About Mom, about you. We both think it might be best if you came to live with us instead of staying with Mom and Dad.”

Violet froze, the words hanging in the air like an unbearable weight. She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came. Her mind buzzed with a thousand conflicting thoughts, none of them making it to her lips. Anger churned inside her—how could Maggie think it was okay to just swoop in after leaving her with their mom for so long? She had walked away from their family for a guy, and now, out of nowhere, she wanted to play the hero? Who did she think she was? And now Violet was supposed to live with them—she didn’t even know this guy!

But then, just as quickly, relief seeped in. Maggie didn’t make videos. That meant Violet wouldn’t have to worry about promotions, apology videos, fan meet-and-greets, or hours of grueling pageant training. Maybe, just maybe, she could actually enjoy herself. And she doubted Maggie screamed at her the way their mom did.

Then guilt began to claw at her. How could she even think about leaving? Her mother had done everything for her, pushed her to be the best, to reach her potential. And now, Violet was contemplating abandoning her? Her mother needed her; without Violet, the channel could collapse, and everything they’d built—everything her parents depended on—could slip away. They might lose the house. They might end up with nothing, and it would be Violet’s fault. After everything they had sacrificed for her, how could she leave them in their time of need?

“I know it’s overwhelming,” Maggie said softly, her voice laced with understanding. “I know this might make you hate me forever, and I’m willing to take that risk. I know you probably can’t forgive me for what happened that night, but please, just hear me out. I’ve thought about you every day since I left. Leaving wasn’t easy, it was never my plan, but I didn’t see another way.”

“You could’ve called,” Violet whispered, her voice cracking as she fought back the tears threatening to spill.

“I did try!” Maggie insisted, her voice full of urgency. “Violet, I swear I did. But you know how Mom is—she blocked me from everything. I even tried sending letters, using Matt’s phone. The only way I could keep up with you was by watching Mom’s channel on his account. And what she’s doing to you, Vi—it’s not right. She keeps you isolated, forces you into all these competitions and promotions, just like she did with me. But it’s even worse now. You’re just a kid, Vi. You shouldn’t be put through all of this.”

“Shut up,” Violet snapped, her emotions surging. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Mom doesn’t make me do anything!”

“Violet, I know it’s hard for you to see—”

“Shut up!” Violet screamed, her voice trembling with anger. “Shut up! You don’t know anything! You left, remember? I like it here. I like it with Mom! I don’t want to go with you and your stupid boyfriend! I’m not going to leave them like you did!”

Maggie sat there, overwhelmed by a mix of hurt and frustration. Why couldn’t Violet understand? Everything Maggie was doing, every sacrifice, was for her sister’s future. She wanted to give her the chances she never had, to protect her from the same mistakes. Maggie longed to shout at her, to make her see the truth, but how could she? Violet was just a kid, caught in the web of their mother’s manipulation. She didn’t understand what Maggie was trying to do—how much better life could be. But Maggie didn’t want to fight; she just wanted to show Violet that brighter path. Before she could say another word, she pulled her sister into a tight embrace, hoping the gesture could convey what words couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Maggie whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Violet hesitantly returned her sister’s embrace, sensing the weight of emotions simmering beneath the surface. Memories of the bathroom confrontation with their mother flooded her mind, but she fought to push them aside, holding onto this fragile moment. She braced herself for the inevitable moment when Maggie would pull away, but to her surprise, Maggie didn’t let go. They stayed there, connected, for what felt like an eternity, both of them silently waiting for the unspoken signal to end. The longer the silence stretched, the tighter Violet clung to her sister, torn between wanting to hold onto this moment forever and the fears that still lingered. Eventually, a sharp ache in her arms forced her to signal the end, and they slowly lowered their arms, the connection breaking.

“That’s why I tried to protect you from all of this for so long,” Maggie said softly. “You’re just a kid; you shouldn’t have to carry this burden. But please, can you at least think it through?”

“Fine,” Violet muttered, though it felt like her opinion hardly mattered.

“I’ll talk to Mom once she’s calmed down and see if she’ll let Matt and me take you out for lunch, just so you can meet him. How does that sound?”

“Yeah, sure,” Violet replied through clenched teeth, retreating further under the covers.

“I love you,” Maggie said, her voice soft and sincere. Violet didn’t answer. After a moment, Maggie quietly left the room, sensing the finality in her sister’s silence.

Once the door clicked shut behind Maggie, Violet slowly emerged from under the covers, but the room felt vast—vast in a way that made her feel even smaller. It was that same, familiar sensation she’d experienced after her mother left the bathroom: the room expanding into an endless void and closing in on her at the same time. She winced, the sharp sting on her cheek reminding her that she’d been grinding her teeth so hard that she’d cut herself. In search of comfort, she reached under the mattress, her fingers grazing the empty space where her emergency stash of gum should have been. She had seen it at the convenience shop downstairs and couldn’t believe she’d forgotten to grab it. Wonka’s new dessert flavors had been a revelation. Chocolate cake, strawberry shortcake, caramel apple, hot fudge sundae, and her favorite—blueberry pie—all sugar-free. It would’ve been the perfect distraction, especially since she’d always dreamed of having Wonka sponsor her and her mom. Sugar-free gum for her mom’s promotions, something she actually enjoyed—it would’ve been a win for everyone.

Her fingers swept the space under the bed again, but there was nothing. The stash was gone. Her mother must’ve raided her room while she’d been in the shower. All that was left was the world-record gum, proudly displayed in its glittering case on the nightstand. Her mind wandered to the thought of living with Maggie and her boyfriend—Marcus, or Mickey, or whatever his name was. There, she could at least have some space where she wouldn’t have to hide her gum. Or if she did, it would be waiting for her when she came back. The thought was absurd. She quickly dismissed it, but not before a small pang of longing crept in. With a sigh, she settled back into bed, resigned to grinding her teeth once again, and struggled to find a comfortable position, hoping for sleep to come despite the overwhelming emptiness surrounding her.

Chapter Text

Mrs. Beauregarde stormed into Violet’s room, yanking the curtains open with a theatrical flourish. The sunlight flooded in mercilessly, jolting Violet from her slumber.

“Violet, up!” her mother barked, her tone leaving no room for negotiation.

“Mom…” Violet groaned, squinting against the sudden brightness and pulling the blanket over her head. “We agreed no training until eight. It’s only six. Check-out isn’t even until eleven.”

“Forget Nationals,” her mother snapped, briskly gathering Violet’s makeup and hair tools into a bag. Her movements were sharp, hurried, and entirely out of sync with the usual morning routine. “There’s something far more important right now. Get up, get in the shower, and get ready. We’re already behind schedule.”

“What could possibly be more important than Nationals?” Violet mumbled, her voice thick with sleep as she rubbed her eyes. The disorienting urgency in her mother’s tone stirred an uneasy feeling in her chest.

“Violet, I said move it!” Mrs. Beauregarde yelled, yanking the blanket off and practically pulling Violet out of bed. “We need to shoot a video now! Get in the shower—it’s going to take forever to get you camera-ready.”

Violet sighed, sensing the urgency in her mother’s voice. There was no room for resistance, not this time. She dragged herself to the shower, noting an unusual absence: no cameras following her every move. Normally, her mother would insist on filming even the most mundane tasks, but today, the atmosphere was different—tense and focused.

Once Violet was out of the shower, her mother got to work with a precision that felt almost mechanical. She styled Violet’s hair into playful space buns, weaving in butterfly clips and tiny decorative flowers. The makeup followed suit, light and whimsical: sparkly lip gloss, a dusting of blush, and a subtle swipe of mascara. It was a stark departure from the usual routine. Normally, after a competition, her mother went for understated beige tones, projecting a calculated image of grace and humility.

The shift was puzzling, but Violet held her tongue, deciding it was safer to save her questions until her mother’s mood had softened—if that ever happened. For now, she sat quietly, watching as her mother perfected the final touches of her new, carefully curated look.
“Grab your gum, Vi, and let me handle the talking, okay?” Mrs. Beauregarde instructed sharply as she adjusted the camera set up at the foot of Violet’s bed. “And for heaven’s sake, make your bed. We don’t want people thinking we live like slobs.”

Violet nodded without argument, retrieving the glittering case of her world-record gum from the nightstand. Her stomach growled in protest, a harsh reminder that she hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s rushed lunch. She hesitated for a moment, glancing toward her mother as if silently asking for a quick snack before filming.

Mrs. Beauregarde was too preoccupied with perfecting the camera angle to notice. Violet sighed and began chewing the ancient piece of gum, its flavor long gone, replaced by a bland, rubbery texture that no longer masked her hunger. Her mother had once claimed gum helped suppress hunger, but Violet’s own research revealed this was only true for peppermint-flavored varieties—and whatever flavor this gum once had was a distant memory.

As she mechanically chewed, Violet busied herself tidying her bed. When her stomach let out another loud, rebellious growl, this time it caught her mother’s attention. Mrs. Beauregarde turned with an exasperated glare.

“For goodness’ sake, Violet,” she snapped. “Could you try to be a little more professional? This is important!”

“Your father made some green tea in the kitchenette,” Mrs. Beauregarde said briskly, not looking up from her task of perfecting the camera’s position. “I’ll finish up here. Go have some before we start filming.”

“Thank you, Mom,” Violet replied, her gratitude genuine despite the tense atmosphere. She made her way to the kitchenette, where her father was seated.

“Hey there, sweet pea!” her father called out brightly, his voice startling Violet. Sometimes she forgot he was even around.

“Hi, Dad,” she said, offering a small smile. “My stomach was rumbling, and Mom said you made green tea?”

Her father glanced at her but was only half-engaged, his attention split between the computer in front of him and the Bluetooth earpiece lodged in his ear. He was clearly in the middle of a sponsorship pitch.

“No, I know they’re in high demand,” he said into the headset, gesturing vaguely toward the tea kettle on the counter. “But this could be a fantastic investment for you! Think about it—the Princess of Pop opening bars from your store, each with a grand prize hidden inside. People would flock here from around the globe. Instant fame! Yes, gum is her brand, but everyone’s diversifying these days…”

Violet stood awkwardly for a moment, unsure if her father would actually pause to finish their conversation. Finally, he turned to her, lowering his voice. “It’s in the tea kettle, sweet pea. Love you—have fun filming with your mom,” he whispered hurriedly before pivoting back to his call.

“I’ll have you know we’ve got plenty of other investors,” he said to whoever was on the line, his tone shifting to confident negotiation. “And most of them are offering twice as much as you are!”

Violet filled her mug with green tea, taking tentative sips at first. But as her hunger grew more intense, she found herself gulping it down, the warmth doing little to quell the emptiness gnawing at her stomach. In the background, her dad continued his pitch, something about candy bars and a sponsorship deal with a shop.

The thought sparked a small flicker of hope in Violet—maybe Mom would agree to film a candy review video. Those were her favorites to make. Well, most of the time. She couldn’t forget the disaster that was the Slugworth candy review. The chocolate had been chalky and nearly inedible, though the gum had been a fun diversion. She had managed to blow a bubble bigger than her head, a moment of triumph—until it popped, leaving her hair tangled in sticky chaos.

That mishap led to a follow-up video, where they tested a slew of old wives’ tales to remove gum from hair. Olive oil didn’t work, peanut butter only made a mess, and ice cubes were a nightmare. In the end, they had no choice but to cut it out, and her mom had to get hair extensions to avoid walking around with awkward bald spots.

Despite all the effort, the video flopped. Worse, the comments were brutal, accusing them of supporting Slugworth—a supposed villain who had allegedly stolen Wonka’s recipes and forced him to shut down his factory years ago. Violet had never understood the outrage. Wonka’s business still seemed very much alive to her, so what was the big deal? She shook her head, trying to push the memory aside as she drained the last of her tea.

“C’mon, Vi! Everything’s set up—let’s shake it!” her mother called from the bedroom.

Violet quickly gulped down the rest of her tea and hurried back into the room. Her mother was already perched on the edge of the bed, her posture perfect, her energy radiating through the air. Violet slipped into place beside her while her mom fiddled with the camera, adjusting the angle and lighting to accommodate both of them.

“Alright, in 3… 2… 1… Hey, what’s poppin’, everyone? It’s the Princess and the Queen of Pop here with a super special announcement for you all, right, Vi?” her mother chirped, flashing her brightest smile at the lens.

“Oh, yeah!” Violet echoed, her voice bright but uncertain. She still had no clue what this “special announcement” was but knew better than to let it show. “This is so exciting. I’m, like, getting nervous,” she added, hoping her mom would jump in and steer the conversation.

“I think everyone’s on the edge of their seat right now,” her mother began, her tone dramatic as ever. “So, this might come as a shock to all of you, but Vi and I have decided to pull out of the National Little Miss America Pageant.
”
Violet struggled to maintain a somber expression, though inside, her emotions were a chaotic whirlwind. Pulling out of Nationals? The words echoed in her mind like a broken record. Sure, her mom had told her to “forget about it” earlier, but Violet hadn’t thought that meant withdrawing entirely. Nationals had been the end goal for as long as she could remember. Ever since Maggie left, it had been her mom’s singular obsession. Violet had come so close last year, finishing as runner-up. All the grueling practices, the relentless training, and the seemingly endless tiered competitions—was it all for nothing?

“Violet is very upset about the situation, as I’m sure a lot of you are too,” her mother said to the camera with exaggerated enthusiasm. “But we’re moving on to something even bigger and better! As I’m sure you’ve all heard by now, Willy Wonka—probably the most famous candy maker in the world—is running a competition of his own. And, of course, when Vi and I heard about it, we had to get in on it! After all, it’s thanks to Wonka’s gum that she even became the Princess of Pop!”

She paused for dramatic effect before continuing, “Mr. Wonka announced that only five kids will be allowed inside his factory after finding one of his five golden tickets. And how do you get them? Well, sneaky Mr. Wonka has hidden the tickets inside Wonka Bars!”

Chocolate? That’s why they were ditching Nationals? Violet’s mind reeled. All the hours of grueling dance rehearsals—ballet, tap, jazz, even Irish—and her feet soaked in blood. Endless karate sessions afterward, fueled only by the Five-Hour Energy shots her mom forced on her to keep her from collapsing. And now, it was all being thrown away for this?

Her mother rambled on about the contest and plans to scour Wonka shops, but Violet could barely process it. How did Mom even know there were any shops in New York? This wasn’t a competition based on skill, effort, or merit—it was a game of stupid, dumb luck!

Violet tried to plaster a fake smile on her face for the camera, but her expression betrayed her fury and confusion. Her jaw clenched as she chewed her gum faster and faster, the tension bubbling over as her mother’s overly cheerful voice filled the room.

“Vi? Violet!” Her mother’s sharp voice cut through her thoughts, jolting her back to the present. “Honey, I need energy for this video, okay? There are already tons of videos announcing the contest, and you’re giving me nothing. If we want people to root for us, you have to give me your all!”

Violet hesitated before speaking, her voice trembling. “It’s just… should we really be throwing away Nationals entirely? I mean, what if I don’t even get a ticket? The announcement said they could be anywhere in the world.”

Her mother’s cheerful facade tightened into an icy smile, one that carried an unspoken warning. The kind of smile that reminded Violet how lucky she was not to be questioning her in public. They were alone, for now.

“We’ll edit this part out,” her mother said briskly, turning to the camera and making a mental note. Then she looked back at Violet, her tone syrupy sweet but with an edge sharp enough to cut. “What’s going on with you, hmm?”

Violet’s mouth went dry as her fingers instinctively traced the faint crescent marks on her wrist, a stinging reminder of her mother’s grip the previous night. “N-nothing,” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just… all my other competitions are based on skill—something I can work hard at and practice for. And now we’re giving all of that up for… for a shot in the dark?”

Her mother exhaled a dramatic sigh of relief, as if Violet’s doubts were trivial. “Oh, sweetheart, is that what’s bothering you? You’re worried you won’t win?” She turned to the camera with renewed energy. “Keep this part in,” she instructed, before addressing Violet again in a tone dripping with faux compassion. “You’re the Princess of Pop, Vi. If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

But Violet couldn’t shake the hollow feeling gnawing at her. It wasn’t just about the fear of losing—it was the realization that her years of blood, sweat, and sacrifice were being dismissed for a gamble on pure chance.

Her mother wrapped her arms around Violet in a tight embrace, her voice soft but firm. “Sweetheart, it’s completely normal to be scared. After all, the whole world is out there hunting for those golden tickets. And Wonka said they could be hidden anywhere—in any shop, on any street, in any town across the globe. But sometimes, we have to step outside our comfort zones and take risks, even if they’re terrifying.” She squeezed Violet tighter, her confidence unwavering. “Remember, we are the unbeatable Beauregardes. I’m telling you right now, one of those tickets is ours, and we’re going to claim that special prize at the end!”

Violet looked up at her mother, her voice small but filled with genuine curiosity. “Do you really believe I can do this?”

Her mother’s eyes softened, her pride shining through. “Absolutely, Vi. You’re the most hardworking, dedicated, and charming girl I know. And when we get that Golden Ticket, if Wonka can’t see what I see in you, then it’s his loss.”

Violet’s lips curled into a small, genuine smile. For a moment, she felt a warmth she wasn’t used to hearing from her mother—kindness, reassurance, and a confidence she wasn’t sure she truly felt. “Thanks, Mom,” she murmured, the sincerity of her words catching her off guard.

“Of course, sweetie,” her mother responded warmly. They didn’t speak further, simply locking eyes for a brief moment as Violet soaked in the quiet connection between them. But after a few beats, her mother broke the silence with a suggestion. “Alright, honey, let’s try that again. I didn’t realize you were going for the humble winner vibe. It was really good, but I think we can make it even better with a second take. Maybe try shedding a tear or two?”

Violet’s smile faltered slightly. “Sure, Mom,” she replied, her voice quieter than before.

After a few more takes—some with forced tears—Violet and her mother finally finished filming the announcement. By the time they packed up to check out of the hotel, their video was already trending, alongside a slew of others discussing the Wonka competition. The comments were a mix of praise and criticism. Many were supportive, encouraging Violet, while others criticized their decision to abandon Nationals, even calling Violet a spoiled brat for being so upset about the possibility of not winning.

Violet found it all completely unfair. She wasn’t even upset about the chance of not winning a golden ticket. Hadn’t anyone seen the countless training videos? She had dedicated herself to hours of work, and now it all seemed pointless. The comments, the videos, the pageants—they all felt like a weight around her neck. The one thing that kept her going, though, was her love for Wonka’s blueberry pie gum. She hated him for what he represented, but she couldn’t deny that he made the best flavors on the market.

Trying to keep her emotions in check, she redirected all her frustration into her work. While her mom busied herself in the kitchen, editing pageant videos, Violet prepared for her martial arts class in the next room. She glanced at her watch—12:30. Her instructor was late, which seemed so fitting, considering how often he scolded her for tardiness, even though it was her mom who constantly kept her behind schedule. It was her mom who insisted on retakes, forcing Violet to run late, despite being the one who signed her up for the lessons in the first place. In a burst of frustration, Violet yelled out, delivering a swift roundhouse kick to her punching bag, sending it sliding across the floor. The release was immediate, and for a brief moment, she felt some peace.

For every insult that labeled her a brat, Violet unleashed a series of hook punches, imagining the faces of her critics. A jab for Maggie, who had tried to take her away from her mom. Another for her mom, forcing her to make those pointless videos. And yet another for her, pushing Violet through endless training just to pull her out of the contest. Punch after punch, her anger fueled the strikes.

“Vi, what on earth are you doing?”

Violet froze, her breath coming in sharp gasps as she glanced towards the door. Her mom stood there, laptop in hand, eyes scanning the room. Violet’s punching bag had been sent flying across the floor, landing in the far corner. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and her arms burned from the exertion.

“I was…” she panted, as she dragged the punching bag back into position. “Just practicing… while waiting for Sensei Yamato.”

“Well, you were yelling so loudly I heard you from the kitchen,” her mother remarked, her face scrunching in disapproval. “And you don’t need to be in here. I’ve canceled your karate until this competition is over.”

“You did what?!” Violet shot back, but when she saw the look her mother gave her, she quickly softened her tone. “I mean, I didn’t realize you had canceled my training.”

“That was before a ticket was already found,” her mother replied, her jaw tightening.

“What?!” Violet asked in disbelief. “How? The contest was just announced last night!”

“Yeah, but because of the time difference, those assholes in Europe got a six-hour head start,” Mrs. Beauregarde explained, swiveling her laptop to reveal the live footage of the first winner of Wonka’s Golden Ticket. Violet wasn’t sure what she had expected, but it definitely wasn’t this. The kid, about her age, looked to weigh at least 200 pounds. He sat on a huge couch between his relatively slim parents, in a house that seemed like something straight out of a cartoon. The living room was filled with candy jars, trinkets, and bird-themed decorations. The cuckoo clock stood out the most. Violet couldn’t help but feel it was an oddly fitting choice. It reminded her of something she learned in biology a few months ago. Cuckoo birds lay their eggs in other birds’ nests, leaving them to raise their chicks. The cuckoo chicks grow larger than the ones that belong there, yet remain oblivious to the fact that they’re not the true offspring of their “parents.” Looking at the stark contrast between the boy and his parents, she wondered if these “birds” had unknowingly raised a “parasite,” unable to tell the difference between the child they expected and the one they had gotten.

“Of course, I knew Augustus would find a Golden Ticket,” Mrs. Gloop said with a hint of superiority. “After all, he’s been eating so many candy bars a day, it would be nearly impossible for him not to find one.”

Augustus shrank in embarrassment, his face turning bright red. Violet felt a stab of guilt in her stomach for the cuckoo bird comparison she had made earlier.

“You like chocolate, huh, Augustus?” one of the reporters asked.

The boy started to sit up, ready to answer, but before he could speak, his father jumped in, cutting him off. “Well, it’s not like he has control over it. We suspect it’s a glandular issue. We’ve taken him to the doctor several times to check his thyroid, convinced it’s overactive. We’ve done at least seven tests and seen four different doctors, and nothing! Now, we’re looking into glandular problems. But let me be clear—we’re not overfeeding him. He’s on a strict organic, vegan diet of all-natural fruits and vegetables. And just so you know, both my wife and I have advanced degrees in childhood education and development—”

“Some more advanced than others,” Mrs. Gloop muttered under her breath.

Mr. Gloop paused, forcing a smile. “Honey, is there something you’d like to share with our viewers at home?”

“Well, darling,” Mrs. Gloop began, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she forgot about the cameras, “I just think even an average viewer would agree that a doctorate and practicing psychologist is a bit more impressive than a professor simplifying my work for college freshmen.”

Mr. Gloop’s smile faltered, his eyes narrowing. He gave her a cold stare that made even Violet feel uncomfortable. “Well, sweetheart,” he said slowly, his voice laced with tension, “I think everyone here can agree there’s no greater honor or achievement as a specialist than shaping the minds of the next generation.”

“If by ‘shaping the minds of the next generation’ you mean daycare monitors and lunch ladies, then sure,” Mrs. Gloop shot back.

Augustus rolled his eyes at the ongoing televised argument between his parents. The lack of any visible embarrassment suggested that this was just another routine dispute in their household. He slouched further into the couch, his gaze vacant as he tried to drown out the sound of his parents’ passive-aggressive exchange, while the cameras captured every word of it. Fiddling with his golden ticket, which had a noticeable bite mark on it, he let the seconds drag by. His attention shifted when he noticed one of the candy jars on the coffee table. Looking back at his parents to ensure they were too absorbed in their bickering to notice, he made his move.

With calculated care, he slid off the couch and crept toward the jar filled with pastel-colored sweets. Without hesitation, he began to stuff as many candies as he could into his mouth, often leaving the wrappers on. He managed to cram in seven or eight before his mother noticed. A shrill cry pierced the air as she lunged at him, trying to pry the sweets from his mouth. Meanwhile, his father, frustrated, shouted at the reporters to leave and hastily covered the camera lens, causing the broadcast to lose signal.

“Wow,” Violet’s mother said, momentarily speechless.

“Yeah,” Violet added, still processing what she was seeing.

“This is amazing!” Her mother’s enthusiasm quickly returned. “Oh my god, Vi, I was so worried the excitement would fade if we weren’t the first to get it. You know what I always say?”

“‘Second place is the first loser,’ right?” Violet answered.

“Exactly!” Her mother continued, her excitement growing. “But this—this is perfect! Think about it, Vi. We can still make this work. Sure, we weren’t first, and that stings, but the first winner is a boy—and he’s completely unlikeable. No stage presence, no media training, just pure desperation on camera! If this is what we’re up against, we’ve got this in the bag.”

Violet remembered watching the boy as he crammed candies into his mouth. At first, she was repulsed, but then a wave of sympathy washed over her. He was so desperate for a taste of candy that he’d risk public humiliation, shame, and ridicule. In that moment, she understood him more than she wanted to admit. She thought about the BubbleYum she had chewed during her acceptance ceremony. Was it really all that different from devouring unwrapped candy on national television? Sure, she didn’t embarrass herself quite the same way, but the stakes were just as high. Her mother was right—if anyone discovered she wasn’t chewing the world record gum, her fame, and the entire premise of her channel, would come crashing down. Just like that boy, no one cared about her back then, but now she was a sensation. Once the contest was over, he would likely fade back into obscurity, having fulfilled his moment of fame. Violet, too, was willing to risk everything for a fleeting, undocumented moment of authenticity.

“Yeah, we do,” Violet agreed, trying to push her overwhelming thoughts to the back of her mind.

“I’m glad we’re finally on the same page,” her mother said, satisfied with Violet’s newfound enthusiasm for the contest. “Your dad just scored a whole pallet of Wonka bars from a shop in Jersey. He’s picking them up right now, and we’re going to unbox them in a video tonight! How does that sound?”

“It sounds like we’re on our way to becoming the next champions,” Violet replied, her voice steady with determination.

“That’s my girl!” Mrs. Beauregarde cheered, wrapping her daughter in a tight hug. “Make sure you note that down; it’s a great way to start off the video.”

Violet nodded, smiling, before heading to her bedroom to change out of her karate uniform. As she did, she pulled out her phone and quickly typed her thoughts into the notes app.

She lay back on her bed, casually scrolling through her social media feeds, eager to see what people were saying about her. The majority of the comments praised her ongoing commitment to producing dressage and karate videos, and Violet was pleased that people appreciated them as much as she did. Although she’d miss the karate content, she hoped that this new focus would allow her more time to dedicate to dressage.

Her gaze drifted to the photos neatly arranged above her bed, soft fairy lights twinkling around them. The images chronicled her journey with her beloved white horse, Blueberry. She had chosen him when she was four, captivated by the little black spot on his nose that resembled a tiny blueberry. She had named him after her favorite dessert—an obvious choice. For years, Violet had been working on her mom, trying to convince her to buy Blueberry, promising that a Christmas or birthday video about it would skyrocket their views. She was certain her mother was holding out for her thirteenth birthday, which conveniently coincided with the annual dressage competition. Violet had already envisioned multiple segments for the video: one about the competition, one for the victory, one for her birthday celebration, and a final reveal where her mother would surprise her with the horse. With so much riding on her birthday, Violet hoped that by planting these ideas early, she could use her fans’ influence to sway her mother’s decision.

One of her most recent posts featured Blueberry during their latest practice session, and her followers always eagerly anticipated photos of the two of them. Her mom always said that cute kids with animals attracted a lot of attention, but the top comments on her photos or videos with Blueberry were always focused on how her smile seemed genuine, how she radiated true happiness in those moments—something that wasn’t as apparent in her other fifty activities. They weren’t wrong; Violet would have loved to bring Blueberry on stage during pageants, but the strict “no animals over fifty pounds” policy at most auditoriums always got in the way. It frustrated her, especially when other girls could bring their dogs to perform tricks during the talent portion, which, in her view, only showcased the dog’s skills, not the contestants’. Dressage, on the other hand, demanded a unique blend of talent, skill, and a deep bond between rider and horse. Violet had to demonstrate perfect control, obedience, and mutual respect with Blueberry in order to deliver a flawless performance. To her, that was far more impressive than any old dog trick.

Violet scrolled through her direct messages when one particular icon caught her eye: Maggie, and a guy who looked about her age. He was probably her boyfriend or fiancé. She opened the message, which read:
“Hey Vi, it’s Maggie. I’m using Matt’s account because Mom has me blocked on basically everything. I’m almost sure she went through your phone too and blocked everything there because whenever I try calling, it just goes straight to voicemail. I’m not sure if you know how to unblock numbers, but if you do, or if you can figure it out, my number is 917-333-6748. If not, you can reach Matt at 917-884-1294. Feel free to call us if you need anything or just want to meet up sometime! Love you lots. (P.S. Matt says good luck with karate today! We think that’s what you have, but we haven’t seen Mom post anything yet!).”

Violet read the message over and over, a wave of conflicting emotions swirling in her stomach. Had Maggie really been trying to reach out to her all along, waiting to see if Violet had managed to unblock her number? And had her mom actually gone through her phone to block Maggie after she left, cutting off any chance of communication? Violet could easily imagine her mother doing that. Without hesitation, she entered both numbers into her phone, starting with Matt’s. It wasn’t blocked. Apparently, her mom hadn’t caught on to that one. She saved it under “Matt - Promotion,” hoping the label would keep things undetected.

“Vi! Hurry up! Your dad just pulled into the driveway!” her mother called from downstairs.

“Coming!” Violet called out, quickly entering Maggie’s number into her phone, only to find it blocked. Her mother had clearly gone through her phone and done it herself. She had always been told that Maggie was the one who blocked her and the rest of the family. Violet’s finger hovered over the unblock button for a moment, the weight of the decision sinking in. If her mom ever found out, it could put her relationship with Blueberry at risk, and potentially ruin her involvement in dressage. Her mother would likely fill that time with something else—maybe another round of dance or vocal training. Violet glanced at the framed pictures of her and Blueberry, bathed in the soft glow of fairy lights, before she reluctantly removed Maggie’s number from her phone. At least she still had Matt’s number, and her mother was unaware of him, so that couldn’t lead to any immediate trouble, right?

“Vi! On the double!” her mother’s voice called out again, impatient.

“Alright, I’m coming!” Violet yelled back, quickly pulling on a purple jumpsuit and rushing downstairs. She reached the door just as her father struggled to get a pallet of Wonka bars through it. It looked like she was in for a long night.

Chapter Text

“Violet! Pick up the pace! We need to move faster!” The instructor’s voice echoed from behind the gates.

Violet stifled a yawn, focusing harder as Blueberry shook his head, a quiet nudge of encouragement to get back on track. His slight shift was a reminder that they needed to be in perfect harmony. She gave a slight adjustment to the reins, signaling her horse to fall back into rhythm with the music.

They had been practicing relentlessly for months, crafting a routine that blended slow, classical music with ‘80s hair rock. Every detail mattered—especially the shift in tempo between the two genres. Violet had to stay in sync with the rhythm, while Blueberry needed to stay focused on her cues. As they worked through the classical segment, set to Chopin, Violet kept a mental count, anticipating the transition to Mozart before the crucial change. Blueberry needed to stop and execute his goose-step precisely in the center of the stage.

Violet stifled another yawn, but the sound of Mozart’s section jolted her back to focus. She tried to move toward the center, but just as she was about to reach it, the rock music blared from the speakers, too soon. The music stopped abruptly, and Violet’s shoulders slumped in defeat. Blueberry nudged her again, this time offering a silent reassurance that they would get it right next time.

“Maybe we should call it a day,” her instructor suggested, lips tight with frustration.

“No, please!” Violet pleaded, her voice earnest. “I can do it; I just didn’t sleep well last night. But I’ve got it now. Can we please try one more time?”

The instructor paused, her lips pressing tighter with each passing second as she weighed Violet’s request. It was as if she had just bitten into something sour. Then, just as the tension hung in the air, Blueberry let out a perfectly timed neigh, startling the instructor. Her reaction was almost comical, as if she’d been caught off guard by something human. After a brief pause, she managed to chuckle.

“Well, if Blueberry’s on board, then I suppose I am too,” she said, her tone lighter as she moved back to her station to restart the music.

Violet smiled and whispered, “Thank you,” as she gently stroked Blueberry’s neck. The horse responded with a soft nod of his head, falling seamlessly into position beside her, ready to begin again.

Violet let out a deep, peaceful breath as the music flowed back into motion, its gentle rhythm washing over her like a calm, shimmering ocean. The delicate notes of piano and strings wrapped around her, their soothing embrace drawing her deeper into the moment. She surrendered to the music, her body finding its rhythm as it merged with the melodies. In that instant, Violet felt herself slip away from the mundane, as if transported into another world where only she and Blueberry existed, bound together by the music. There were no competitions, no deadlines, no cameras or online comments—just the quiet, shared space between them, where time seemed to stand still. It was a sanctuary, a private escape into an existence that was theirs alone.

But just as quickly, the moment passed. Blueberry, with graceful precision, trotted off the stage, awaiting Violet’s cue to return to the stables. As she stood there, her gaze shifted to the empty arena, the hay scattered across the ground. For the first time, she noticed how desolate and grey the space appeared, as if mirroring her own sudden shift back to reality.

“Wonderful, Miss Beauregarde!” the instructor’s voice called from behind the gates, her thin lips curving into a smile. “Truly excellent!”

Violet’s face lit up with a warm smile as she stroked Blueberry’s neck affectionately. He responded by twisting his head toward her, attempting to nuzzle her in a playful gesture that made her chuckle, though it filled her heart with warmth. With a gentle press of her heel, she guided Blueberry toward the stables. As they walked, a familiar voice interrupted the tranquility of the moment.

“Whoo! Yeah! Go Violet!” Maggie’s excited cheers echoed, and Violet noticed Matt beside her, their voices growing louder as they approached. She quickly glanced over her shoulder before continuing her path, silently hoping to put some distance between them.

But her attempt was futile, as within moments, she found herself at Blueberry’s stable, greeted by Maggie and Matt. Violet carefully dismounted and, without a word, began filling Blueberry’s feeding trough with hay, determined to stay focused on her task and avoid making eye contact. But Blueberry nudged her gently, his actions guiding her attention toward her sister.

“Seriously?” Violet thought to herself, feeling a sigh bubble up inside. “Et tu, Blueberry?”

Violet’s gaze shifted toward Maggie and Matt, a heavy silence settling between them. It had been a few days since she last saw her sister, back when they were both staying at the hotel. Maggie had brought up the idea of Violet moving in with her and Matt in their new house, a suggestion that had lingered in Violet’s mind ever since. She knew her sister wasn’t expecting an answer right away, but the decision loomed over her. She couldn’t delay it forever—ideally, not until after the chocolate contest was over. If she didn’t win the prize, her mother might even push her to consider it sooner.

“Violet, you were amazing out there!” Maggie’s voice broke the silence, her face glowing with excitement. “I mean it, you and Blueberry were in total sync! It was incredible!”

Violet shrugged, trying to brush off the compliment. “Well, yeah, we’ve been partners since I was four,” she replied, turning back to fill Blueberry’s trough. He seemed content with her answer, allowing her to return to her task without further interruption.

“That’s right, I remember when you first started,” Maggie said, her eyes lighting up with nostalgia. “Her name was Strawberry, right?”

“Blueberry,” Violet corrected her gently. “Because he has this little spot on his nose, shaped like a blueberry, see?”

“Oh yeah!” Matt exclaimed, moving closer to Blueberry. “I see it now. Your sister told me your favorite dessert is blueberry pie. Is that why you named him Blueberry?”

“Oh, I didn’t get to name him,” Violet explained with a small laugh, reaching up to grab a grooming brush that hung just out of her reach. “He just kind of came that way.”

Matt smiled and kindly offered to help. “Here, let me get that for you,” he said, handing her the brush. “I’m Matt, by the way. I should’ve started with that.”

“It’s okay; I figured it out on my own,” Violet replied, gently brushing Blueberry’s mane with a calm, steady hand. Matt stood off to the side, hesitating, unsure of what to do next. He glanced over at Maggie, seeking some kind of direction.

Violet, noticing his uncertainty, tried to ease the tension by offering, “You can brush him if you want.”

“Oh, really?” Matt asked, taking the grooming brush from her with a bit of surprise. “So, um, do I just brush him like human hair, or is there a special horse technique?”

Violet nodded, offering her guidance. “For the most part, it’s like brushing human hair, but you always want to keep one hand on him so he knows where you are. You see how his eyes are on the side of his head? He can’t exactly follow things with just his eyes. He has to turn his whole neck. So if you start brushing and he doesn’t know you’re there, he might get startled and could even kick you. Trust me, horse kicks are a lot stronger than regular kicks.”

Matt chuckled, recalling something. “Yeah, I saw your mom’s video playlist when you broke your rib,” he said, letting Violet gently guide his hand from Blueberry’s vision to his mane.

Violet continued with her instructions, “You want to start where he can see you, then follow a slow, steady path to help him stay calm. Once you’re done, you can give him a treat. He loves honeycrisps; they’re in my bag.” At the mention of “apple,” Blueberry’s ears perked up, and he nuzzled Violet affectionately, clearly hoping for an early snack.

“Okay, okay,” Violet giggled as she rummaged through her bag and pulled out an apple, offering it to Blueberry.

“Wow, you two have your own little routine,” Matt said, watching with admiration. “He must really trust you.”

“It’s a mutual trust,” Violet replied, smiling. “That’s what dressage is all about—creating a deep bond of trust between—oh no!” Her voice shifted to concern as she peered into her bag.

“What’s going on?” Maggie asked

“It’s these stupid Wonka bars,” Violet grumbled, pulling nearly twenty of them from her duffel bag. “I promised Mom that if she dropped me off early so I could take Blueberry out, I’d open these to keep us on track, but I completely spaced. I got so caught up in perfecting that transition. Oh god, she’s going to freak out!”

“Okay, let’s just take a deep breath,” Maggie said calmly, placing her hands on Violet’s shoulders. “Is this about that Golden Ticket contest?”

“Oh yeah,” Matt added, still brushing Blueberry’s mane. “I heard one was already found. Man, I haven’t had a Wonka Bar in years. Nutterific was always my favorite. How about you? Unless you’re already over them.”

“I don’t know, I’ve never even had one,” Violet muttered, her patience running thin. “Can we please focus here?” She ripped open the wrappers with rapid precision.

Matt exchanged a concerned glance with Maggie as Violet continued tearing through wrapper after wrapper, her growing frustration evident with each dark, creamy chocolate bar she revealed. Maggie raised her hand, signaling to Matt that this was something she needed to handle. He nodded, understanding—Maggie loved talking about her little sister, and from what he had seen, Violet was an exceptionally talented kid. He didn’t know many 12-year-olds who could nearly train a horse on their own, be a blue belt in karate, excel in ballet, tap dancing, singing, and win pageants. Her schedule was packed to the brim. It reminded him of Maggie when they first met—smart, talented, caring, and constantly wound up, always striving to meet her mother’s expectations.

“Damn it!” Violet muttered in frustration, ripping open yet another plain chocolate bar.

“Violet!” Her mother’s voice rang out from the doorway, sharp and commanding. “What have I told you about swearing?” Violet’s blood ran cold as she caught sight of her mother standing in the entrance of the stable. She wasn’t supposed to be here for at least another 45 minutes—if she was on time at all. Her face went pale as she realized there were at least fifteen more Wonka bars hidden in her duffel bag. She considered hiding them beneath her day clothes, hoping her mother wouldn’t notice, but her body felt paralyzed in place.

Within moments, her mother’s eyes darted toward Maggie, who was standing in the stall with Violet. The shift in her expression was immediate—from minor annoyance to something far darker, a simmering rage that she barely managed to mask. When she noticed Matt standing nearby, however, her attempt to compose herself was quick, though still evident. Maggie had known her mother well enough to anticipate the reaction, and though she genuinely wanted Violet and Matt to spend more time together, she also knew her mother was less likely to cause a scene with a third-party witness.

“Maggie,” her mother hissed through clenched teeth, “I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Quite a surprise, considering how long it’s been since you even bothered with Violet’s dressage stables.”

Maggie shot back, “Well, it’s not hard to find when you tag the ranch in all your dressage videos.”

“Oh, so now you care about my videos?” her mother sneered.

“Mom, I didn’t come here to argue,” Maggie said, trying to defuse the tension. “I just wanted to watch Violet practice and introduce her to Matt, that’s all.”

“So what?!” her mother snapped, her voice rising with anger. “So you can convince Violet to run away and live in your so-called paradise, where she can have a ‘normal’ life, free from any opportunities or future? Let her be an average kid, working some dead-end job for the rest of her life?!”

“Stop acting like any of this is about Violet!” Maggie shot back, her voice rising. “This isn’t about me, or Violet, or anyone else but you! All you care about is your five minutes of fame, which is why you made us do all those ridiculous videos and never gave us a moment of privacy. Even Violet’s birth was broadcasted!”

“Maggie, just stop,” Mrs. Beauregarde said, pulling out her phone, her tone sharp. “I didn’t come here to have this childish argument with you. I came to show Violet this.”

Violet’s heart sank as she watched the video her mother pulled up. A wave of disappointment hit her as she realized what it was. The second Golden Ticket had been found, and it was revealed by a girl. The footage showed a young girl, no older than Violet, standing with her parents in what seemed like a grand palace, with an air of royalty surrounding them. The girl had long, glossy brunette hair—sleek and shiny like something from a dream. She wore delicate strands of pink pearls around her neck, and her flawless complexion seemed to glow. The girl’s custom-designed outfit completed the picture of perfection.

The girl positioned herself close to her father, purposefully distancing herself from her mother, or perhaps an older sister—Violet couldn’t tell. The woman, who looked to be around Maggie’s age, wore revealing clothing that highlighted her spray-tanned figure, her fingers twisting through her bleach-blonde hair. Every time attention shifted toward her, the girl’s discomfort was unmistakable.

The father, dressed in a flashy cowboy-themed outfit with a ridiculously large hat, spoke with enthusiastic energy, “Well, folks, as soon as my little angel told me she HAD to get her hands on one of those golden tickets, I started buying up every Wonka bar I could find, yessir! Salts Incorporated oversees Salt’s Happy Family Home Peanuts! A few million Wonka bars haven’t made a dent in this old wallet!” He laughed boisterously. The girl, however, rolled her eyes and swatted away the older woman’s attempt to touch her shoulder.

Violet couldn’t help but quietly reflect to herself, “‘Happy Family’? Doesn’t look like a happy family to me.”

A reporter asked, “And how many Wonka Bars did Veronica open?”

The father hesitated before beginning to speak, “Well, you see—” but was quickly cut off by his daughter.

“None,” she snapped, clearly annoyed, as she tried to shield the other woman from the camera. “I don’t do manual labor. We pay people for that. And it’s Veruca, you idiot.”

“Come on, Rue!” a young woman called, pushing her way toward the girl. “Stop being such a sourpuss!”

“Listen to your mother, sweet pea!” the father said with a grin.

In response, Veruca shoved the woman hard, sending her stumbling backward, crashing over her too-high heels. Several reporters dropped their questions and rushed to help the woman regain her balance.

“Stepmother,” Veruca emphasized with a hint of disdain. “Candy is my stepmother.”

“Yes,” Candy responded, trying to keep her tone upbeat, “But honestly, we’re more like sisters! I mean, look at her, such a jokester… ow,” she winced, rubbing her ankle.

“Get away from me,” Veruca spat, her voice sharp. Candy quickly hobbled over toward Veruca’s father, clearly taking the hint.

Veruca seemed to revel in the shift, flashing a dazzling smile at the cameras. Violet could feel the tension building in her back, her muscles tightening with unease. Even in a moment of confrontation, Veruca remained poised, effortlessly captivating. Her mother clicked off the video, her icy gaze turning on Violet. Blueberry, too, seemed to sense the shift in the air, his nostrils flaring and his ears flattening against his head. Violet resisted the urge to comfort him, knowing that any movement on her part would trigger her mother’s sharp reaction.

“So, care to explain what that video was about?” Mrs. Beauregarde asked, her voice unnervingly calm.

“The second Golden Ticket winner?” Violet answered quietly, shrinking under her mother’s gaze.

“Yes, the second Golden Ticket winner,” Mrs. Beauregarde repeated, circling her daughter like a predator eyeing its prey. “A girl—wealthy, beautiful, charismatic enough to shove her mother in front of the cameras and still maintain her fame.”

“Maybe I could befriend her or—”

“How the hell are you going to be her friend if you can’t even find a ticket, Violet?” Mrs. Beauregarde snapped, her voice rising to a furious scream. Blueberry whinnied, his head jerking toward the noise, his ears flattened in distress. “Go on, tell me! How exactly are you going to magically produce a ticket when you can’t even open the candy bars? Do you know your father and I had to pull some serious strings to get those palettes from New Jersey? I had to talk to so many people just to figure out where the Golden Ticket might be. We did all the hard work, and you can’t even be bothered to open a single bar! You’re so spoiled, Violet—so ungrateful!”

“Enough!” Maggie shouted, cutting her mother off. “You don’t know where the ticket is, Mom. Nobody does! That’s the whole point of this contest; it’s random. It’s just a factory tour!”

Her mother scoffed, clearly unfazed. “Just a factory tour? There’s a much bigger picture here, honey! This contest is huge—it’s the hottest thing since boy bands! It’s trending everywhere—on the Internet, on TV, and the winners are already being booked for talk shows! Have you forgotten who made Violet’s world record piece of gum? Wonka! It was Wonka! Do you have any idea how amazing it would be for us if Violet went to the man who’s behind her success and wins the grand prize? We’re talking A-list celebrity status!”

As the tension in the stable thickened, Blueberry’s discomfort became more apparent. He bared his teeth in a menacing snarl, his ears pressed flat against his head in a clear sign of anxiety. He whined softly, raising his head in agitation. Violet tried to slip past her mother to soothe him, but her efforts went unnoticed amidst the growing chaos.

Determined to protect Blueberry, Violet subtly tried to guide her mother and sister away from the stressed horse. Only Maggie seemed to pick up on the delicate cues, stepping aside without a word. Meanwhile, her mother’s furious tirade raged on, accusing Violet of lacking foresight, questioning her intentions, and insinuating that she was deliberately sabotaging herself. The tension reached a boiling point.

Amid the growing chaos, Blueberry’s anxiety finally overwhelmed him. In a dramatic and anguished outburst, he let out a loud, piercing neigh before sinking his teeth into Mrs. Beauregarde’s arm in sheer distress.

“Ow! Son of a…!” Mrs. Beauregarde yelped, her voice sharp with pain.

In the midst of the uproar, Violet swiftly took control of Blueberry’s reins, her touch both firm and soothing as she calmed him down. The stable staff quickly gathered around, concerned and assessing the situation.

“What happened? Is everyone okay?” Violet’s instructor asked, inspecting Mrs. Beauregarde’s arm for signs of injury.

“No, I’m not fine! This out-of-control animal just bit me!” Mrs. Beauregarde snapped, quickly snapping a photo of her arm, which was only slightly scratched, clearly for dramatic effect.

“He’s not out of control! You just frightened him!” Violet retorted passionately, helping the stable staff calm Blueberry. “I’ve told you a thousand times—yelling like that scares him!”

Her mother scoffed and shifted her attention to the instructor, who was already tending to her arm. “I think we’ll be halting these lessons for now.”

“What?! Mom, no! You can’t do that!” Violet cried out, her voice shaking as she backed toward Blueberry. It felt as though her bond with him was at stake, and she couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from him.

Her mother glared at her, her expression cold. “Watch your tone. This hobby has taken up too much of your time anyway. We’re already behind on the contest. Clearly, canceling karate didn’t motivate you, so I’m just freeing up more of your schedule. Besides, this sport is far too dangerous.”

Violet couldn’t believe what she was hearing. No, she couldn’t stand the thought of losing Blueberry, not like this. Not for a stupid chocolate factory tour she never even wanted to be part of. Desperate for help, she looked to Maggie, but Maggie was already locked in a futile exchange with their mother, every attempt at reasoning falling flat. Even the stable staff stood frozen, shocked by the scene unfolding before them.

Tears welled in Violet’s eyes as she buried her face in Blueberry’s mane. The horse nuzzled her gently, offering a small comfort amidst the chaos. Everything felt so unfair, as though the world was conspiring against her, forcing her to give up the one thing that truly understood her, the one thing that loved her without condition.

A rush of emotion swelled inside her—grief turning into fiery anger. She clung to Blueberry, trying to hold back the flood of rage, but it was already too late.

“I hate you!” Violet’s voice cracked with raw emotion as she exploded at her mother. Tears streamed down her face, her words sharp and cutting. “I hate these stupid videos, I hate this ridiculous contest! I couldn’t care less about some stupid chocolate factory or some dumb ticket! Why can’t you just stop shoving fame down my throat because you were too pregnant and too big to compete in the Miss Universe pageant all those years ago!”

A deafening slap rang out across the barn, cutting through the air and silencing everything around them. Violet’s ears rang as she struggled to comprehend what had just happened. Her cheek burned with the impact, and she realized she was lying on the cold, unforgiving ground. Her vision blurred, but the disorientation slowly faded as her gaze focused on her mother, still standing above her with a hand trembling from the force of the strike. Mrs. Beauregarde’s face was flushed with anger and humiliation, her tears matching the ones streaming down Violet’s own face.

After a long, charged silence, Mrs. Beauregarde slowly straightened herself, her gaze flicking between her daughter and the stunned onlookers. She bent down, offering a shaky hand to help Violet up.

“Oh my God, Violet, sweetie, I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t mean it,” her mother pleaded, her voice shaky with regret. “You just… you made me so furious, and I… I didn’t know what I was doing. When I looked back, you were… Honey, are you okay?”

Violet jerked away from her mother’s outstretched hand, her heart pounding. Without a word, she pushed herself up and bolted out of the barn, her tears streaming down her face as the wind whipped past her. Maggie’s voice called her name, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop.

Maggie sprinted after her, but their mother wasn’t far behind, already pulling out her camera, desperate to capture the moment. But Matt anticipated her move, stepping firmly into her path to block her way. Mrs. Beauregarde hesitated, her eyes narrowing in frustration, but she couldn’t get past him.

Violet raced across the open fields, past the barn gates, and down the road, her feet pounding against the earth. She wasn’t headed anywhere specific; all that mattered was that she kept moving. If she stopped, everything would feel too real—Maggie trying to pull her away, her mother forcing her to give up Blueberry because of some richer, prettier girl who had won a ticket, the sharp sting of her mother’s slap. As long as she kept running, it all felt like a distant nightmare, something happening to someone else. She just had to keep running, farther, faster.

“Violet, come back!”

Maggie’s voice echoed behind her, but Violet didn’t turn, not even for a moment. She couldn’t. She kept running, pushing herself harder, faster. Her legs screamed with the effort, each stride growing heavier. Her heart pounded so loudly, it reverberated inside her skull, drowning out everything else. Sweat stung her eyes, her chest burned with every breath, each one coming faster and shallower. She felt like any second now, her body might collapse, like a balloon losing all its air. When that happened, she’d lie there, watching as everything she tried to escape fell apart, as the weight of reality crushed her into the ground.

But still, she ran. Faster, harder, until—

Suddenly, something yanked her back, halting her in her tracks. Her sanctuary—the place she hoped to reach, the place where everything would make sense—was now slipping farther away. Maggie’s arms were around her, gripping her tight, holding her against her chest. Violet struggled, screamed, desperate to break free, to reach that distant freedom just out of her grasp.

But Maggie held on, steady and resolute. Violet’s gaze drifted to the horizon, only to see an empty, barren road stretching out before her. Her refuge was gone. She hadn’t run fast enough, hadn’t escaped it in time. Her knees buckled beneath her, pain coursing through them as she gasped for air. The world around her seemed to pause in that moment, everything going still except for the thudding of her heart. In the silence, she and Maggie stood there together, alone on the road surrounded by trees, the weight of it all pressing in.

They stood in silence, the minutes dragging by as if they were hours. Maggie wanted to say something, to break the quiet, but she chose to stay silent instead. They stood together, allowing the stillness between them to speak in ways words never could. After what seemed like an eternity, Maggie finally released her hold on Violet. Violet didn’t pull away. There was nowhere left to run. Maggie reached out, offering her hand to help Violet up from the ground. Without a word, they began walking, following the path Violet had fled down earlier.

Their steps were quiet, neither of them speaking as they walked. It was only when they reached a small, shabby gas station that Maggie stopped, her own exhaustion evident. She guided Violet to a bench near the outdoor ashtrays and vending machines, settling beside her. The air was heavy with the stale smell of smoke, and Maggie inhaled deeply, trying to catch her breath.

But then, her eyes flicked to Violet’s face, and her heart sank. A bright red handprint, stark and angry, was appearing on her sister’s cheek, and there were dark droplets of blood staining her skin. Panic surged through Maggie. She quickly rushed to one of the vending machines, fumbling to grab the first soda can she could find, the metal clanging loudly as she yanked it free. Without thinking, she extended the cold can to Violet, her hands trembling.

“Here,” Maggie said gently, pressing the cold can to Violet’s cheek. “It’s not an ice pack, but it’ll help for now. You can have a drink afterward.”

Violet didn’t speak, but her fingers gripped the can tightly, relishing the chill against her skin.

Maggie hesitated for a moment, then asked softly, “Do you want to talk about what happened back there?”

“No,” Violet replied, her voice flat and resolute.

Maggie sighed heavily, her concern growing. “She shouldn’t have hit you.”

Violet’s grip tightened even more around the can, her voice barely audible as she muttered, “It doesn’t matter.”

“But it does, Vi. This is serious,” Maggie pressed, her gaze fixed on her sister. “You lost your temper, you shouted, but Mom—she was completely out of line. Do you mean what you said? About not wanting to do the contest or the videos?” Violet stayed silent, her gaze distant.

“Vi, please, talk to me,” Maggie pleaded, her voice soft but insistent. “I get what you’re going through more than anyone else. That’s why I left. I couldn’t stand having a camera in my face all the time—whether I was laughing, crying, or screaming. The constant hours of pageant training, ballet, tap, vocal lessons, gymnastics, tai chi, soccer—it was too much. The pressure was relentless, and I had to get away. So, I did. And honestly, I’ve never been so proud and guilty about a decision in my life.”

Violet turned her head slightly, her attention caught by Maggie’s words.

“I felt awful about leaving you, Vi,” Maggie continued, her voice thick with regret. “And now, I’m trying to make up for it. I thought if I could get you away from all of this, everything would get better. But I guess it’s not that simple, is it?” She let out a small laugh, though it was tinged with sadness. “I’ve seen you go through the same things I did, but more intense. With this ticket nonsense, Mom taking Blueberry, and her even hitting you in front of everyone… It’s not right, Vi. I mean, have you even tasted any of those Wonka bars you’ve been opening?”

Violet shook her head. “Mom says I have to be camera-ready.”

Maggie rolled her eyes, then turned back to the vending machines. She scanned the rows of colorful candy, her eyes narrowing until she spotted what she was looking for. Dollar after dollar clinked into the machine, releasing bars one by one. She gathered up armfuls of candy, returning to the bench where Violet sat.

Violet glared at the candy, her patience worn thin by the sight of it all. She couldn’t escape these endless sweets, no matter where she went. Maggie, unfazed, tore into the first chocolate bar without even checking for a golden ticket. With a defiant smirk, she took a huge bite.

Opening her eyes, she looked down at herself and gasped. “Oh my god, Violet, do you think I gained 300 lbs?” She took another bite, tossed a candy bar to her sister, and grinned mischievously.

Violet caught the candy bar and threw it back at Maggie. Without missing a beat, Maggie tossed it to her again, but this time Violet hurled it to the ground. Unfazed, Maggie threw another one her way. They repeated the back-and-forth four times, the tension building with each toss.

“I’ve got a whole stack of these,” Maggie said, grinning as she sent another bar flying towards her sister.

“I don’t want any more of these stupid chocolate bars,” Violet shot back, pushing the candy away, her frustration evident.

Maggie finished the first bar, eyes closed in satisfaction, before opening her eyes and reaching for the second. “Just take one bite,” she urged, “close your eyes, and savor it. Forget the calories, forget the sugar, forget the cameras. Just enjoy it. Besides, you know you love caramel. Don’t try to act like you don’t.”

Violet hesitated, twirling the candy bar in her hands. Her thumb traced over the familiar letters on the packaging, the name that had been etched into her mind for weeks—Wonka, Wonka, Wonka. She couldn’t understand what made this contest so special. Her thoughts drifted to the hotel, where memories of the tantalizing gum she’d longed for resurfaced—another Wonka creation. The idea of the blueberry pie flavor stirred something inside her, a fleeting excitement. Wonka was supposed to be renowned for its flavors, or so everyone said. It had been so long since she’d had anything from them.

Frustration bubbled up within her, and Violet ground her teeth as these thoughts and emotions swirled together. Closing her eyes, she ripped open the wrapper with sudden resolve, and in one swift motion, shoved the chocolate into her mouth.

The chocolate was unlike anything Violet had ever tasted—smooth, creamy, and utterly indulgent. It melted on her tongue, mingling perfectly with the soft caramel and toffee bits that provided just the right amount of crunch. Before she could even process the layers of flavors, the entire bar was gone. Stunned, she glanced at her sister, realizing she was covered in chocolate from corner to corner of her face. They both burst into uncontrollable laughter.

Violet wiped the chocolate off her mouth with her sleeve, still chuckling, and reached for another bar. Her eyes fell on the discarded wrapper at her feet, and her laughter slowly faded. A flash of gold caught her attention, tucked among the crumpled silver.

Chapter Text

Violet stood frozen, her eyes locked on the golden ticket lying before her. It was the result of endless effort, the countless wrappers she had torn open, and the possibility of reuniting with Blueberry. Maggie, distracted, continued nibbling on her chocolate bar, unaware of Violet’s sudden stillness. The golden ticket shimmered in the sunlight, its gleam impossible to ignore. Their gazes met, a silent understanding passing between them. Violet’s heart raced, longing to grab the ticket and show it to her mother, but her body felt rooted to the spot, as though the bench beneath her had absorbed her energy.

“You know, you don’t have to take it,” Maggie murmured softly. “There are so many people around, someone else would be thrilled to find it. And in a few days, it’ll all be over.”

Violet’s teeth ground together as she wrestled with her thoughts. She couldn’t care less about the contest or the idea of visiting that eccentric factory. The only thing she truly wanted from Wonka was the gum that had been hidden under her hotel bed. Her mother saw this contest as a golden opportunity — sponsorship, interviews, talk shows, a huge boost in their channel’s views and followers. Violet had a choice. She could pretend she’d never found the ticket, blend in with the millions of other kids who hadn’t, and absolve herself of any guilt. The contest was purely based on luck, after all. Her mother might be angry at first, punish her, but eventually, she’d realize it wasn’t Violet’s fault. They’d return to their intense training, and if Violet worked hard enough, lost the weight, maybe her mother would let her continue with dressage.

The word “selfish” reverberated in Violet’s mind like a persistent drumbeat, relentless and unyielding. Selfish. Selfish. Selfish. She realized how consumed she had been by her own desires, fixated only on what she wanted and how everything affected her. She hadn’t once stopped to consider her mother’s motivations. Despite her own resistance, her mother’s unwavering dedication had led to her success. Her mother had pushed her through the toughest of practices, even when they were grueling, and that same persistence had earned her second place at Nationals. The gum may have been unpleasant, but it had been part of protecting the reputation Violet had worked so hard to build. Her mother wasn’t being unreasonable; she was simply trying to guarantee her success, to give her the opportunities she’d never had. And here Violet was, on the verge of throwing it all away just because she didn’t feel like it. She scolded herself for being so selfish, questioning what was wrong with her.

Violet bent down and picked up the ticket from the discarded wrapper. She glanced at Maggie, hoping her sister would understand the weight of her decision not to leave it behind. To her relief, Maggie nodded and took her hand in silent support.

“I think this is a great opportunity, and you’re going to have so much fun,” Maggie said reassuringly.

Violet gave a grateful nod and started to head toward the stables. But just as she passed the vending machines, Maggie gently caught her arm, steering her back to the bench.

“Wait a minute, before you rush off to tell Mom, let’s take a breather. Mom will be ecstatic, and she’ll probably start recording the moment she sees it. How about we read the ticket first? Just the two of us, before she livestreams your reaction to the world?”

Violet paused, thinking it over. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s probably better to practice my reaction before Mom whips out her phone.”

Maggie smiled, and they leaned in close together, reading the ticket’s contents. Neither of them had ever heard Mr. Wonka’s voice or seen any interviews, videos, or pictures of him. In fact, Violet realized she knew shockingly little about the man—other than his legendary gum and delicious chocolates. She’d grown to resent his omnipresent name, almost despising him without ever having seen his face. But as they read the ticket together, the words didn’t match the image of an annoying villain she’d constructed in her mind. Instead, they revealed a man who seemed genuinely thrilled to welcome guests to his factory. The excitement in his words sparked a small thrill in Violet, and she couldn’t help but feel a bit of anticipation herself.

The ticket also promised a lifetime supply of chocolate—though Violet suspected it might mean a lifetime of video reviews rather than a constant supply of actual chocolate—but she had to admit, it was still pretty exciting. Then came the revelation of a special prize that would be awarded to one outstanding child at the end of the tour. A contest within a contest—just what she needed.

“Hey Vi,” Maggie read aloud, her voice laced with amusement, “it says here you can bring one family member to keep an eye on you and make sure you don’t get into any mischief. ‘Ensure you don’t get into any mischief’? Who talks like that?”

“Only one?” Violet asked, her gaze fixed intently on the ticket. Her mother would undoubtedly be the obvious choice to accompany her; after all, without her, the ticket would have never existed in the first place. But as she considered it more deeply, Violet realized that statement wasn’t entirely true. While her mother had bought all those bars, it was Maggie who had purchased the one that had led them here. And if Maggie hadn’t insisted on chasing after her, buying endless candy bars in an attempt to prove a point, the ticket might never have been found.

Violet’s thoughts drifted to the idea of spending an entire day with Maggie. The more she thought about it, the more appealing it seemed. Maggie had a gift for turning anything into a fun experience. Violet remembered the time they’d spent together in their house with their mom—how Maggie would do silly things during their videos to make Violet laugh. She would make goofy faces, mimic their mom, and sometimes Violet would forget there was even a camera recording them. If Maggie could do all that in front of a camera, then a full-day factory tour with her would surely be an unforgettable adventure.

“Maggie, I—”

“VIOLET!” Violet was abruptly cut off mid-sentence by her mother’s frantic voice as she rushed over to the benches near the gas station, her phone already in hand.

“Oh my goodness, baby!” Her mother exclaimed dramatically, still filming. “I was so worried! You started running, and I tried to catch up, but that person blocked me, and I couldn’t find you anywhere! I’ve been looking all over!”

“Mom—” Maggie started, only to be cut off as well.

“Maggie, I know we’ve had our issues, and I’m furious your boyfriend kept me from comforting my own daughter, but I’m just so relieved you weren’t out here alone.” She bent down to Violet’s level, trying to make eye contact, but the camera obscured her face.

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I don’t even know what happened, everything got so out of hand, and… Tears welled up in her eyes. “God, I’m a monster. I can’t believe I did something like that to my own child. Violet, baby, you know I love you. More than anything. And I’ve never been more sorry in my life. To make it right, we’re going to start family therapy again. I swear, we’ll fix this. We can be a family again.”

Maggie rolled her eyes at her mother’s dramatics. “Can you say it without the camera, Mom?”

Mrs. Beauregarde shot her a sharp look but continued to keep the camera focused on Violet, waiting for a reaction. It felt like a thousand thoughts were buzzing around Violet’s mind, each one like a bee swarming in different directions. One bee urged her to cry and accept her mother’s apology, all for the camera’s sake. Another bee warned that Maggie might ruin the shot, which would only fuel their mother’s anger, but crying could still salvage the situation. A third bee whispered about the possibility of her mother posting about the slap, and how that could be used as evidence if Violet and Maggie followed through with the custody plan.

As the bees buzzed around, a second one questioned whether that would really be the worst outcome. Another one swooped in, reminding her that her mother was finally agreeing to therapy, a step Violet hadn’t expected. But then the bees formed a chorus, reminding her that every therapy session would be recorded, just like the last one, and that none of it was for her—only for the viewers.

And then, at the center of it all, the queen bee—calm and composed—reminded her of the Golden Ticket she held in her hand. Violet didn’t say a word; instead, she quietly raised the ticket to the camera, making sure her mother saw it.

Mrs. Beauregarde lowered the camera, her mouth hanging open as she stared at the gleaming ticket in Violet’s hand. “Where did you get this?” she asked, her voice a mix of disbelief and awe, struggling to comprehend that it might actually be real.

Violet explained, “Maggie came and got me, and we got some chocolate from the vending machine. I didn’t eat any, I swear! But when I opened one, the ticket was just there.”

Her mother shot both of them a disbelieving look, but she paused her recording, shoving the phone into her pocket. Without saying a word, she grabbed the ticket from Violet’s hand and began reading it, while the two sisters waited in tense silence. When she finished, she turned to Violet, crouching down to her level. This time, there was no camera between them. Their eyes met, and for a moment, Violet felt the weight of her mother’s cold gaze.

Her mother’s eyes were nothing like hers—black and distant, calculating in a way that felt more mechanical than human. Violet’s, on the other hand, were warm, a honeyed brown with hints of green around the edges, just like her father’s. In that moment, Violet wished there were something to shield her from the intensity of her mother’s stare.

“Violet, sweetie,” her mother beamed, her smile radiant. “I am incredibly proud of you. I thought I needed to manipulate things to secure this victory, but you achieved it all on your own. You showed initiative and leadership, and I’m so sorry for doubting your commitment. I now understand that you truly grasp the importance of this competition.” She enveloped Violet in a warm embrace. “I should have never questioned you, baby, and I should never have lost my temper like that. I was only concerned because I thought you didn’t realize how significant this could be for your career.”

“Her career?” Maggie interrupted, incredulous. “Mom, she’s only 12.”

Her mother snapped something back at Maggie, but Violet didn’t hear it. The words faded away as she was consumed by a sense of being an imposter—phony, fake, and utterly undeserving. Her mother was proud of her, genuinely proud, but for something Violet hadn’t even truly earned. She hadn’t done anything to deserve the ticket. She hadn’t taken charge or made a choice to find it—she had run away like a child, overwhelmed and lost. And then there was the lie—she had eaten the chocolate, breaking the one fundamental rule of the contest: always look your best.

Her mother hadn’t been angry because Violet wasn’t taking it seriously enough. No, her temper had flared because Violet was acting like a spoiled, selfish brat, once again crossing a line. Now, in the quiet after the storm, Violet realized that her mother’s show of pride was just an attempt to smooth over her own guilt. She had tried to make Violet out to be more grown-up than she really was, but deep down, Violet knew she was just a selfish, immature girl who couldn’t even understand the true weight of the contest, only focusing on herself.

“I want you to come with me, Mom,” Violet said quietly, avoiding Maggie’s searching gaze.

“Oh, sweetie, of course I’m going with you,” her mother reassured her, her voice dripping with false cheer. “I couldn’t have you go in alone! Now, come on, your dad can put this ticket in another bar so we can open it on film. Ugh, I’m so glad we don’t have to resort to one of those family crisis videos. I mean, sure, they trend, but take it an inch too far and you risk getting canceled,” Mrs. Beauregarde muttered to herself as she briskly walked toward her silver car parked near the front of the gas station.

Maggie knelt down beside Violet and took her hand before she could follow their mother. “If you ever need anything, or change your mind about anything, remember I’m only a phone call away. Day or night, no matter what, alright?”

Violet didn’t meet her sister’s gaze, simply nodding her head in acknowledgment so Maggie would let go. Without another word, Violet turned and followed her mother to the car.

“Well, I’m usually a gum chewer, but as soon as I heard about Wonka’s contest, I laid off the gum and switched to candy bars instead,” Violet told the reporters, flashing her brightest smile toward the cameras of the major news network. She hadn’t been home for more than twenty minutes before her mother whisked her into their studio to stage the moment of finding the ticket. It took at least fifteen takes and seven different Wonka Bars to get the perfect shot of her “discovering” the Golden Ticket. By the end of the shoot, her dad had become practically a pro at resealing candy bar wrappers with hot glue and her mother’s hair dryer.

The story they decided to tell their audience was that on their latest Wonka Bar haul, Violet had discovered the ticket by complete surprise. The video went live and within minutes, it shot up to #2 on the top trending videos. In just thirty minutes, it had exploded past five million views—something Violet had never seen happen with their videos before. By fifteen minutes after it had been uploaded, reporters were knocking at their door, eager to interview her.

Luckily, her mother was prepared. She made sure Violet was ready for the spotlight before the video went live. Her hair was styled into perfect golden curls that framed her face, contrasting with the dark blue pantsuit she wore—one that almost perfectly mirrored her mother’s. The only difference was Violet’s suit had a small blue bow on the side to match the one in her hair. Her mother had stressed the importance of balancing maturity with youthful charm. The bows, curls, and subtle makeup were all part of the look, creating the perfect combination of grown-up elegance with just enough childlike innocence.

“Now, naturally,” Violet boasted, deliberately exaggerating her chewing to make sure everyone knew her title remained untouchable, even with the contest, “I’m back to gum. I mean, really, what’s the point of being the reigning Princess of Pop without it? Just so you know, this very piece of gum I’m savoring right now has been a three-year labor of love. Yes, you heard that right—a world record in the making.”

Her mother flashed a proud smile, approving of her performance. Violet had nailed it. She remained poised and unfazed, even though she was the third Golden Ticket winner, following in the footsteps of a stunning girl with influence and resources. But Violet wasn’t about to let that phase her. Whatever the previous winner had, Violet was determined to show she had more. Keep that smile, keep that confidence, stay beautiful, and give the press nothing but a perfect, glowing face.

“That’s my Violet!” her mother chimed, seamlessly taking the spotlight for her daughter. “A natural-born champion! And if there’s one thing you should know about the Beauregardes, it’s that we never leave a contest empty-handed. We’ve read about Wonka’s secret prize at the end of the tour, and let’s just say, we’re clearing space for Violet’s 343rd trophy.”

The cameras flashed nonstop, and a familiar buzz filled the air, amplifying the intensity of her mother’s words. It took hours to wrap up the interviews, a process that would’ve been much shorter if her mother hadn’t insisted on one-on-one sessions with every reporter. By the end of the night, Violet’s jaw ached from smiling and chewing for so long. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling; pageants, especially Nationals, could last for days, demanding she keep up a perfect smile. During those events, she’d usually get short breaks, though her mother always discouraged gum, calling it unladylike.

After her mother finally retired for the night, Violet slipped into her own bedroom. She sat there for a moment, basking in the peaceful stillness that filled the room. No flashing lights, no constant buzzing, no voices overlapping with questions that demanded answers—just pure, uninterrupted silence. It was in this calm that Violet could finally hear her own thoughts.

She hadn’t had the chance to reflect on what she had gotten herself into since the moment she first saw the Golden Ticket on the ground. Everything had happened so fast. In a way, it wasn’t much different from what she was used to; Violet just had to treat this tour like another pageant, with Wonka as the judge. And the first rule of any contest was to understand your judge. So, she pulled out her phone and started searching for everything she could about Willy Wonka.

To her surprise, there was nothing. In fact, there was less than nothing—no pictures, videos, interviews, or any trace of this man’s existence. The only recent thing she could find, aside from the announcement of the Golden Ticket contest, was a news article about the reopening of the Wonka factory after nearly ten years of being closed. Violet hadn’t even known the factory had shut down; it must have happened before she was born.

Curious, she dug deeper into its history and uncovered a bizarre past—spies, theft fueled by competition, mass layoffs, and eventually, a permanent shutdown. Well, at least now she knew that this man was anything but ordinary.

As she sifted through a collection of articles, blogs, and posts, she found plenty about the factory itself, but nothing meaningful about Willy Wonka. No one seemed to know anything solid about him. Her eyes drifted from her phone screen to the Golden Ticket resting on her nightstand beside her gum case. She read the message on the back again. It was the closest thing to understanding her judge that she was going to get. Violet glanced from the ticket back to her phone, realizing that this was going to be more complicated than she anticipated.

Chapter Text

The next few weeks passed in a whirlwind for Violet, filled with reporters, cameras, and endless attention. From the moment she announced to the world that she had found a Golden Ticket, people were lining up outside her house, desperate for even a glimpse of her and her mother.

Her mom, however, was rarely around. She was constantly busy with brand deals, scheduling interviews, and managing the family’s ever-growing online presence. Violet barely had time to herself either. Her mother had her working overtime to churn out fresh content for their channel, P.O.P!—which had exploded in popularity. Their subscriber count had skyrocketed from 200,000 to an astonishing 3.4 million almost overnight.

When Violet wasn’t sitting down for a TV interview, she was filming a video about preparing for it, hosting livestreams, or posing for thumbnail photos. Her mother had pulled her out of nearly all her extracurricular activities, which Violet secretly appreciated. The idea of juggling karate, ballet, tap, vocal lessons, and dressage on top of everything else was enough to make her feel exhausted. Not that she wasn’t already.

Late one evening, as she scrolled through her phone, an announcement flashed across the screen: the fourth Golden Ticket had been found. Violet sighed, feeling the weight of it all. She knew this was just the beginning.

The fourth Golden Ticket had been found by a boy named Mike Teavee—a name that couldn’t have been more fitting. From what Violet could gather in the interview, the boy never seemed to lift his eyes from a screen. The video showcased a twelve-year-old boy planted in front of an enormous television, furiously mashing buttons on a video game controller. Surrounding him was a cacophony of distractions: music blasting from oversized speakers, a TV show playing on a nearby laptop, and a gaming video streaming on his phone. The noise was so overwhelming that Violet could barely make out what anyone was saying.

“Hey Mike, do you think we could turn that down a little?” one of the reporters asked, raising their voice in an attempt to be heard over the chaos.

Mike didn’t answer. Instead, he rolled his eyes, barely pausing his game. His indifference might have persisted if not for the intervention of an older girl—likely around Maggie’s age or a bit older. With a baby balanced on one hip, she used her free hand to deliver a sharp flick to the back of Mike’s head. The gesture was enough to break his trance, forcing him, at last, to acknowledge the reporter’s presence.

“Mike, turn that crap down and pay attention! The man’s asking you a question!” the girl snapped, her voice sharp and commanding.

Mike winced, rubbing the back of his head where she’d struck him. With an irritated sigh, he lowered the volume on all his devices but stubbornly refused to turn any of them off. He resumed playing his video game, clearly uninterested in the commotion around him.

The girl wasn’t having it. She fixed him with a piercing glare—one Violet recognized all too well. It was the kind of look her mother gave her whenever she flubbed a routine, a silent promise that consequences were imminent. Mike must have sensed the danger, too. With obvious reluctance, he paused his game and finally turned his attention to the reporters.

“What?” he muttered, his tone dripping with annoyance.

The sharpness in his voice earned him another smack from the girl, who seemed unimpressed with his attitude.

“Well, Mike,” the reporter nearest to him began, attempting to remain professional despite the chaos, “we were hoping you could tell us how you found the ticket.”

“Oh, this is a really fascinating story,” Mike began, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’re gonna want to get your pens ready for this one. I walked to the store, bought a chocolate bar, handed the guy behind the counter some money, opened the bar with my hands, and—boom—there it was. Can I get back to my game now?”

“Mike!” the girl snapped, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. Turning to the reporters, she sighed. “I apologize for my brother’s behavior. I’d like to say he’s not usually such a pain, but I’d be lying. The idiot didn’t even realize he had the ticket until yesterday—it’s been sitting on the couch for three days!”

“Three days? Nobody in the house noticed he had a Golden Ticket?” a reporter asked, stunned.

Mike shrugged, unfazed as he resumed his game. “Nobody noticed I went to the store,” he muttered.

“Well, it’s not exactly easy to keep track of everything around here,” the girl defended, bouncing the baby on her hip. “This one’s crying and screaming every twenty minutes.”

The same reporter pressed on, “What did your parents say when you found the ticket?”

Mike scoffed loudly at the question, earning yet another glare from his sister. This time, he didn’t even flinch, remaining engrossed in the game on his screen. The girl, now visibly embarrassed, struggled to find the right words. The baby in her arms began to fuss, letting out soft cries, and she swayed gently to soothe them before refocusing on the reporters.

“Our parents aren’t home very often,” she explained, her tone carefully measured. “They’re partners in a pretty well-known law firm—most of you have probably heard of the Anthony vs. Gardens case? That was them. As you can imagine, their jobs are demanding, so they’re usually gone for long periods.”

“Yeah, not too long,” Mike commented, his tone casual. “Unless you think a few weeks, months, or even a year is too long.”

“He’s joking,” the girl said through gritted teeth. But even Violet could tell that, while Mike might be joking, there was some uncomfortable truth underlying his words.

Satisfied with what she had observed, Violet shut off the video on her phone and turned to her laptop, quickly jotting down her thoughts. She had already made notes about the other ticket winners. Augustus was practically a walking liability—there was no way a kid like him would shine in a chocolate factory. She didn’t worry about him. Veruca was trickier, though; she had wealth and power, but her volatile temper and clear disdain for her stepmother, Candy, were potential weaknesses Violet could exploit. As for Mike, she wrote down that he seemed cold, detached, and genuinely uninterested in the whole thing. He didn’t pose much of a threat to her chances of winning.

It was five to six, and Violet figured her dad would already be up making his morning coffee. Closing her laptop, she hurried downstairs in her pajamas, the familiar aroma of roasted coffee beans pulling her forward. But as she stepped into the kitchen, her hopes for a quiet morning with her dad and a cheese-and-sausage biscuit vanished. Her mother and sister were already there.

“What are you all doing up so early?” Violet asked, her voice betraying her disappointment.

“Good morning to you, too,” Maggie muttered, barely lifting her head from her mug. She’d never been much of a morning person.

“All part of the new schedule, Violet,” her mother replied briskly, motioning to the enormous binder dominating the kitchen table. It was crammed with sticky notes, names, phone numbers, dates, and scribbled reminders. “If we want to get everything done, we have to start early.”

Without a word, Violet slid into a chair. Her mother placed a cup of black coffee in front of her, followed by a bowl of cottage cheese topped with three thin cucumber slices. Violet poked at the uninspired meal, chewing her gum and making no move to spit it out. The morning was already shaping up to be a disappointment.

“C’mon, Mom, really?” Maggie asked, gesturing toward Violet’s so-called breakfast.

“What?” Mrs. Beauregarde replied, feigning innocence.

“A half cup of cottage cheese with three cucumbers?” Maggie pressed, raising an eyebrow. “That’s a snack, not breakfast—especially if you’re dragging her around all day.”

“Maggie, it’s fine,” Violet cut in quickly, sensing the tension brewing. “I like it, really! See?”

She pulled the gum from her mouth and tucked it behind her ear before digging into the pitiful meal with exaggerated enthusiasm. It took just three spoonfuls to empty the bowl. The low grumble of her stomach protested, but Violet ignored it. For now, she focused on the moment—the first time they’d sat down for breakfast together as a family in what felt like forever.

“See? You always try to paint me as the worst mother in the world,” Mrs. Beauregarde snapped, her tone sharp. “A lot can change when someone runs off for years.”

“I didn’t run away,” Maggie shot back, her voice equally biting. “I went to college. Got engaged. You know, things most people my age are doing these days. It’s the hip new thing.”

“Well, you’re home now, and that’s what matters,” their mother replied, stretching her lips into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Violet caught sight of one of her mother’s cameras resting on the kitchen counter, its lens pointed vaguely in their direction.

“I’m not home,” Maggie corrected, taking another sip of coffee. “You called me here to talk about the tour.”

Mrs. Beauregarde paused for a moment before turning to the camera, saying, “Cut this in post.” She then turned back to Maggie, her voice sharp. “Maggie, can you please just cooperate and act like you actually came home?”

“No, you’re lucky I even agreed to come over with the cameras rolling,” Maggie shot back, crossing her arms. “I’m here for Violet and her decision, not to play your little games.”

“What decision?” Violet interjected, but no one seemed to hear her.

“Would you stop acting like a spoiled brat?” Mrs. Beauregarde huffed in frustration. “I swear, you are the most dramatic child. You act like I’m abusing you just because I post videos on the internet. If there was anything wrong with sharing a few family moments online, you’d have to call CPS on every mom in the country!”

“Are you kidding me?” Maggie retorted, incredulous. “That’s what you took from everything I’ve said? God, you’re— I don’t even— Mom, sometimes I really can’t believe you.”

“What decision?” Violet asked again, her voice rising slightly, but it seemed to fall on deaf ears.

“Can’t believe me?!” Their mother snapped, her eyes flashing with anger. “I can’t believe you! You abandon this family for years, only showing up occasionally to accuse me of being a terrible mother, threaten to sue us, and yet, out of nothing but my love for you, I still welcome you back into my home! Most mothers would have given up on you, and this is the thanks I get?!”

“Right, Mom, always the victim!” Maggie shot back, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “So typical—”

“WHAT DECISION?!”

Everyone turned to look at Violet now. Her face went scarlet as she quickly cast her gaze down at her now empty bowl of cottage cheese, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. Even without looking, she could feel their stares piercing through her.

“Sorry,” she mumbled softly, feeling small. “I just… Can you guys stop fighting, please?”

Maggie’s face flushed with embarrassment, and she seemed to shrink under the weight of the moment. “I’m sorry, Vi… I didn’t mean to lose my temper like that.”

“Well, we forgive you, because that’s what families do,” Mrs. Beauregarde said theatrically, her hand resting on top of Maggie’s as if to offer reassurance.

Maggie quickly swiped it away, clearly uncomfortable. “Anyways, Vi, Mom called me here because we need to talk about the factory.”

“What about it?” Violet asked, nonchalantly pulling the gum from behind her ear and popping it into her mouth.

“Well, it’s coming up pretty fast—faster than you think—and we still need to decide who’s taking you,” Maggie explained, her tone suddenly serious.

Violet nearly choked on the gum she was chewing. They wanted her to decide? They couldn’t just figure it out themselves? She looked at each of the people in the kitchen, her perspective shifting as she processed their words.

First, her gaze moved to her father. He hadn’t said a word during the entire argument between Maggie and their mother, still holding his coffee and scrolling through his phone, checking for any messages. He seemed completely detached from the chaos around him.

Then her eyes shifted to Maggie. There was a calmness about her sister, an unspoken sense of support. Violet knew that no matter what decision she made, Maggie would stand by her.

Finally, she looked at her mother. The cold, calculating stare of Mrs. Beauregarde felt like a weight on her. Violet shuddered, feeling an unsettling chill run down her spine as their eyes locked.

“I— I don’t know,” she stammered, quickly looking away from her mother’s gaze.

“Well, you don’t have to decide right now,” her sister suggested, her tone softer. “How about you take some time to think about it?”

Before Violet could respond, her mother quickly cut in, “Wait, what do you mean you don’t know? Vi, c’mon, we’re a team. I mean, what’s a princess without her queen?”

“Mom, enough,” Maggie interjected, her tone firm. “Vi, why don’t you take some time upstairs and think about it, okay? And when you’re ready, we’ll hear you out. No hard feelings, alright?”

Violet nodded quietly, then turned to head upstairs. As she walked away, she could faintly hear the raised voices of her mother and sister arguing. She reached her room and, in silence, opened her laptop. On the blank screen, she began writing out the names of the people involved—each person she was now forced to consider.

As she finished, Violet stared at the empty page, feeling the pressure of the moment grow heavier. Time passed, but the screen only seemed to mock her with its emptiness. No matter who she chose, someone was going to be hurt.

Her mother had told her that if she became famous enough, with enough money, everything would go back to normal. But the fighting never stopped. Hadn’t she done enough? Was the money not enough? Was she not acting grateful enough? Did she need to make more videos, work harder, train more for the contest?

It felt like the longer she waited, the worse things became. Time was slipping away, and she couldn’t afford to waste any more of it. Just pick someone. Pick one and move on, she urged herself, but the words echoed louder in her head, the weight of the decision threatening to suffocate her.

“Violet, baby?”

Violet’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock on her door, followed by her mother’s voice.

“Come in,” Violet said quietly.

Mrs. Beauregarde opened the door and stepped inside, holding a small plate of cookies. “Hey, Vi. Just thought I’d check in. Things got a little intense downstairs.”

Violet didn’t respond immediately. Her gaze remained fixed on the cookies in her mother’s hands. Mrs. Beauregarde smiled and settled onto the corner of Violet’s bed, casually taking a cookie for herself.

“Want one?” she asked sweetly.

Violet shook her head, her voice flat. “They’re like a hundred calories each…”

“Oh, come on, you’ve been so good lately. Let’s call it a cheat day, huh?” Mrs. Beauregarde giggled, offering the plate toward her.

Violet was about to resist again, but then the scent drifted over to her—rich, warm chocolate, vanilla, and sugar, all melded together in a sweet, gooey masterpiece. Her stomach growled, louder this time. Unable to fight it any longer, Violet tucked her gum behind her ear and reached for a cookie. The smell was nothing compared to the sensation of biting into a fresh, warm chocolate chip cookie, soft and melting in her mouth.

“So, Vi,” her mother began sweetly, breaking the moment, “about the tour. When should we tell your sister that we’re going together?”

“Maggie said I should think about it,” Violet mumbled, swallowing the last bite of cookie.

Her mother’s eyes widened, and she put on a dramatic expression. “Well, why would you need to think about it, unless… you don’t want me to go?” Tears seemed to form in her eyes, but Violet didn’t say anything.

“Oh my god, you don’t want me to come with you,” her mother continued, her voice cracking with exaggerated hurt. “I just—I can’t believe this. I thought we were a team, Violet. I’ve always been there for you, every step of the way. And now, when you have the chance of a lifetime, you’re just going to shut me out? Do you even care how I feel?”

“Of course I do, Mama,” Violet said, her hand reaching out to her mother. But Mrs. Beauregarde swiftly turned her body away from Violet’s touch.

“I’ve devoted my whole life to supporting your dreams, Violet. All those pageants, all that money spent on dresses, on coaching—and now you’re going to leave me behind? How could you do this to me? You know, I’ve put my own dreams on hold for you. I could have done so much, but I chose to support you instead.”

“Mama, please—” Violet begged, her voice soft with desperation.

“No, go ahead. Go ahead and have fun,” her mother choked out, her voice trembling with emotion. “I guess I was wrong to think you appreciated everything I’ve done for you. Clearly, you don’t need me anymore. I’ll just stay here, all alone, while you go off and have the time of your life without me.”

“Mama, no! I’m sorry! Please stop crying, I want you to come with me,” Violet pleaded, her voice cracking as she reached for her mother.

Mrs. Beauregarde wiped her eyes and sniffed, looking at Violet with a mix of hope and disbelief. “Do you really mean it, sweetheart?”

“Yes, Mama, I’ve made my choice,” Violet said, her voice firm with conviction as she threw her arms around her mother in a tight embrace, feeling a sense of relief wash over her.

Chapter Text

The crisp air bit at Violet’s cheeks as she stood before the towering gates of the factory. Though she’d heard it was the largest in the world, nothing could have prepared her for its staggering scale. The building loomed so large that, standing at its gates, she felt insignificant—like a mere speck. But Violet couldn’t let her awe show, not now. Too much was riding on her composure, especially with the crowd of spectators and cameras scrutinizing her every move.

The contest had started the moment she’d declared to the world that she held the third Golden Ticket, and the pressure had only grown since then. Violet had long since adjusted to the intense spotlight, but she could tell her competitors hadn’t. From the corner of her eye, she caught glimpses of their faces. Most wore expressions of nervous excitement or absent distraction—all except Veruca, whose scowl was unmistakable. Violet could feel the heat of Veruca’s anger as cameras flocked around her and her mother, stealing the spotlight.

Good, Violet thought. Let her simmer, let her fury cloud her judgment. Let her guard down. Because Violet wasn’t about to.

Cameras flashed as Violet struck a polished pose, her smile practiced to perfection. She gave a playful blow of her gum, a move her mother had insisted she master for moments just like this. From the moment all the Golden Tickets had been found, Mrs. Beauregarde had taken over Violet’s presentation like a seasoned director—dictating how she should act, what she should say, and even how she should dress. For the tour, they wore coordinating outfits that screamed “picture-perfect family.” Violet sported a baby blue cropped blazer paired with a pleated skirt, a white turtleneck, and a matching beret perched atop her styled hair. Her mother, ever poised, donned a pantsuit in the same icy blue, with lapels mirroring the collar of Violet’s blazer.

Violet would have preferred a pantsuit herself, especially given the February chill. Her knee-high socks offered little protection from the biting wind, and though she chewed her gum to keep her teeth from chattering, even the paparazzi were beginning to notice her legs trembling. Still, she held her composure—anything less would draw her mother’s ire.

As cold as Violet was, the kid who found the last ticket looked far worse off. He’d only discovered the ticket yesterday, and Violet had spent much of the flight reading up on her latest competitor. The reports mentioned he was poor, but seeing him in person was another matter entirely. The boy was so thin and pale that a strong gust of wind seemed like it might knock him over. His oversized sweater, at least three sizes too big, hung on him like a shapeless sack and offered little protection from the cold.

Despite his circumstances, the boy’s smile was the widest among the group—perhaps even wider than Violet’s. His excitement was palpable, genuine in a way that made Violet feel uneasy. She noticed him glancing in her direction and, before she could stop herself, he gave her a friendly wave, his hand trembling from the cold. Violet instinctively began to wave back, but her mother caught her wrist and gently lowered it, fixing her with a disapproving glare.

“Remember, darling,” her mother murmured, her voice low but firm. “This is not the time for charity.”

Violet quickly averted her gaze, focusing straight ahead on the towering factory gates. Pulling out her phone, she checked the time: five minutes until ten. As she tried to distract herself, her eyes wandered back to the thin boy shivering in the cold, still wearing that same bright, unwavering smile. He must be really enthusiastic—or maybe just a little crazy, she thought.

Letting her gaze drift further, she noticed another child standing apart from the rest. At first, she assumed he was just a random kid from the crowd. But upon closer inspection, she recognized him from one of last week’s interviews: Mike. He was the boy who’d been skating around while glued to a handheld gaming console. She still couldn’t fathom how he managed to see where he was going—then again, based on the chaos he’d caused in that interview, maybe he didn’t. Even now, Mike seemed oblivious to the world around him as he zipped recklessly through the throng. He bumped into several people in the crowd, narrowly avoiding a collision with an elderly man standing beside the thin boy.

Violet half-expected a parent or guardian to swoop in and reprimand him, but to her surprise, no one did. Mike appeared to be completely alone.

Lucky, Violet thought, chewing her gum more forcefully. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it might be like to walk through those gates unencumbered, without a shadow of expectation hanging over her.

Her mother’s voice was a low whisper, sharp with disdain. “A delinquent and a street rat from the ghetto. Well, at least we don’t have to worry about two of our competitors. Though that little boy could easily gain public sympathy.” Her eyes turned calculating, narrowing as she scanned Charlie with a malicious glint. “Underprivileged kids always win the audience over with pity. We need to find a way to take the sweetness out of his image, neutralize that disadvantaged angle. As for the other one, he’s clearly a troublemaker, but this one…” Her voice trailed off, a hint of challenge in her tone. “This one will be tricky.”

Violet shifted uncomfortably, the cold wind biting through her outfit as she processed her mother’s words. She’d become skilled at spotting weaknesses in her competitors, but they were usually more like her—fighting on the same playing field. She didn’t feel guilty about exploiting their flaws; they were fair game. Veruca had a fiery temper and a tendency to erupt into tantrums, which Violet could use to her advantage. The boy known as “the fat kid” struggled with self-discipline, another weak spot. Mike, on the other hand, seemed completely unchecked—no parental supervision, no concern for anyone around him. All weaknesses she could exploit.

But this boy—Charlie—he was different. He was poor, sure, but there was nothing exploitative about his joy. He just looked happy to be there, taking in the experience with wide-eyed wonder. It was hard to find a flaw when the only thing he had was his enthusiasm.

Violet hesitated, and her mother, sensing her moment of doubt, leaned in closer, her eyes sharp with a knowing glint.

“Violet, sweetheart, don’t let your privilege get in the way of securing what’s rightfully yours,” she said with an almost unsettling calmness. “I know it might seem like a noble thing to let him win, to be the bigger person. But let’s take a step back and look at the bigger picture. That man with him? Likely his grandfather. Why aren’t his parents here with him? Well, honey, it’s a sad truth, but people from his background—people like him—often face hardships that you and I can’t even begin to imagine. His parents? They’re probably caught up in drugs. Too strung out to be here, so they sent their elderly father instead.”

She paused, letting the words settle in, before continuing with a cool, calculating tone. “Even if he wins the prize, whatever it might be, it won’t change anything. His parents will likely waste it, squander it all on their addiction. But if you win, we’re not just taking the prize—we’re doing him and his family a favor. You’ll be saving them from themselves.”

Violet mulled over her mother’s words, feeling a dark sense of clarity settling in. She shifted her gaze back to Charlie, the boy her mother had referred to, and studied him more intently. His clothes were worn and frayed, and his pale complexion suggested he hadn’t eaten properly in days. The oversized sweater he wore looked like it had once belonged to his grandfather, another indication of his family’s strained circumstances. Her mother’s theory about the elderly man stepping in as a guardian made sense now.

Violet remembered from Charlie’s interview that both of his parents were still alive, yet they hadn’t shown up to accompany him. That seemed odd. Her mother had often spoken about the destructive effects of drugs in their health classes, and Violet now understood how substance abuse could ravage a person’s health, leaving them barely functional. The worn-out appearance of Charlie’s parents during the interview seemed to confirm her mother’s suspicions. Violet couldn’t find any fault in her reasoning. Winning this contest wasn’t just about securing her own future—it could also serve as a way to protect others from their own destructive cycles. What had seemed like a kind gesture at first now seemed like the only logical choice.

As the distant chime of a church bell marked the hour, Violet glanced at her phone, noting it was ten o’clock. The crowd around her buzzed with growing excitement, their eyes locked on the massive gates, filled with anticipation over what was to come. Suddenly, from the shadows, a man emerged, unlike anyone Violet had ever encountered. His age was difficult to discern. Wrinkles lined his face, especially around his lips and eyes, suggesting he was well into his years. His ashy blonde hair, tinged with grey, made him appear older than Violet’s mother, maybe even her father. Yet, as his gaze fell upon the Golden Ticket winners, including Violet, an unexpected vitality seemed to pulse through him, and for a brief moment, he looked younger than her sister, Maggie. He wore a striking plum-colored coat, straight out of the Victorian era, paired with bottle-green pants and a tan hat, adorned with a golden ribbon that glimmered in the light.

“Welcome!” he greeted, his voice rich and inviting. “Welcome, my little friends! Step forward one at a time with your parents and be sure you have your Golden Ticket ready!”

Violet tried to move toward the front, but Veruca quickly pushed past her, eager to be the first to meet Mr. Wonka. It wasn’t exactly the best start, and Violet could practically feel her mother’s disapproval without even needing to look back. She attempted to adjust her position and slip into second place, but that proved difficult, as the first Golden Ticket winner was in her way, and bypassing him wasn’t an option. Reluctantly, she settled into third position—the third to win, the third to make her impression. She was beginning to grow tired of always being third.

When Augustus finished his turn, his arm practically being shaken off by Mr. Wonka, Violet stepped forward, flashing her most practiced, award-winning smile and extending her hand confidently.

“Violet Beauregarde. Three-time winner of Little Miss Dentaglow, five-time champion of Little Miss New York City, New York, Macey’s Winter Wonderland Pageant, record holder for the longest chewed gum, and second place finalist in Little Miss America,” Violet announced proudly, giving Mr. Wonka’s hand a firm shake.

“Willy Wonka, chocolatier, business owner, inventor, and candy enthusiast,” he replied, playfully mimicking her tone before chuckling. “My, my, that’s quite the impressive list. I’m thrilled you managed to carve out time for our little tour.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t miss it for the world!” her mother interjected, brushing Violet aside to shake Mr. Wonka’s hand. “I’m sure you’re familiar with our channel, ‘The Princess of Pop.’ Our audience is absolutely ravenous for a peek behind the scenes. Do you think we could squeeze in a quick few words?”

“Of course,” Mr. Wonka replied with a playful glint in his eye. “Flabberghasted, gumdrop, and periwinkle—those are some of my favorites. But I must regretfully inform you that they won’t be much help here. No recording allowed, naturally.”

“Oh, of course,” Mrs. Beauregarde said, tucking her phone back into her pocket with a smile. “A man of mystery, I see. Well, you can’t keep those secrets from me forever!” She chuckled, tapping Mr. Wonka’s chest in a teasing manner before following Violet through the enormous iron doors.

Her cheerful demeanor shifted as she noticed Mr. Wonka moving on to the next child in line. With a quick glance at Violet, she pulled her daughter aside and began rifling through her purse. After a moment of digging, she retrieved a small necklace.

Before Violet could ask about it, her mother pressed a button on the back and gently placed the necklace around Violet’s neck.

“Alright, honey,” she whispered softly, “This camera has a 12-hour battery for both video and audio. We should be able to get some good footage from it. After all, even low-quality footage is better than none at all.”

Violet’s fingers lightly brushed the small jeweled necklace, a small jolt of guilt running through her. She felt a sense of relief when Mr. Wonka announced the “no recordings” policy, but she knew better than to expect her mother to follow such rules. Of course, she’d find a way around it. Violet had tried to listen to Maggie’s advice, to focus on enjoying the tour and having fun, but it felt impossible. How could she relax when she had to maintain the perfect image of the Princess of Pop, constantly analyzing the other winners for weaknesses, all while the weight of guilt—both figurative and literal—rested heavily around her neck? She followed her mother’s lead, but was abruptly cut off when Mike zoomed past her on his skateboard.

“Watch where you’re going!” Violet shouted after Mike. In response, he shot her a sneer and flipped her off. Her blood boiled with frustration, and her first instinct was to put her five years of karate lessons to use. But when she caught her mother’s disapproving glare, she held herself back. Instead, she stood there seething, determined to leave that unruly boy in the dust.

“Are you okay?” a soft voice asked from behind her. Violet turned around to see Charlie standing there. Up close, he looked even more fragile than she had realized. From a distance, she thought his dirt-streaked face was simply from being messy, but now she could see that the marks were shadows from sunken cheeks and the dark purple bags under his eyes. The kid looked utterly exhausted, as if just standing there took everything out of him. How long had it been since he’d eaten?

Violet nodded curtly, about to say something more when her mother’s warning about him echoed in her mind. She swallowed her words, turning her attention back to the other winners. Charlie looked a bit confused by her silence but shrugged and moved to join his grandfather. The poor kid had no idea what he was up against.

“Alright, is everyone inside? Good? Excellent!” Mr. Wonka sang, as he shut the door behind him. Violet could’ve sworn she saw him glance at her necklace, but she quickly dismissed it as her imagination.

“Now then!” he continued with a playful tone. “If you’d all be so kind as to step this way and follow me, let’s stick together as a group. It would be absolutely dreadful if we lost anyone this early in the tour. Oh, dear me, no,” he added, giving the children a cheeky wink.

Violet let out a small chuckle as the parents around her looked at each other, puzzled. He didn’t seem at all like she had imagined. To be fair, she’d painted an unfair picture of him in her head. For weeks, all she’d heard was Wonka, Wonka, Wonka—Wonka bars, Wonka chocolate, Wonka’s contest, Wonka’s golden tickets. Everywhere she went, it was all about Wonka. Now, here she was in Wonka’s factory, actually surrounded by Wonka, and confronted by the man himself.

She had expected him to be more vain—maybe even hoped he would be, so she’d have a reason to dislike him. But he wasn’t at all what she had anticipated. He was playful, energetic, and a little mysterious, just like the words on the Golden Ticket had promised.

Excitement for the tour bubbled up in Violet’s stomach, but as her necklace bounced against her neck, that excitement was tempered by a layer of guilt. She tried to ignore the weight of it, determined to avoid her mother’s watchful glares. She just had to focus on enjoying the tour and keeping her best smile.

The group navigated several winding passages that seemed to slope downward. Right, left, right again, then left, left once more. The walls were a soft pale pink, and with each new turn, a fresh, mouthwatering scent drifted through the air from the various doors they passed. Violet inhaled deeply, her senses overwhelmed by the delicious mixture of burnt sugar, caramel, vanilla, strawberry, and hot chocolate.

“It smells incredible in here!” her mother commented, speaking into her necklace, “Just like that ice cream shop on the corner of Balsamic Avenue.”

“Yeah, but it’s a lot warmer,” Violet replied, tugging at the collar of her turtleneck.

“A keen observation, Violet!” Mr. Wonka called back with a grin. “The factory is heated to a precise 86 degrees Fahrenheit. My workers are accustomed to a tropical climate near the equator, to put it simply, it gets quite hot. To ensure they’re comfortable, I studied the temperature and humidity of their homeland over all six of their seasons to find the perfect balance. I can’t imagine what would happen if they stepped outside in this weather—they’d probably freeze to death! Of course, air conditioning is becoming quite popular this time of year… perhaps I should consider turning down the heat in winter.”

Violet was about to suggest something, but her mother quickly nudged her, signaling her to keep quiet. Reluctantly, Violet complied. It was probably better to stay silent for now.

Chapter Text

The group wound their way through the gently colored hallways, twisting and turning in every direction. They made a right, then a left, another right, followed by two lefts, another left, and a series of rights and lefts. It felt like they were navigating a massive maze, though Mr. Wonka seemed unfazed, confident in their path. Occasionally, he’d exclaim an “ah-ha!” or murmur, “Left, right, or was it right, left? No, definitely left, right, right, left!” Violet scanned the walls, but there wasn’t much to see. The entire hallway was painted in a soft shade of salmon, with warm lights glowing overhead. Every few steps, a painting of some candy appeared, and ahead, she noticed a large portrait of a bowl of jellybeans. The whole scene felt more like a hotel than a factory.

“See how the ground is starting to slope downwards?” Mr. Wonka called back to the group. “That’s because we’re heading underground! I keep all my most important rooms deep below the surface!”

“Why’s that?” Violet asked, her curiosity piqued.

“Space, of course!” Mr. Wonka replied, now walking backwards so he could continue leading the group through the winding halls. “Some of the rooms we’ll visit today are huge—bigger than any football field! There’s no way I could fit them on the surface, but down here? I’ve got all the room I need, as long as I hollow it out first.”

He seemed pleased by the question. Violet glanced at her mother, who winked and smiled reassuringly. A wave of relief swept over Violet—she was in. Now, she just needed to secure her chance at winning. Mr. Wonka seemed friendly enough, but he lit up when talking about his factory. She realized she needed to keep asking him questions about himself and his work, but not too many. There was always a delicate balance with judges—if you didn’t feed their ego enough, they’d lose interest, but if you overdid it, you’d come across as a suck-up.

She glanced back at her mother, who gave her a subtle signal. Violet quickly shifted her gaze to Charlie, who nodded back at her with a smile before turning his attention elsewhere. Violet returned the nod, understanding every unspoken cue. The others would likely take care of themselves; their flaws were already on display. But Charlie was the real challenge. Unlike the other kids, who had revealed their weaknesses early in their interviews, Charlie hadn’t shown any significant flaws—except for being poor. And that could work to his advantage. It was time to move on to the next phase of the plan: start eliminating the competition.

Violet slowed her pace, gradually falling into step beside Charlie. “Hi, I’m Violet,” she said with a smile. “I didn’t thank you before for checking to see if I was okay. Thanks, I really appreciated it.”

“Oh, it was no problem,” Charlie replied with a warm smile. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright, that’s all. I’m Charlie.”

“I know,” Violet said, glancing at him. “I saw your interview on the plane ride here. How lucky can you get, finding the last ticket the night before the tour?”

“Pretty lucky, I guess,” Charlie laughed. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’m actually here. My Grandpa Joe used to tell me stories about this place, but it’s been locked up for so long I never thought I’d actually get the chance to see it in person!”

“Stories?” Violet asked, intrigued. “I didn’t hear anything about this place before the contest, and there was hardly anything online.”

“Well, we don’t have a computer or anything,” Charlie explained. “But my Grandpa Joe used to work for Mr. Wonka!”

“Wait, they know each other?” Violet asked, surprised.

“Kind of,” Charlie said. “He doubts Mr. Wonka even remembers him, but he used to work here with my dad, long before I was born, back when the factory was still running.”

“Wow, that’s really cool,” Violet said with a sweet smile, before coughing three times. Mrs. Beauregarde waited until the last cough, then pretended to notice Violet and called out for her to catch up.

“I should get back to my mom. Nice meeting you though!” Violet added quickly, giving Charlie a small wave before hurrying to her mother’s side.

“What did you find out?” her mother whispered.

“He’s more trouble than we thought,” Violet whispered back. “His grandpa and dad both worked here.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Mrs. Beauregarde muttered, her teeth clenched. “Well, let’s not panic. They’re poor, right? And Wonka hasn’t let anyone in or out of his factory in over a decade. Maybe he doesn’t even remember them.”

“Or,” Violet suggested, “maybe this could work in our favor. Wonka said he closed the factory because of spies, right? He had to shut it down because of his workers, and it’s not like he rehired any of them. Maybe we can remind him of why he had to close in the first place.”

“Beauty and brains,” her mother cooed. “I’m so glad you take after my side of the family.”

The conversation came to an abrupt halt as the group noticed they had reached a standstill. At the end of the hallway, Violet spotted a grand set of iron doors, reminiscent of those at an old Victorian church. Above them hung a massive metal sign that read, “CHOCOLATE ROOM.”

“This,” Mr. Wonka began, “is the nerve center of the entire factory, the heart of the whole operation! Now, before we go in, I’ll warn you—this isn’t your typical chocolate room. It’s much easier to show than explain, to be honest. But whatever you do, don’t get overexcited, don’t lose your heads, just stay calm.”

Violet rolled her eyes, but her mother quickly nudged her in the arm. Sometimes, Violet couldn’t help herself—Mr. Wonka was insufferably arrogant. At least, that’s what she thought… until Mr. Wonka swung open the door, revealing something that looked like it belonged in a dream.

The room felt like it belonged inside an ancient castle, but instead of a traditional floor, there were soft green banks lined with towering willow trees in every imaginable color. Each tree bore some kind of vibrant, colorful fruit. No matter where Violet looked, she was met with something new and breathtaking: giant mushrooms with creamy, fluffy dots, plants twisting into strange, intricate shapes, fields of flowers in every shape and color, and giant faux windows along the walls that made it feel as if a warm summer sun was gently bathing the entire space.

But the most striking feature of all was in the center—a beautiful, flowing riverbank. At the end of the river, a massive waterfall cascaded down, its thunderous roar echoing throughout the room. What made it truly unusual, however, was that the river wasn’t blue or clear like one would expect. It was a deep, rich brown, flowing with a certain thickness, unlike any water Violet had ever seen.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Mr. Wonka asked, his eyes gleaming. “I can’t stand ugliness in my factory. Never saw the point of it. And everything you see here is edible. I mean, you can eat just about everything.”

“Everything?” Augustus asked, his mouth starting to water.

“Everything!” Mr. Wonka replied enthusiastically. “The grass, the bushes, the flowers—heck, even the river is hot, melted chocolate of the finest quality, mixed by the waterfall, of course!” He gestured toward the rushing waterfall at the end of the river. “No other factory in the world mixes their chocolate with a waterfall, but it’s the only way to get it just right.”

Violet watched, mesmerized, as gallons of hot chocolate cascaded over the slope into the river. The rich, warm aroma filled the room, making her feel as if she could eat the very air itself. It was as though all the most delicious scents in the world were swirling together into a mouthwatering symphony—chocolate, taffy, caramel, apple cider, burnt sugar, cotton candy, strawberry juice, and minty gum. Mr. Wonka kept talking, but Violet could barely focus as her stomach growled, aching for a taste.

“Now, enjoy!” Mr. Wonka finally declared, welcoming everyone to indulge in whatever they wished. Augustus was the first to dart off, his parents following closely behind, while the rest of the group began to disperse. Violet didn’t dare stray far from her mother in such a room full of temptation. Left to her own devices, she could ruin her chances with the press when they announced her victory at the end of the tour. No one would want to take a picture with a bloated mess.

She tried to stay close to her mother, but after just a few steps, Mrs. Beauregarde leaned in and whispered to her.

“I’m going to work over the judge. You see what you can find out about the poor kid. We’ll meet back in ten,” Mrs. Beauregarde said, tugging at the neckline of her suit to reveal more cleavage.

Violet suspected she should’ve expected this. Her mother had dirt on just about everyone—except Charlie. Not for lack of trying, of course, but so far, he was the biggest threat. Violet just needed to focus on finding him, not on the parade of sugary smells that were threatening to overwhelm her senses.

As Violet searched for Charlie, her stomach rumbled in protest, and the sights and smells around her only made things worse. She longed to pluck one of the glazed buttercup flowers from the banks or stuff her face with the creamy sweetness from the giant toadstools in the valley of sweets. To quell her hunger, she reached behind her ear and pulled out the piece of gum, popping it into her mouth. It was as tasteless as ever—bland and flavorless, just like it had been for weeks.

“Why hold on to it? Why not start a new piece?” a small voice asked from behind her.
Violet turned to see a small, boyish figure almost swallowed by a large sweater.

“This is my world record-breaking gum,” she explained proudly. “If I start a new piece, I wouldn’t be a champion.”

“I read about you in the paper—your interview when you won. Do you really have over 200 trophies?” he asked, his curiosity evident.

“Yeah, but I’ve been doing this kind of stuff forever. It’s not really a big deal,” she replied dismissively.

“I guess it wouldn’t be. Wonka’s was the first time I’ve ever won anything. And now that I’m here, it’s just… amazing. I mean, a chocolate river?!” he exclaimed, clearly in awe.

Violet had never thought about what it would feel like to win something for the first time. She’d been in pageants and collecting trophies for as long as she could remember. Winning wasn’t a rush for her; it was just something she did. She took a deep breath and scanned the room once more, letting everything truly sink in. It was incredible. How many people could say they’d seen a river made of chocolate or pink, sugary willow trees? Her eyes drifted back to the buttercups as her mouth watered. Charlie followed her gaze and reached out to pluck one from the bush.

“Split it with me?” Charlie offered, sensing her hesitation.

Violet reached out, about to take a petal, when a dark, brooding figure zipped past them and snatched the flower from Charlie’s hand.

“Careful,” Mike sneered, taking a bite of the flower. “A sniff of chocolate might make her gain 10 pounds! Mommy wouldn’t like that.”

“Yes, because being concerned about someone’s health is such a terrible thing,” Violet shot back, rolling her eyes as she chewed her gum a little faster. “Maybe you should try it sometime.”

“I’m on a seafood diet,” Mike retorted. “When I see food, I eat it.” Charlie chuckled as Mike shoved several glazed flowers into his mouth.

“C’mon, Vomit,” Mike said through a mouthful of sweets. “Afraid of a little junk food? Watch out, carbs are gonna get you!”

“I’m not afraid!” Violet spat, glaring at him. “I just don’t need to stuff my face! Maybe I have a little more self-control. I think Mr. Wonka would appreciate that.”

“Right, a guy who makes candy is definitely going to be impressed by a girl who doesn’t eat his candy,” Mike pointed out with a smirk.

Violet’s face flushed. She hadn’t thought of that. Wonka was clearly proud of this room, and he had told them to enjoy it. The man made candy for a living—of course, he’d want them to eat it! But if she indulged, her mother would be furious with her.

“I-I—” She stammered, at a loss for words.

“WHAT’S THAT OVER THERE?!” a voice suddenly shouted from across the river.

Violet let out a quiet sigh of relief as everyone turned to see who was calling out. It was Veruca, pointing toward a tiny little man harvesting fruit from one of the pink willow trees. He couldn’t have been more than a few feet tall, but his proportions were perfectly human, as if someone had taken a regular man and shrunk him down to the size of a toddler.

“There’s two of them!” one of the parents called out.

“More than that! There must be at least a dozen!”

“Who are they?”

“What are they?”

“Ah!” Mr. Wonka exclaimed cheerfully from behind the group. “I see you’ve all met the Oompa Loompas!”

Chapter Text

“Oompa Loompas?” The group asked in unison

“Refugees from Loompaland” Mr. Wonka explained calmly

“Loompaland? There’s no place like that” Candy, Veruca’s stepmother chimed in

“Excuse me madam but-“

“Mr. Wonka, I was a substitute elementary school teacher, I think I would know if there was a place called Loompaland” she interrupted

“Oh well as a former educator you must know all about it and what a terrible country it is” Mr. Wonka continued “Nothing but thick jungles filled with beasts that most would only think exist in storybooks. Most scruffier across the forest floor so the poor little Oompa Loompas found refuge in the treetops to survive. I stumbled upon the village when I had gotten separated from my crew on one of my cocoa bean expeditions. I figured if I climbed to the tops of the trees I could find my way back to camp, imagine my surprise when I found a village up there instead.

I tried to explain that I wasn’t a threat and was simply lost and needed to find my way back to my crew. Of course none of them could understand a lick of what I was saying, looking back, I can’t believe I tried speaking to them in English, it would be like trying to give this tour in Russian. But thankfully as I was trying to explain who I was and where I was from, my satchel got caught on one of the tree branches and four cocoa beans fell out. Immediately all the Oompa Loompas came out of hiding and starting ushering me towards the largest tree house of them all.

I didn’t know it at the time, but cocoa beans are one of the most sacred gifts to an Oompa Loompa, their trees are nesting grounds for Vermisious Knids, so to bring an offering of cocoa beans was the upmost respect as it required extreme bravery and courage. Many Oompa Loompas lost their lives trying to get on of these beans, most were lucky to even see two or three a year and here I came with four in my bag.

They brought me to their chief who had dubbed me a warrior, since I was lost and needed refuge in the jungle, I was in no place to argue. So for years that’s where I lived, eventually I learned their language, their customs, I even became one of their top decorated warriors for collecting the most beans on our scavenges.”

“Is that why the factory was shut down all those years” Charlie inquired

“Exactly” Mr. Wonka explained “I don’t know how long I lived in Loompaland exactly, but I do know that it was years. I would often tell the villagers stories of the land where I came from, of my creations, chocolate and my factory, I became quite the favorite when it came to storytelling. Although every time I told them of my home, I grew a little sadder with every passing day, I was beginning to think that I might never see my factory or taste chocolate ever again.

Then one day as I was out on another bean scavenge, I saw two members of my old crew! I ran to them thinking that they had been looking for me all this time. Poor fellows nearly fainted at the sight of me, apparently when I went missing all those years ago, they had assumed that I had been eaten by one of the forest beasts and went home. Not to say I blame them, but I do still think it was a bit rude assuming I was dead. Anyways, they had come there for another bean expedition and offered me a ride back to the mainland. Of course I was grateful at the opportunity to go back home, but a part of me was hesitant.

You must remember that I had lived among the Oompa Loompas for years at this point, I had friends, many of whom I had grown to consider family. While I yearned to go back to civilization, I couldn’t leave them behind either. Torn, I went to the chief to ask her advice on what I should do. She informed me that since I was decorated warrior, I was not out of place to go off and start my own tribe. So with her blessing, I became a decorated Oompa Loompa chief. Most of the younger Oompa Loompas chose to follow me here to the factory, while many of the older villagers still reside in Loompaland to this day.

They all speak English now, you can thank television for that. I thought that the mountains of cocoa beans and chocolate would be what impressed them the most, but once they got ahold of television, they can’t seem to get enough of it! Musicals are there favorite, they’re always singing and dancing, it wouldn’t surprise me if you hear a few numbers by them today.” Mr. Wonka concluded looking at the group of tiny people with admiration.

Violet looked back to the group of people and started to remember all the articles she had read about Mr. Wonka before the contest even began, about the massive lay offs and the shut down of the entire factory. The whole world waited and wonder where he could’ve gone, many people assumed that he grew furious at the spies that were being sent in from his competitors and he shut down his factory so that they couldn’t steal his recipes anymore. Violet had thought that was a bit overdramatic, a few people steals your stuff and you just decide to give up all together? Now after meeting Mr. Wonka in person, she wondered how much truth was in those articles.

She looked over at the other Golden Ticket Winners and thought about the articles about them as well, if they had gotten that much wrong on Wonka, then how much had they gotten wrong on all of them? They described Wonka as a jealous, petty and bitter man who was so fed up with the world that he was willing to lose everything just so other people couldn’t take what he had. Turns out he was just trapped in the jungle all this time trying to survive, did anyone even look for him? Did he have anyone to look for him?

Next she looked over towards Veruca and thought about how the internet had dubbed her a spoiled, rotten, loud-mouthed brat. Well she was spoiled there was no deny that, but as Violet looked closer, she just seemed angry. Mike didn’t seem like a brat either, she didn’t think he was ignoring anyone on purpose, in fact it seemed like people ignored him first. And Augustus… she looked around and saw Augustus’s parents, but not him. They didn’t even seem to realize he was gone. Nobody did.

She tried to look past Mr. and Mrs. Gloop as Mr.Wonka continued to talk to try and see if he was behind them and maybe she just couldn’t see him, but as she stretched her neck, her eyes caught sight of plump figure kneeling over the edge of the chocolate river. It was Augustus, and he was scooping the hot melted chocolate into his mouth by the fistful. It was quite a disgusting scene, the boy was completely covered in the sticky substance, the gooey mixture completely caking his face, clothes, arms and even his hair. A complete disregard for his appearance and total lack of self control.

“Mama…” Violet whispered gesturing to the boy

“What is it Honey?” Mrs. Beauregarde asked following her daughter’s gaze over to the boy and began to laugh “Oh my God this is comedic gold!” She angled Violet so her necklace camera would catch just the right angle.

Violet chewed her gum more rapidly with increasing anxiety, he was leaning too far out, she didn’t know how deep the water was or whether or not he could swim. What if he drowned? Or worse?

“He’s gonna fall!” She whispered to the woman

“Violet, honey, wait,” Mrs. Beauregarde said sharply, grabbing her daughter’s arm just as Violet was about to call out to Augustus. “Think about this for a second.”

“Mom, he’s going to fall in!” Violet whispered urgently, her eyes wide with concern.

Mrs. Beauregarde leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a soothing, yet calculating, tone. “Sweetie, I know you care that’s what makes you so special, but this could be a huge opportunity for us. Imagine how many people will watch our video if we capture Augustus falling into the chocolate river. It’ll be viral gold!”

“But Mom, it’s dangerous,” Violet protested, her resolve wavering.

“Listen, Violet,” her mother said, her eyes locking onto hers, “we’ve worked so hard to get here. All those pageants, all that time and money I’ve invested in you… We deserve a little recognition, don’t we? This is our chance to stand out, to show everyone what really goes on here. And think about how many followers and likes we’ll get. Everyone will be talking about us.”

Violet hesitated, the weight of her mother’s words sinking in. “But what if he gets hurt?”

Mrs. Beauregarde’s expression softened, though her eyes remained cold. “Trust me, Mr. Wonka will handle it. Augustus won’t get seriously hurt. And besides, it’s not like he’s our responsibility, if anything we are helping him, by showing everyone what a terrible job his parents are doing. This is just what our video needs to give it a little drama! You want to be a star, don’t you? This is how we do it.”

It didn’t take long though for Mr.Wonka to realize that there was someone missing from the group as well, he seemed to notice the two distracted guests and followed their gazes over to where Augustus continued to lap up the chocolate. He seemed to almost be sick himself.

“Excuse me! Little boy!” He called out “Please step away my chocolate must never be touched by human hands!”

“Augustus!” Mrs.Gloop shrieked finally noticing her son at the edge of the river “What do you think you’re doing?! Get away from there at once!”

“Lower your demanding tone Annie!” Mr.Gloop snapped at her “You’ll only make him feel threatened and defensive”

“Don’t quote my own words to me Fredrick!” She snapped back at him and then continued to call “Augustus, you can choose to either step away from the river, get cleaned up and then apologize for your behavior or step away apologize and then get cleaned up. What would you prefer to do?”

Her words fell on deaf ears as Augustus seemed to be unaware of everything except the call of his stomach and the taste of the chocolate in the river. As the parents continued to argue so did he continue to gulp down as much chocolate as he possibly could before someone would inevitably have to drag him away from it. That someone might have been Mr.Wonka as between everyone is the group, including Augustus’ parents, he was the only one who began to step forward, ready to pull the kid up by his collar, but before he could there came a giant SPLASH!

Violet’s mother gave a concerned gasp of surprise, but Violet could see her still smiling at the situation. This gave the video more drama which was good, Augustus’s head stayed under the chocolate for quite some time. Violet’s stomach dropped below her knees thinking what would happened if it didn’t come back up. But after a few seconds, a chubby head crashed through the surface of the murky brown liquid. Violet let out a sigh of relief, he was okay, but for how long? The river was much deeper than it had looked and something told her that Augustus thought the same thing as he thrashed among the waves.

“My chocolate!” Mr.Wonka exclaimed pulling at the sides of his hair ‘“My beautiful chocolate!”

“My son!” Mrs. Gloop exclaimed after rushing to her husband fearfully “Quick do something, dive in, save him!”

“Dive in?!” Mr.Gloop shouted back looking at her as if she were mad “Are you crazy woman? Besides I’ve got my best suite on!”

“Damn you suit!” She yelled at her husband hitting him with her purse “Our son is drowning, dive in and save him you damn coward!”

At this remark Mr. Gloop angrily began to pull off his suit jacket, preparing to dive into the chocolate to save his son.

“Too late” Mr. Wonka said calmly looking at the the thrashing chocolate figure in the river

“What do you mean too late? Where is he?” Mrs. Gloop panicked

“It won’t do any good to jump in after him now that the suction’s got him” Mr.Wonka told them pointing to the boy.

Violet stood frozen as she watched Augustus being swept along by the powerful current of the chocolate river. The thick, flowing liquid swirled around him, carrying him relentlessly toward the base of one of the gigantic glass pipes looming over the river. The entire group gasped in alarm as Augustus flailed helplessly, his arms splashing wildly, his face bobbing up and down as he struggled to keep his head above the chocolate. His desperate gasps for air echoed faintly over the rush of the current.

The group collectively held their breath as Augustus was pulled under the surface again. Moments later, his face reappeared, now within the transparent glass pipe. Violet could see his terrified expression frozen in panic as he blocked the flow of chocolate behind him. A muffled gurgling noise rose from the pipe as the thick liquid pressed against him, straining to push through the obstruction.

“Augustus!” Mrs. Gloop screamed, her voice shrill with panic. She grabbed at her hair, her wide eyes darting around in terror. “He’s in the pipe! Someone do something! Call 911, the fire department, the police—anyone! We need help!” Her cries reverberated through the room, a sharp contrast to the ominous gurgling of the chocolate trying to force its way through the pipe.

“No need to panic,” Mr. Wonka said calmly, a faint smile playing on his lips as he gestured toward the pipe. “The pressure will get him out. Terrific pressure is building up inside.” His tone was disturbingly nonchalant, as though the current predicament was an expected part of the factory’s whimsical chaos.

“What does he mean, Grandpa?” Violet overheard Charlie whisper anxiously to the old man beside him, his voice barely audible over the creaks and groans emanating from the pipe.

Grandpa Joe leaned down and whispered back, his tone grim yet tinged with reluctant fascination. “Remember how you once asked me how a bullet gets shot out of a gun?” He gestured subtly toward the straining pipe, the metaphor starkly clear.

Violet followed his gaze. The massive glass tube was groaning under the immense pressure building within. Chocolate, thick and glossy, began to ooze from the seams, small sprays bursting out through tiny cracks that widened with alarming speed. The creaks turned to sharp pops as the pipe threatened to burst apart.

Then, with a sudden and violent surge, something gave. The pipe shrieked and released its captive with explosive force. Like a bullet fired from the barrel of a gun, Augustus shot upward through the tube, his muffled scream blending with the mechanical sounds of the factory.

Violet’s gum snapped loudly between her teeth as she chewed furiously, her wide eyes following the boy’s rapid ascent. The group craned their necks in stunned silence, watching as Augustus disappeared higher and higher into the intricate network of pipes.

“Augustus!” Mrs. Gloop shrieked, her voice rising in panic. “He’s gone! Quick, where does that pipe lead?! Where is my son?!”

Mr. Wonka paused thoughtfully, tapping his chin. “That particular pipe,” he said at last, “leads directly to the room where I make the most delicious strawberry-flavored, chocolate-coated fudge.”

Mrs. Gloop’s face went pale, her eyes widening in horror. “My Augustus is going to be made into strawberry-flavored, chocolate-coated fudge?!” she cried, her voice trembling with outrage.

“Oh, heavens no!” Mr. Wonka exclaimed, looking thoroughly disgusted. “Augustus-flavored, chocolate-coated fudge? Blech! No one would buy it!”

Violet couldn’t help but stifle a laugh, and Mr. Wonka caught her eye, giving her a quick wink. Mrs. Gloop, however, caught the exchange and rounded on them with a furious glare.

“You think this is funny?” she bellowed, her face red with anger. “You think my boy getting sucked up your pipe is some kind of joke?!”

“I assure you, madam,” Mr. Wonka said, chuckling lightly, “your darling boy is perfectly safe.”

Mrs. Gloop’s fury did not abate. “If he’s so safe, then where is he?!” she yelled, her voice echoing through the Chocolate Room. “Take me to him this instant!”

Mr. Wonka snapped his fingers three times, the sound crisp and commanding, and within moments, a group of five Oompa Loompas appeared at his side as if summoned by magic. They stood at attention, their tiny figures clad in their signature uniforms, awaiting instructions.

“I want you to escort Mr. and Mrs. Gloop to the Fudge Room,” Mr. Wonka said, gesturing toward the frantic parents. “Help them locate their son, Augustus. He’s just gone up the pipe.”

The Oompa Loompas exchanged quick glances, their wide eyes twinkling with mischief. Then, as if unable to contain themselves, they erupted into peals of laughter, their voices high and melodic, bouncing off the walls of the Chocolate Room. One of them even doubled over, clutching his sides as tears of mirth streamed down his tiny cheeks.

Mr. Wonka rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed by their antics. “Alright, that’s enough!” he snapped, clapping his hands sharply. “Get a hold of yourselves!”

The Oompa Loompas immediately straightened up, though a few stifled giggles still slipped out as they nodded in unison. They turned toward the Gloops, their tiny hands gesturing politely as if to say, This way, please.

Mrs. Gloop, her face still flushed with a mixture of fury and worry, glared at them with suspicion. Mr. Gloop, meanwhile, looked more bewildered than anything, but he shuffled after the Oompa Loompas as they began to lead the way, their tiny feet pattering along the soft green grass of the Chocolate Room.

Mr. Wonka gave a cheerful wave as the Gloops disappeared down the path with their Oompa Loompa guides, their anxious murmurs fading into the distance. He turned back to the group, most of whom still wore expressions of concern and uncertainty.

“Oh, now don’t look so worried!” Mr. Wonka said with an easy smile, spreading his arms wide as though trying to embrace the entire room. “He’ll be perfectly safe. Augustus has just gone on a little… journey, that’s all. A most fascinating and educational journey, I must say! But let’s not dwell on that. It’s time for us to continue our own adventure!”

He clapped his hands together, his energy infectious, and gestured further down the chocolate river. Violet’s curiosity briefly shifted away from Augustus when she caught sight of something approaching from the bend. Her jaw dropped as a giant pink Viking boat came gliding into view, its vivid, candy-colored exterior shining under the warm glow of the room’s pseudo-sunlight.

The boat was absurd, to say the least. Its prow was shaped like a grinning dragon’s head, intricately detailed with what appeared to be spun sugar and frosted jewels. Along its sides were shimmering scales made of hardened candy that sparkled like gemstones. It was simultaneously ridiculous and mesmerizing.

What made it even more bizarre was the crew: nearly a hundred Oompa Loompas, rowing in perfect unison with oversized, candy-striped oars. The rhythmic splash of the oars slicing through the chocolate river created a strange harmony that echoed through the room.

The boat slowed to a stop in front of the group, and the Oompa Loompas all turned to look at them. For a moment, there was complete silence. Then, as if on cue, they burst into uproarious laughter, their high-pitched giggles carrying through the air like a bizarre melody.

“What’s so funny?” Violet asked, her voice sharp as she crossed her arms, her pride prickling at being laughed at.

“Oh, don’t mind them,” Mr. Wonka said with a chuckle, waving a dismissive hand toward the giggling Oompa Loompas. “They’re always laughing and giggling about something! Who knows what it is this time. Now then!” He turned to the group with a dramatic flourish, gesturing toward the boat. “All aboard, everyone! The next leg of our journey awaits!”

The group hesitated for a moment, glancing at one another, before cautiously stepping forward. Violet lingered near the back, eyeing the candy-coated boat with a mix of curiosity and skepticism, the ridiculousness of it all still swirling in her mind.

Chapter Text

As Violet stepped onto the boat, she marveled at its intricate design. Every inch of it was crafted from candy. Even the grinning dragon’s head at the prow seemed to be made of sculpted rock candy, its translucent surface catching the light and sparkling like a jewel. Violet ran her fingers over the edge of her seat, a firm but slightly sticky texture confirming her suspicion: it was indeed made of hardened toffee.

A small part of her couldn’t help but wonder how a boat made entirely of candy didn’t dissolve in the river of hot chocolate below. Wouldn’t it melt or contaminate the chocolate with stray bits of sugar? But then again, nothing in this factory followed the rules of logic. She decided it wasn’t worth overthinking—this was a place where normal reasoning clearly didn’t apply.

She scanned the seating options and quickly made her way toward a spot near the top of the boat, hoping to snag a seat beside Mr. Wonka. That position would give her the perfect chance to ask him questions and stay fresh in his mind. But to her dismay, the eccentric chocolatier had already chosen a seat next to Charlie, the two of them chatting animatedly as the boat began to rock gently with the current.

Violet swore softly under her breath, feeling a stab of frustration as she settled into a seat next to her mother. On her other side sat Mike Teavee, who had already slouched into his seat, fiddling with a candy-striped oar as though it were a game controller. Great, she thought bitterly. Of all the people she could be stuck next to, it had to be him.

Her eyes darted toward Charlie, who seemed oblivious to the weight of the contest entirely. He sat beside Mr. Wonka with wide-eyed wonder, listening attentively as the chocolatier animatedly explained some detail about the river’s unique mixing process. It wasn’t just that Charlie was in the prime seat—it was that he didn’t even seem to care. He wasn’t trying, and yet he was winning.

That infuriated Violet more than anything. She couldn’t shake the feeling that everything about Charlie, from his humility to his unpolished charm, was exactly what Mr. Wonka found appealing. Worst of all, he wasn’t even aware of it, which only made him seem more genuine.

“Are you paying attention?” her mother whispered sharply, nudging her with an elbow.

Violet snapped out of her thoughts, her gaze flicking to her mother’s expectant face.
“Yes, I’m paying attention,” Violet replied in a hushed tone, straightening up in her seat.

“Good,” her mother said. “Then focus. If you want to win, you need to stay sharp, not sulk.”

Violet clenched her jaw, her eyes narrowing as she glanced back toward Charlie. Stay sharp? she thought. She was sharp. And she wasn’t going to let some clueless kid steal the spotlight without a fight.

As the boat launched forward, its candy-crafted paddles slicing smoothly through the thick chocolate river, the group approached a looming tunnel at the far end of the room. Shadows gathered at the entrance like a curtain, growing darker the closer they got. Violet shifted uncomfortably in her seat, gripping the sticky edges of the toffee bench with her manicured nails. She forced herself to sit upright, her chin lifted defiantly. The last thing she needed was for anyone—especially Mike—to see her unease. She refused to let him or anyone else know that she still harbored a lingering fear of the dark.

“How can they even see where they’re going?” Violet asked sharply, her voice cutting through the sound of the paddles splashing rhythmically in the chocolate river.

“They can’t!” Mr. Wonka replied with an amused laugh. “There’s no knowing where they’re going!”

Violet’s stomach tightened at his response. She dug her nails harder into the toffee seat, her jaw clenched as she struggled to suppress her rising nerves. The darkness seemed to swallow them whole as the boat glided deeper into the tunnel, the walls narrowing and the ambient light from the Chocolate Room fading away entirely.

She kept her eyes focused straight ahead, trying to convince herself that there was nothing to be afraid of. But just as her grip on her nerves began to slip, she felt something brush against her shoulder—something small, light, and distinctly crawly. Her breath hitched, and a tiny, involuntary shriek escaped her lips before she could stop it.

Laughter erupted beside her. She whipped her head around to see Mike grinning smugly, twirling what looked like a licorice strand between his fingers.

“Not funny,” she growled, her voice low and venomous, glaring at him through the dim light.

“It’s a little funny,” Mike shot back, his grin widening.

Before she could retort, Mr. Wonka’s cheerful voice rang out. “Switch on the lights!”

Instantly, the tunnel burst into brilliant illumination, a dozen dazzlingly bright lights flickering to life along the walls. The once-imposing shadows vanished, replaced by vibrant, kaleidoscopic colors reflecting off the glossy chocolate river. Patterns of candy swirls and glowing sugar crystals adorned the walls, creating a hypnotic, almost otherworldly effect.

Violet let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The brightness was an immediate comfort, the fear dissipating almost as quickly as it had come. She glanced sideways at Mike, who now seemed far more interested in the glowing walls than in teasing her further. She straightened in her seat, smoothing her hair with deliberate precision to cover any sign of her earlier discomfort.

“Better?” Mr. Wonka asked with a wink, clearly enjoying the mix of awe and relief that spread through the group.

Violet didn’t respond but gave a small nod, her confidence slowly returning. The tunnel might have been daunting, but she wasn’t going to let it—or anyone—throw her off her game.

“Daddy,” a sharp, commanding voice cut through the air, crisp and entitled. “I want a candy boat exactly like Mr. Wonka’s.”

Violet turned her head to see Veruca Salt, perched delicately on the edge of her seat, her posture as regal as a princess’s. It was the first time Veruca had spoken up during the tour, and Violet raised an eyebrow. She’d expected Veruca to be vying for Mr. Wonka’s attention at every turn, but so far, the spoiled heiress seemed completely uninterested in impressing anyone. She didn’t appear to care about the contest at all, which made Violet feel an unexpected twinge of relief. Maybe Veruca wasn’t as big a threat as she’d originally thought. If the girl could just throw one of her infamous tantrums now, she might eliminate herself without any interference.

“Of course, pumpkin,” Veruca’s father cooed, leaning forward in his seat to smile adoringly at his daughter. “Daddy will get you one of these just as soon as he possibly can. Erm… uh, Wonka, what does one of these boats cost?”

“She didn’t cost me a cent, sir,” Mr. Wonka replied with a broad, mischievous grin. He leaned back in his seat as though recalling a fond memory. “I hollowed her out myself from an enormous piece of hard candy! Took me years to finish.”

Violet’s jaw slackened slightly. Years? He said it so casually, as though carving a boat out of solid candy was just another afternoon project. She stared at the gleaming pink vessel beneath her feet with a new sense of awe. Every inch of it, from the glossy deck to the intricately swirled railing, was a testament to craftsmanship and an absurd level of patience.

Veruca, however, didn’t seem impressed by the effort. “Well, I don’t care how long it takes, Daddy,” she said, her voice rising a pitch higher. “I want one, and I want it bigger than this!”

Violet couldn’t help but smirk. This was it. If Veruca pitched a full-blown fit now, there was no way Mr. Wonka would find her behavior appealing. Violet leaned back slightly, chewing her gum in satisfaction as she watched the drama unfold.

“Of course, darling,” Mr. Salt stammered, beads of sweat forming on his brow. “We’ll get you the biggest candy boat money can buy.”

“There aren’t any,” Mr. Wonka interjected cheerfully, his tone as bright as his smile. “This is the only one in existence! Completely one-of-a-kind. Irreplaceable, really.”

Violet nearly laughed aloud as she saw the flicker of frustration flash across Veruca’s face. The heiress folded her arms and turned away with a pout, clearly displeased. Her tantrum hadn’t materialized yet, but Violet felt certain it was only a matter of time. For now, she leaned back, savoring the small victory as the boat continued to glide down the chocolate river.

As the boat glided further down the chocolate river, the tunnel began to open up, revealing countless doors carved into the walls. Each was accompanied by a small dock, and above each door, names were engraved in whimsical lettering, much like in the Chocolate Room. The sheer number of doors overwhelmed Violet, and the boat moved too quickly for her to read most of them.

“Jelly Bean Stalks,” Charlie read aloud from one of the passing signs. “Cream Storage Room, Dairy Cream, Whipped Cream, Heavy Cream, and… Hair Cream?”

“H-Hair Cream?” Violet repeated, her curiosity piqued. She turned to Mr. Wonka with a raised eyebrow. “What in the world do you use Hair Cream for?”

“To lock in moisture, of course!” Mr. Wonka replied with a delighted laugh, as if the answer were the most obvious thing in the world. His tone was light, but his expression betrayed a playful glimmer of mischief. “A well-moisturized head of hair is just as important as a well-mixed batch of chocolate!”

Violet frowned, unsure if he was joking. Before she could press him further, Mr. Wonka clapped his hands and called out, “Row on, row on! No time for silly questions, my dear!”

Violet huffed and crossed her arms, her curiosity only growing stronger. “Where are we going in such a hurry, then?” she asked, her tone half-exasperated, half-intrigued.

“You’re an impatient one, aren’t you?” Mr. Wonka teased, leaning back against the candy railing of the boat with a knowing grin. His eyes twinkled like he was holding onto a particularly juicy secret. “But patience, dear girl, patience. All in good time.”

The cryptic answer did nothing to soothe Violet’s frustration, but she bit her tongue and tried to sit still. She didn’t want to give Mike—or anyone else—a reason to call her out for losing her cool. Instead, she focused on the glowing lights of the tunnel ahead, her mind racing with possibilities. What could be behind all these doors? she wondered. Whatever it was, Violet could tell it was going to be something extraordinary.

Suddenly, Mr. Wonka shot to his feet, his purple coat flaring dramatically as he waved his cane in the air. “Stop the boat!” he commanded, his voice echoing through the tunnel.

The Oompa Loompas instantly ceased rowing, causing the boat to lurch so abruptly that Violet was thrown forward. She barely managed to catch herself on the sticky toffee seat, her heart pounding as she adjusted her balance. “A little warning would’ve been nice,” she muttered under her breath, brushing her hair back into place and shooting a glare in Mike’s direction when she caught him smirking.

As Violet straightened up, her eyes were drawn to the illuminated sign above the dock where they had stopped. Bright, metallic letters spelled out “The Inventing Room”.

Chapter Text

As the group disembarked from the candy boat, the atmosphere shifted. The sugary sweetness of the Chocolate River faded behind them, replaced by a sense of heightened anticipation. Violet noticed it immediately—Mr. Wonka’s usual whimsical demeanor had changed. Though he still wore his signature grin, there was a spark of intensity in his eyes, and his movements seemed sharper, more deliberate.

He stopped in front of a towering metal door, its surface gleaming under the glowing lights of the tunnel. The door was massive, with intricate patterns etched into the steel that seemed to ripple like liquid silver. Above it, the illuminated letters “The Inventing Room” pulsed with a steady, hypnotic glow.

Mr. Wonka turned to face the group, resting both hands on his cane. His cheerful tone had shifted to one of solemn excitement, as though he were about to reveal a sacred treasure. “This, ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic gravity, “is the most important room in my entire factory.”

The group exchanged curious glances, leaning in as he continued. “This is the very heart of my creative genius—the place where dreams become reality and realities twist themselves into dreams!” His hands gestured grandly toward the door, as if unveiling an invisible masterpiece. “But let me be clear,” he added, his tone sharpening. “This room is not without its dangers.”

Violet felt a shiver run down her spine as he stepped closer to them, his piercing gaze sweeping across the group. “The inventions inside are delicate, experimental, and unpredictable. Some are prototypes, untested and full of possibility. Others…” He hesitated, a flicker of amusement dancing across his face. “Others were sent back from testing for reasons I’m sure you’ll find fascinating.”

His grin returned, but there was a hint of warning in it now. “So,” he said, pointing his cane at each of them in turn, “I want no messing around in here. No touching, no meddling, and especially no tasting. Is that clear?”

The group murmured their agreement, some nodding vigorously. Violet, however, felt her competitive instincts kicking in. If this was the heart of Wonka’s creative empire, it could also hold the secret to winning his favor. She nodded along with the others but made a mental note to stay sharp and observant. There was more to this room than met the eye.

As Mr. Wonka turned the large, ornate key in the giant metal door, the heavy mechanism groaned with effort, and the door creaked open with a dramatic, almost theatrical sound. The moment it swung wide, Violet’s eyes widened in shock at what lay beyond it. The room was nothing short of a chaotic masterpiece, a place that felt as though it existed outside the realm of ordinary reality. If she could picture a visual representation of Wonka’s mind, this was undoubtedly it—a wild, eccentric fusion of boundless creativity and unrelenting experimentation.

The space was enormous, stretching far into the distance, its floor cluttered with an array of metal parts, gears, wires, and tools. Everywhere she looked, there were machines, half-built contraptions, and curious, twisted devices in various states of completion. It reminded her of an alchemist’s den mixed with the madness of a junkyard, every inch of the room a strange puzzle of invention. Puffs of steam hissed from various corners, and the air buzzed with the sounds of machinery grinding, whirring, and clanging. The scent was a peculiar blend—sharp metallic tangs mingled with the sweet, intoxicating aroma of chocolate, caramel, and something distinctly chemical, as if each invention had its own distinct essence.

For a moment, Violet stood frozen, overwhelmed by the sights, sounds, and smells that assailed her senses. The room seemed to pulse with energy, a frantic yet inspiring rhythm that made her feel both exhilarated and unnerved. The sheer volume of what was happening in here made it impossible to focus on any one thing for long.

If Violet felt even the slightest flicker of excitement, it was nothing compared to Mr. Wonka’s reaction. His face lit up like a child on Christmas morning, his eyes gleaming with a manic enthusiasm as he hopped from one invention to the next, his hands gesturing wildly. He barely seemed able to contain himself, his words spilling out in rapid succession as he eagerly began to explain each new creation.

As the group moved further into the room, Violet’s mind raced. The sounds of the machines, the spinning wheels, and the occasional spark of fire from a nearby contraption filled the air with a strange, energetic rhythm. But amidst the overwhelming chaos of it all, Violet felt an unexpected weight settle in her chest—a deep sense of guilt gnawing at her stomach. She glanced down at the delicate necklace resting around her neck, its cold metal pressing against her skin.

There was something undeniably private about this room. It felt like a secret, an intimate space that Mr. Wonka was trusting them with, and yet here she was, fully aware of her ulterior motives. The desire to win the contest, to outsmart her competitors, and to prove herself kept clawing at her mind. Her hand brushed against the necklace again, and she felt a moment of clarity wash over her. With a quick glance to ensure her mother was distracted by the spectacle of Mr. Wonka’s inventions, Violet pressed her thumb against the necklace’s small hidden switch. The faint click of it turning off was barely audible, but to her, it was a quiet moment of control in an otherwise overwhelming environment.

The necklace would be silent for now. She’d find a way to explain it later—perhaps something about bad reception or interference. But for now, as her senses were consumed by the chaos of the room, all Violet could do was focus on one thing: the competition.

“This,” Mr. Wonka said with a flourish, holding up a jagged, irregular square of candy that looked almost like a block of hardened caramel but with a peculiar brownish tint, “is hair toffee.” He grinned mischievously as he continued, “Just one piece of this, and in ten minutes flat, you’ll be sporting a full, healthy head of hair—along with a mustache and a beard!”

The group was silent for a beat, before Veruca, unable to hide her disdain, scoffed loudly. “How ridiculous,” she sneered, wrinkling her nose. “Who on earth wants a beard, for heaven’s sake?”

Mr. Wonka, unfazed, leaned toward her with a playful twinkle in his eye. “It would suit you very well, my dear,” he teased, earning a quick eye roll from Veruca. “But, alas, I haven’t quite perfected the formula yet.” He held up the toffee again, examining it with an air of mild frustration. “The mix is still a little too potent. Just the other day, an Oompa Loompa tried it, and—well, let’s just say we weren’t prepared for how quickly the hair grew. It started sprouting faster than we could keep up with, and before we knew it, we had to resort to using a lawnmower to trim it down.”

Mr. Wonka paused, chuckling at the memory, before his face lit up again, excitement bubbling in his voice. “But we’re working on it! I’ll get it right one day. Now, over here—” He suddenly leapt toward another machine, eager to show off his latest creation.

The machine that Mr. Wonka gestured to looked like a colossal, whimsical version of a gumball dispenser, but it was far more complex than any candy dispenser Violet had ever seen. Its shiny metal body was adorned with intricate gears and dials, and a large crank sat on the side, just begging to be turned. When Mr. Wonka eagerly spun the crank, a small, vibrant green piece of candy spat out with a satisfying click. He picked it up and held it out for the group to see, his eyes twinkling with excitement.

“This,” he said proudly, “is an Everlasting Gobstopper.” He paused for dramatic effect, before adding with a grin, “I’m making them for children who have very little allowance money.” He shot a playful wink toward Charlie, who looked both amused and slightly embarrassed by the attention. “You can suck on an Everlasting Gobstopper all day, and it will never get any smaller. Not ever!”

The group watched in awe as Mr. Wonka continued, the candy sitting untouched in his hand. “At least, I don’t think they ever do. There’s one being tested right now by one of the Oompa Loompas—he’s been sucking on it for nearly a year, and so far, it hasn’t shrunk a bit! And, the best part? They change flavor once a week, so it’s like getting a new candy every time you turn around!”

Violet piped up, “It’s like gum, then?”

Mr. Wonka chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Not exactly, my dear. Gum is for chewing. But if you tried chewing one of these gobstoppers, you’d break your teeth off! Trust me on that one.” He winked, clearly relishing the opportunity to talk about his creations. “But, I think you might be even more interested in my next invention.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper as he excitedly moved toward a new, mysterious machine in the corner.

Mrs. Beauregarde shot Violet a sharp, disapproving glare as the group approached the next machine, and Violet couldn’t help but feel the weight of her mother’s judgment. This machine, however, seemed different from all the others they’d seen so far. It was massive, towering over them like some kind of industrial beast. Its sharp edges and imposing structure gave it a menacing presence, and the intricate network of pipes, valves, and gears surrounding it only added to its intimidating appearance. Violet’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. It looked as if it belonged in a horror movie, not in a candy factory.

But Mr. Wonka was unfazed. In fact, he seemed even more excited than usual. With a wide grin, he eagerly gave the giant crank a turn, his hands moving swiftly over the control panel filled with flashing buttons and levers. The machine creaked and groaned as it came to life, hissing steam from several valves, sending a cloud of vapor into the air. Violet jumped a little at the sudden noise, her heart pounding in her chest.

As Mr. Wonka continued to press buttons and pull levers with increasing enthusiasm, the room became filled with strange whirrs, clanks, and mechanical noises. The machine seemed to be stirring to life in a chaotic, unpredictable way, the sound reverberating throughout the room. The anticipation hung thick in the air, and Violet found herself holding her breath. With one last giant rumble, the machine let out a triumphant hiss, and a tiny strip of what looked like grey cardboard popped out of a small tray, landing with a soft clink.

“That’s it?” Mike scoffed, raising an eyebrow as he inspected the flimsy strip with clear disappointment. “What is that supposed to be?”

Mr. Wonka, with a mischievous smile, turned to him and raised an eyebrow in return. “Do you even know what it is, Mike?” he teased, clearly enjoying the suspense. “I think you’ll be quite surprised.”

Violet’s eyes widened as she instantly recognized the object Mr. Wonka had just unveiled. It was a stick of gum, but something about it felt different—special. The smooth, brightly colored packaging gleamed under the factory lights, and as her gaze lingered on it, a smile spread across her face.

“It’s gum!” Violet declared, a small glint of excitement flashing in her eyes as she spoke.

“Right and wrong!” Mr. Wonka chuckled, unable to contain his delight. He almost seemed giddy as he bounced on the balls of his feet. “This is no ordinary gum, my dear. This is the most amazing, most sensational, most incredible gum in the whole wide world!”

Violet raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Why’s that?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

Mr. Wonka’s smile grew wider, and he seemed to focus entirely on her, as though speaking to her alone. “Because,” he began, leaning in slightly, “this is no ordinary stick of gum. Oh no, Violet, this gum is a three-course dinner all by itself.”

Her confusion deepened. “What do you mean by that?”

Mr. Wonka stood up straighter, almost as though he couldn’t wait to tell her more. “I mean,” he said dramatically, “that once you start chewing this gum, you’ll taste an appetizer, followed by a main course, and then a dessert. You’ll experience each course, one after the other. And not only will you taste it, but it actually fills you up, satisfies you, and provides you with all the nutrients of a well-balanced meal—all without any of the calories!”

Violet blinked in disbelief. “That’s… amazing,” she murmured, her mind racing at the possibilities.

Veruca, however, was unimpressed. “Why would anyone want that?” she scoffed, eyeing the gum like it was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever seen.

Violet shot Veruca a look, her enthusiasm practically bubbling over. “Are you kidding me?” she exclaimed, unable to hide the excitement in her voice. “That would literally change everything in the competition world! No more worrying about what you eat before a pageant, no more restricting your diet. You could have a three-course meal and not gain a single pound!”

She could already imagine herself chewing through a perfect meal, savoring the flavors while maintaining the perfect figure for her next big competition. It was a game-changer.

“Huh, I’d never considered that,” Mr. Wonka muttered, his brow furrowing slightly as he processed Violet’s points. He seemed deep in thought, as though trying to figure out just how much of her idea could be incorporated into the grand scheme. However, before he could voice his thoughts, Mrs. Beauregarde slid smoothly to his side, a self-assured gleam in her eyes.

“Mr. Wonka,” she interjected eagerly, “this invention of yours sounds like it’s ready to take the world by storm, and I know exactly who the perfect sponsor for it would be!” Her voice dripped with confidence as she stood a little taller, her chest puffing out with pride.
Mr. Wonka looked at her, a bit taken aback by her sudden enthusiasm. “Well, actually—” he started to respond, but was swiftly cut off.

“Think about it,” Mrs. Beauregarde continued, her tone insistent and persuasive. “The Princess of Pop being the very first in the world to try the world’s first chewing gum meal? She’s the biggest name in pageantry and gum chewing! With her endorsement, this product would be flying off the shelves faster than you can say ‘competition!’”

Violet’s eyes widened as her mother’s words sank in. Her mind raced with the thrilling possibilities. She could be the first person in the world to experience a full, three-course meal from a single piece of gum! The idea of being the first to try it, to pioneer this incredible innovation, set her heart racing. She could already picture herself on stage, proudly showcasing the new gum to the world, her reputation soaring even higher.

Without thinking, Violet blurted, “Heck, I could test it out right now!”

Her mother’s face immediately tightened in disapproval. “Honey, no, we don’t have a proper camera here to document it,” she dismissed quickly, trying to steer her daughter away from the idea.

Violet frowned, her excitement waning. “Why not?” she argued back, glancing around at the group gathered nearby. “We’ve got a whole audience right here—everyone’s watching. It’s the perfect chance!”

Mr. Wonka, who had been watching the exchange with mild amusement, cleared his throat, bringing attention back to him. “While I am flattered by your eagerness, Violet,” he said, his voice calm but firm, “I must decline your offer. You see, there are still some… issues with the dessert aspect of the gum.” He hesitated slightly, as though considering whether to explain further, but ultimately chose to keep things vague.

Violet’s excitement deflated, but the idea of trying the gum still lingered in her mind. She was certain that, with the right circumstances, she could be the first to truly test it out. After all, she was always a step ahead of the competition.

“I don’t care if it’s not perfect,” Violet said earnestly, her voice a mix of desperation and excitement. Her eyes sparkled with the thrill of the possibility. She leaned forward, practically bouncing in her seat, unable to contain her enthusiasm. “This could be my big break! The world needs to see it. I’ll make it work, even if it’s not completely flawless.”

Mr. Wonka looked at her, his face softening with a hint of sympathy, but there was a nervous tension in his posture. He scratched the back of his neck as he let out a light, uncertain chuckle. “Oh, trust me, Violet, I think you would care. You really would,” he said, his tone tinged with caution. He took a step back, clearly uncomfortable with the direction this conversation was heading. “You see, the dessert part of the gum… well, let’s just say it hasn’t quite… settled yet.”

Violet’s shoulders slumped a little, but she was undeterred. She opened her mouth to try and argue her point again, but before she could get another word out, her mother’s sharp voice cut through the air like a whip.

“Violet, stop,” Mrs. Beauregarde said, her voice sharp with concern. She stepped forward, placing a hand on Violet’s shoulder and looking at Mr. Wonka with a practiced smile. “We can’t just go around doing things without the proper presentation. We need the right lighting, the right setup. We need a camera, Mr. Wonka. A proper one. A moment like this deserves to be captured the right way.”

Violet’s brow furrowed. “What’s wrong with the audience here?” she argued, glancing around at the rest of the group.

Her mother shook her head, dismissing the suggestion. “You think anyone will remember this if we don’t have the right footage? The press will have a field day. A moment like this—Violet, it’s important to be seen in the right light. We need to ensure that everything is perfect for your image.” She glanced around, as though looking for an invisible camera crew.

Violet couldn’t help but feel a pang of frustration as her mother continued to talk over her, obsessing over how things looked rather than the experience itself.

Mr. Wonka, caught between Violet’s eagerness and Mrs. Beauregarde’s concern, smiled awkwardly. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but there are still some… issues with the dessert,” he said, attempting to redirect them once more.

Mrs. Beauregarde didn’t miss a beat. “I’m sure we can work around the details. We need to make sure Violet’s first chewing gum meal is broadcast in the best possible light. The public needs to see her at her best,” she said, practically ignoring the fact that they were in a chocolate factory full of wonders.

Violet bit her lip in frustration, feeling more like an object than a participant in the moment.

Mr. Wonka offered a polite smile to Mrs. Beauregarde, his expression a careful mix of interest and polite detachment. As she continued her excited chatter about the potential for a product launch, he gently set the experimental gum down onto the tray, his hands moving with the precision of someone accustomed to dealing with delicate creations. The tray clinked softly as it settled into place, the candy inside still in its unfinished, imperfect form.

“No, no, this is an invention still in the works,” he said, his voice upbeat but with an air of caution, as though treading carefully around the subject. He quickly scanned the room, as if seeking to distract them from the disappointment lingering in the air. “But no gloomy faces now, my dear Mrs. Beauregarde. We still have plenty more to see, and who knows what other surprises await us around the corner?” He beamed widely, his enthusiasm infectious despite the growing sense of uncertainty in the room.

With a flourish, Mr. Wonka gestured toward the next machine, ready to move the group along to the next part of his ever-expanding, wildly imaginative factory. He knew the show must go on, and with his unique flair for distraction, he was already guiding their attention toward the next incredible invention awaiting discovery.

Chapter Text

Anger simmered in Violet’s veins, hot and relentless, as the group was ushered to another machine. This one was sleek and mechanical, stretching ribbons of candy with perfect precision, cutting each one into symmetrical pieces as if following an invisible blueprint. Mr. Wonka, in his usual animated fashion, began explaining the process, but Violet barely registered his words. Her mind was consumed with a single, burning thought—the gum. The gum that had promised so much and was now so cruelly out of her reach.

She clenched her fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as the unfairness of it all threatened to overwhelm her. Here she was, in a candy factory, surrounded by every imaginable sweet treat, and yet, when she finally found something she actually wanted, she was denied. Her gaze flickered over to the machine with the gum, the half-formed, unfinished candy that had been treated like something beneath her—something not worthy of being consumed. And all because her mother couldn’t showcase it in the grand, dramatic way she envisioned.

Violet gritted her teeth. She hadn’t touched a single thing in the Chocolate Room. She had shown restraint, played the part of the “good girl,” hoping for some kind of reward. But now, when she finally desired just one piece of candy in the entire sprawling factory, she was met with refusal. Her frustration twisted in her chest, each breath feeling more suffocating than the last. Why couldn’t her mother just let her enjoy something for once, rather than seeing every experience as another opportunity for a performance? Why couldn’t she just let her have this moment?

As Mr. Wonka continued speaking with his signature cheerfulness, Violet’s attention drifted further from the group, her frustration bubbling just below the surface. It seemed like nothing was ever truly for her—not in this factory, and certainly not in her life at large.

Everything, always, had to be a performance. No matter where she was, what she did, or who she was with, there was always a role to play, a mask to wear. Hell, this entire tour felt like just another performance, a spectacle for the cameras, the public, the judges, the endless parade of expectations. Maggie had told her to just relax, to have fun, but Violet couldn’t afford that. Not with the stakes this high. She had to be on, always calculating, always looking for the right angles, asking the perfect questions, sizing up the other contestants, digging for their secrets. It wasn’t about enjoyment anymore—it never had been. It was about winning, about proving herself, about staying on top. Nothing, not even a single sweet moment, was hers to simply enjoy.

And that thought, that constant weight of obligation, gnawed at her, a sharp, relentless pressure. Then, suddenly, like a flash of lightning, an idea struck her—wicked, dangerous, and intoxicating. There could be something just for her. Something no one else could take from her. Something entirely hers.

Her heart raced with anticipation as she watched the group move ahead, their laughter and chatter fading into the distance. Violet waited for the right moment, until they were well out of sight, and then, with a surge of determination, she slipped away from the path, heading back toward the massive gum machine. The place felt different now, more ominous, as if the iron beast had grown larger in her absence. The occasional clattering of metal echoed through the room, mingled with the hissing of steam that billowed from the machine’s valves, as if it was warning her to stay back. But Violet was beyond caution.

Her pulse quickened with every step, a cocktail of excitement and unease stirring in her chest. She reached the machine, standing before it as the cold, metallic surface loomed over her. It seemed to hum with life, like an animal waiting to spring. But Violet wasn’t scared. No, not anymore. She needed this, needed it more than anything.

With a steady hand, she reached for the thin strip of gum sitting innocently in the machine’s tray, the last bit of sweetness in the factory that could be hers, just for her. The gum was cool to the touch, the surface smooth and inviting. She hesitated only for a moment, then pulled it free, her fingers closing around it like a treasure.

Her stomach fluttered with the rush of doing something rebellious, something just for her, away from her mother’s watchful eyes, away from the constant performance she had to put on. Violet felt the weight of the gum in her hand and smiled, savoring the moment. Finally, there was something in this world that couldn’t be taken away.

With careful precision, Violet removed her prized world record piece of gum from her mouth, its familiar texture smooth against her fingers. She gently tucked it behind her ear, a secret treasure that no one else could touch. Then, without hesitation, she unwrapped the new piece from the machine, its cool surface gleaming in the dim light. She popped it into her mouth, feeling the satisfying snap as it settled between her teeth. Blissful chewing filled her senses as the candy’s sweetness exploded across her taste buds, a moment of pure indulgence that she didn’t have to share with anyone.

But the peace didn’t last long.

Her heart nearly stopped when she heard a small, cautious voice behind her.

“Violet?”

Violet whipped her head around, her chest tightening with a mix of surprise and irritation. There, standing a few feet away, was Charlie. His brown eyes looked concerned, though his expression was still kind, as always. He stood there, shifting awkwardly, and explained, “When Mr. Wonka was talking about fizzy lifting drinks, I saw you weren’t with the group. I thought you might’ve gotten lost.”

Violet’s mind flashed with annoyance. Of course, it would be Charlie to come looking for her. The goody-two-shoes always had to make sure everyone was accounted for, always trying to be the perfect little contestant, never straying from the rules.

Rolling her eyes, she crossed her arms and snapped, “I’m fine, so go back to the group.”

Charlie’s brow furrowed, and he took a small step forward. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice full of genuine curiosity. He wasn’t pushing, but he wasn’t letting her off the hook either.

Violet’s frustration flared. “None of your business!” she barked, her words sharper than she’d intended. It was as if something deep inside her had snapped. But when she saw the slight hurt in Charlie’s face, something inside her softened.

Taking a breath, she exhaled and gave him a small, apologetic nod. “I’m sorry,” she said, her tone quieter and more sincere. “Come on, let’s go.”

He paused for a moment before continuing, his voice quieter now, almost cautious. “Did you take Mr. Wonka’s gum?” he asked, his words lingering in the air between them.

Violet froze, her heart pounding in her chest. How did he know? The question hung there, and for a brief moment, she could feel her cheeks flush. She didn’t want to admit it, but she didn’t know how to lie about it either.

Her hesitation was all the answer he needed. Charlie’s eyes widened in disbelief as he processed the revelation. “You did! Violet, he told us not to touch anything! Let alone taste anything!” His voice was filled with a mixture of shock and concern, his words tumbling out in a hurried rush.

Violet’s patience wore thin, and she snapped back at him, irritation evident in her tone. “Chill out and keep quiet!” she hissed, her face flushed with both anger and guilt. She lowered her voice, speaking with a venomous calmness. “No one’s gonna find out because we’re not gonna tell anyone. Besides, the stupid thing doesn’t even work. He said this was supposed to be a full-course meal, but hey…” Her words trailed off as something changed in her mouth.

She paused mid-sentence, her eyes widening as she felt an intense burst of flavor flood her taste buds. “Wait a… holy shit!” she exclaimed, her voice rising in excitement and surprise. She spun toward Charlie, her focus now entirely on the flavor explosion that had taken her completely by surprise.

Charlie, clearly confused by her outburst, frowned. “What?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

Violet’s eyes were wide, her breath quickening as she marveled at what was happening in her mouth. “It’s… It’s tomato soup!” she gasped, barely able to believe it. “This is insane! It actually tastes like tomato soup!” She put a hand to her throat, as if trying to steady herself, her voice rising with disbelief. “Not like some cheap flavoring—like real soup, Charlie! I can literally feel it running down my throat!” Her heart raced with excitement. For the first time that day, she forgot about everything else. The bitterness of her earlier emotions, the frustration with her mother, the humiliation—none of it mattered as the unexpected, savory warmth spread through her senses.

She stared at Charlie, her mouth still full of the rich, comforting taste of tomato soup. “This is crazy,” she muttered, almost to herself.

“Hey, what’s going on over here?” Mike sauntered over, hands shoved in his pockets, his tone as casual as ever.

Violet froze for a moment, startled by his sudden appearance, but her excitement quickly overpowered her annoyance. Charlie turned to him, eyebrows furrowing. “What are you doing here?”

“Bored,” Mike replied with a shrug. He glanced between them, clearly curious. “What are you guys up to?”

Before Charlie could say a word, Violet’s excitement spilled over, and she snapped, “Shut up!” Her voice came out sharper than she intended, but she didn’t care. She was consumed by the overwhelming sensations unfolding in her mouth. “The second course is happening!” she exclaimed, her voice trembling with enthusiasm. Her eyes practically sparkled as she gestured wildly, pacing back and forth like an electric current was running through her. “It’s roast beef with a baked potato! Oh my god, it’s incredible!”

Mike raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself, but Violet didn’t even notice. She was too wrapped up in the moment. “Seriously, you guys have to try this!” she raved, her hands flying through the air as if trying to convey the sheer magnificence of it all. “It tastes better than real roast beef! I mean, personally, I’d prefer it if it were more on the rare side, but—” she paused dramatically, holding up a finger for emphasis, “—it’s gum! Gum shouldn’t taste like roast beef! And the texture!”

She bit into the gum again, her expression shifting into awe. “I can feel the steam of the baked potato,” she continued, her voice hushed as if she were revealing a great secret. “It’s perfect! And it has butter, sour cream, and chives!” She clutched her chest like she’d just found a treasure, her excitement spilling over into laughter. “This is insane! It’s better than my mother’s cooking!”

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, she seemed utterly transported, a rare glimpse of unfiltered joy breaking through her usual guarded demeanor. Even Mike looked slightly impressed, though he quickly masked it with a smirk. Charlie, on the other hand, seemed more cautious, watching her with a mixture of concern and fascination.

“Oh my god, Mr. and Mrs. Stickler stole Wonka’s gum!” Mike laughed, his voice echoing through the factory as if announcing it to the world.

“She stole it,” Charlie corrected, his tone firm as he turned to Violet with a serious expression. “Violet, I think you should spit it out. If Mr. Wonka didn’t want us to take it, I’m sure he had a good reason.”

Mike rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck. “Ugh, of course, you would say that,” he groaned. “You practically worship the ground Wonka walks on.”

“I do not!” Charlie protested, his face turning red as his ears burned with embarrassment.

Mike smirked, clearly not letting up. He clasped his hands together dramatically, raising his voice to a high-pitched, mocking tone. “Oh, Mr. Wonka, may I kiss your boots? Mr. Wonka, can we get married so I can be Mr. and Mrs. Wonka?” He leaned in close to Charlie’s face, puckering his lips and making loud, exaggerated kissing noises.

“Cut it out!” Charlie snapped, shoving Mike away with more force than he probably intended. Mike stumbled back but recovered quickly, laughing harder.

“Mike, stop being such a jerk!” Violet interjected, crossing her arms and glaring at him. Her tone was sharp, but there was a hint of something else—a protectiveness for Charlie, or maybe just her own irritation at Mike’s antics.

Mike shrugged, unbothered, but took a step back. “Relax, I’m just having some fun,” he muttered, still chuckling under his breath. Violet shook her head, her gaze shifting back to Charlie, who stood there looking equal parts flustered and frustrated.

Suddenly, a familiar voice echoed down the hallway. “Kids? Where are you?” It was Mr.Wonka, his voice calm yet firm.

“Crap,” Violet muttered under her breath. Her eyes darted between Mike and Charlie, who both froze at the sound. “Come on, we better get back to the group,” she urged, turning on her heel and heading towards the group.

But before she could take more than a few steps, her eyes widened, and she gasped, stopping in her tracks. A new explosion of flavors burst through her mouth, catching her completely off guard. “Woah!” she exclaimed, holding her hands up as if to steady herself. “It’s changing again!”

Mike and Charlie turned to look at her, curiosity and concern mingling in their expressions. Violet’s face lit up with delight as she grinned from ear to ear. “It’s blueberry pie!” she said, her voice brimming with excitement. “My favorite! Oh my god, it’s the most amazing blueberry pie in the whole world!”

She closed her eyes, savoring every moment of the flavor. “It’s got ice cream—or no, wait, it’s whipped cream. No!” Her eyes snapped open, sparkling with awe. “It’s both! How is that even possible? It’s perfect!” She clapped her hands together, her enthusiasm spilling over.

“This is unbelievable!” she continued, her voice rising with each word. “How could he say this isn’t ready? It’s flawless! This is the most amazing gum ever!” Violet twirled in place, her joy bubbling over like she was in a world all her own, completely oblivious to Mike and Charlie’s growing unease.

“Um… Violet?” Charlie whispered, his gaze fixed on her face with growing concern.

“I know, I know,” Violet said dismissively, rolling her eyes as she turned back to the gum machine. “I shouldn’t have taken the gum, but it’s over and done with now.” She waved her hand as though brushing away his concern.

“Violet—” Charlie tried again, his voice insistent, but she cut him off with a sharp glare.

“Charlie, it’s done! Nothing bad happened!” she snapped, her frustration bubbling to the surface. “So can we please just drop it? Look at me—I’m fine!”

“Oh, you are not fine,” Mike drawled, his voice laced with amusement. A sly grin spread across his face. “Hey, Vomit—your nose is turning blue!”

“Oh, ha-ha, very funny, Mike,” Violet said with a scoff, rolling her eyes again. “You’re such a comedian.”

“He’s not joking, Violet,” Charlie interjected, his voice a mixture of worry and disbelief. His eyes were locked on her face. “Your whole nose has gone purple!”

“Charlie, not you too!” Violet said irritably, raising her hand to wipe away what she assumed was imaginary. But as her fingers brushed over her nose, she froze. A cold, tingling sensation crawled across her skin, unlike anything she had felt before.

“Here, see for yourself!” Charlie said urgently, pulling her toward the gleaming side panel of the gum machine. The polished metal reflected her face back at her, and Violet gasped. Her nose had turned a bright indigo, and the unnatural color was spreading rapidly across her cheeks and jawline.

“No, no, no!” she muttered, stumbling back from the reflection. Her breath quickened, panic rising in her chest.

Before she could let out the scream building in her throat, Mike lunged forward and clamped a hand over her mouth. The scream came out as a muffled cry, her wide, horrified eyes darting between Charlie and Mike.

“Quiet!” Mike hissed, glaring at her. “You trying to get us all in trouble?”

Violet nodded reluctantly, and Mike slowly removed his hand. She looked back at the reflection, her heart pounding as the purple hue deepened and began to creep down her neck. “What’s happening to me?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Charlie looked helplessly between her and Mike. “This is why Mr. Wonka didn’t want anyone to take the gum,” he said softly. “We have to get help before—”

“No!” Violet snapped, cutting him off, though her voice wavered. “We can fix this before anyone notices. Just… just give me a second.”

But as she tried to compose herself, the strange, tingling sensation spread, and Violet realized with growing dread that there was no stopping whatever had begun.

“Fix this?!” Charlie whispered sharply, his voice teetering between panic and disbelief. “How are you going to fix this?! You don’t even know what’s happening to you!”

“Just… just give me a minute to think!” Violet snapped, her voice strained as she fumbled to pull her phone from her pocket. Her hands were trembling, and the vibrant indigo now creeping down her forearms made her pause for a fraction of a second. Shaking it off, she quickly dialed a number, her fingers almost slipping on the screen.

Charlie watched her, wide-eyed. “Who are you calling?!”

“It’s a long shot, okay?” Violet hissed, pressing the phone to her ear. “But Maggie said I could call her for anything. She’ll know what to do.”

As the line began to ring, Violet’s gaze fell to her hands. The deep blue color was now stretching toward her fingertips, leaving her skin tingling and tight. Her heart pounded as she whispered, “Come on, pick up. Please, pick up.”

“This is ridiculous!” Charlie exclaimed, stepping back and glancing toward the direction the group had gone. “We don’t even know what this gum is doing to you! I’m going to get Mr. Wonka—”

“No!” Violet screamed, her voice echoing in the cavernous room. In a fit of desperation, she threw her phone to the ground. It skidded across the floor, the line still ringing before cutting to voicemail. “You can’t tell him!”

Charlie froze, startled by her outburst. “Violet, you’re turning into… I don’t even know what! He might be the only one who can help you!”

“If you tell Mr. Wonka,” Violet said, her voice trembling with both fear and anger, “he’ll know I broke the rules! He’ll kick me out of the contest, and my mom—” Her breath hitched, tears welling in her eyes. “She’ll never forgive me! You don’t get it, Charlie. This is everything to her. To us! Please… just don’t tell.”

Charlie hesitated, torn between his instinct to get help and the desperation in Violet’s voice. “But Violet,” he said softly, “this could get worse. You don’t know what that gum is doing to you.”

“I’ll figure it out,” she insisted, though her voice cracked. She clenched her fists, her now-blue hands trembling. “I just need more time. Please, Charlie.”

Mike, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke up, smirking. “You’re both overthinking this. Just tell him you slipped and accidentally ate it. Boom. Problem solved.”

Violet shot him a glare. “Mike, you’re not helping!”

“Hey, I’m just saying, your mom can’t freak out if she doesn’t find out. Just keep it together,” he said with a shrug, though his eyes were fixed on the increasingly blue hue spreading across Violet’s skin. “Or maybe not. You’re kind of turning into a Smurf, and it’s freakin’ hilarious.”

“Mike!” Charlie snapped.

Violet ignored him, staring at Charlie with pleading eyes. “Please. I can’t lose this. Not like this.”

Charlie let out a shaky breath, clearly torn. “Fine,” he said at last, but his voice was barely above a whisper. “But only if you promise to let me go get help if this gets any worse.”

Violet nodded quickly, her face pale and tense, though the growing unease in her gut told her that “worse” was coming sooner than either of them expected. Suddenly, a low, ominous groan emanated from her stomach, reverberating like the sound of shifting gears in a machine.

She doubled over, clutching her arms tightly around her midsection as waves of discomfort rippled through her body. A strange heat spread from her core outward, her muscles twitching involuntarily. Her skin, already indigo, seemed to shimmer faintly in the light, as though something was happening beneath the surface.

“Violet, are you okay?” Charlie’s voice rose in alarm, but Violet couldn’t respond. She was gritting her teeth, willing herself to stay upright even as her knees threatened to buckle.

“That’s it,” Charlie said, his voice laced with panic. “I don’t care what you say—I’m getting Mr. Wonka!”

“Charlie, no!” Violet cried, her voice tinged with desperation. She reached out to grab his arm but stumbled, the pain in her stomach twisting like a knife. “You can’t!”

“Violet, this is bad! You’re not okay!” Charlie shot back, his face flushed with urgency. “He might be able to help before—”

“I would advise you to spit out the gum,” a firm voice suddenly echoed through the room, cutting through the chaos like a knife.

Charlie froze mid-step and turned around, his eyes widening in surprise. Standing just behind him was Mr. Wonka, his tall frame casting a shadow over the scene. The normally whimsical and playful chocolatier looked entirely different—his eccentric grin replaced by a serious, almost grave expression. His violet eyes, usually alight with mischief, were now filled with a mixture of disappointment and concern.

Mr. Wonka’s hands were folded neatly in front of him, but his posture was rigid. The vibrant energy that had carried him through the factory seemed to have drained away, leaving behind someone stern and calculating.

“Mr. Wonka!” Charlie stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I see I arrived just in time,” Wonka said, his tone cool and deliberate. His gaze shifted to Violet, who was still clutching her stomach, her face contorted in pain. “I warned you, young lady,” he continued, his voice softer but no less serious. “That gum wasn’t ready. It’s not just candy—it’s a prototype. And now… well, now we’re seeing exactly why.”

Violet, her breath coming in short gasps, tried to straighten up, though the shimmering hue spreading across her skin made her look more alien by the second. “I… I didn’t mean—” she began, but her voice faltered under the weight of his disapproving stare.

“This isn’t about what you meant,” Wonka interrupted, his tone sharp but not unkind. “This is about what you did. And now we have to act quickly, before things get worse.”

Charlie glanced between Violet and Wonka, his heart pounding in his chest. “Can you help her?” he asked, his voice trembling.

Wonka hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering, his gaze fixed on Violet. “That depends,” he said solemnly. “If she cooperates.”

Violet, her eyes glistening with tears, nodded furiously, her chest heaving with shallow breaths. The rest of the group soon arrived, their gasps and murmurs filling the air as they took in the bizarre sight. Mrs. Beauregarde, however, reacted with none of the restraint of the others.

The moment she laid eyes on her daughter, her face contorted into a mask of shock and horror. Letting out a high-pitched, ear-splitting scream, she shoved past Mr. Wonka with such force that he stumbled slightly to the side.

“Violet!” she shrieked, her voice cracking. “What happened?! What happened to you?!” Her hands fluttered around her daughter, unsure of where to touch without making things worse. “You’re—you’re—violet!”

“It seems,” Mr. Wonka interjected, his tone sharp but calm, “that the young lady took it upon herself to try one of my prototypes, despite my very clear warnings.” His piercing gaze swept over Violet before returning to her mother. “Now we have to act quickly before—”

“You!” Mrs. Beauregarde’s voice was venomous as she rounded on him, her perfectly manicured finger jabbing in his direction. “You did this to her!” She pulled her phone out of her designer handbag with the speed of a gunslinger and began recording, pointing the camera directly at Wonka’s face.

Mr. Wonka raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting to one of exasperated annoyance as the red recording light blinked in front of him. “Ah, of course,” he muttered under his breath. “The court of public opinion.”

“You’re going down for this!” Mrs. Beauregarde hissed, her voice shaking with fury. “Everyone’s going to see what a reckless fraud you are! Get ready to be canceled, pal!”

Wonka sighed, folding his arms across his chest and leaning slightly against the machine. “Madam,” he said dryly, “while I appreciate your enthusiasm for modern accountability culture, I suggest you put that phone down and focus on the more pressing matter—your daughter.”

Mrs. Beauregarde ignored him, angling her phone to capture Violet’s color-changing transformation, her voice thick with emotion as she narrated. “Look at this! Look what he’s done to my little girl! Violet, honey, don’t worry. Mommy’s going to make sure he pays for this!”

“Mom!” Violet groaned, her voice trembling with embarrassment and distress. “Can we not do this right now?!”

“Oh, sweetie, you just stay calm,” her mother cooed, her tone shifting to syrupy concern even as she continued filming. “We’re going to get through this, and everyone’s going to know exactly who’s to blame.”

Wonka rolled his eyes, his patience visibly thinning. “If we could perhaps redirect our energy away from the filming and toward the solution,” he said, his voice taking on a sharper edge, “we might be able to reverse the effects before they become… permanent.”

The word “permanent” hung in the air like a thunderclap, silencing everyone. Mrs. Beauregarde’s phone wavered slightly, though she didn’t lower it. Her eyes darted back to Violet, and for the first time, genuine fear clouded her expression.

“What do you mean ‘permanent’?” she demanded, her voice cracking.

“I mean,” Wonka replied, stepping forward with a grim look, “if we don’t act now, your daughter might be taking the concept of a ‘blue period’ to a very literal level.”

“What?!” Violet shrieked, her voice echoing in the cavernous factory. Panic and confusion swirled in her tone, but before she could demand an explanation, her stomach emitted a low, ominous groan.

The sound was unnatural, deep and resonant, like the rumbling of distant thunder. Mr. Wonka’s head snapped toward her at once, his sharp reflexes betraying a flicker of alarm he could no longer conceal. For a brief, harrowing moment, their eyes met.

In Mr. Wonka’s gaze, Violet caught something she had never seen before—a flash of genuine fear. It was brief, but it pierced her like a dagger, sending a cold chill down her spine.

“Oh dear…” Wonka murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft and full of dread. He took a deliberate step backward, as if trying to distance himself from the inevitable. “I’m terribly sorry, my dear…” he added, almost inaudibly, his hands now nervously fiddling with the buttons of his coat.

Violet’s eyes widened, her heart hammering in her chest. “What are you—?” she began, but her words faltered as she glanced down at herself.

Her midsection.

It was expanding.

At first, it was subtle—her shirt pulling taut against her skin—but the growth accelerated rapidly. Her stomach puffed outward, rounding like an inflating balloon. Her hands flew to her sides, gripping at her shirt as if she could physically stop what was happening.

“No, no, no!” she whimpered, her voice climbing in pitch. The pressure inside her body felt foreign, alien, and terrifying. A sharp gasp escaped her lips, followed by a shrill scream that tore through the air.

Tears began streaming down her cheeks as the reality of her predicament set in. She frantically clawed at her waist, her fingers trembling as if trying to push the swelling back into place. Her breaths came in shallow, panicked gasps, the air around her thick with tension.

The rest of the group stared in stunned silence, their faces pale and stricken with disbelief. Even Mrs. Beauregarde, usually quick to find a camera-ready angle, was momentarily speechless as she watched her daughter begin to transform before her very eyes.

“Help me!” Violet cried out, her voice cracking as she looked desperately around for someone—anyone—to stop this nightmare. “Please, make it stop!”

“I would if I could,” Mr. Wonka said, his tone laced with an uncharacteristic weariness as he watched Violet continue to expand. Her form was ballooning at an alarming rate now, her midsection stretching outward like a ball being filled with air. His fingers twitched at his sides, betraying a helplessness he rarely let surface. “Unfortunately, all we can do now is wait.”

“Wait?!” Mrs. Beauregarde screeched, her voice piercing through the air. She held her phone up, capturing Violet from every possible angle as if the documentation would somehow fix the unfolding disaster. “You said we needed to act now before things got worse!”

“And this is worse,” Mr. Wonka shot back, his voice sharp and tinged with frustration as he turned toward her. He placed his hands on his hips and leaned in slightly, narrowing his gaze. “Madam, I assure you, I have every intention of fixing your daughter. But we must let the gum run its course first. If we intervene prematurely, we risk making things exponentially more chaotic. I don’t think you want that, do you?”

Mrs. Beauregarde’s jaw tightened, her grip on her phone tightening as she lowered it slightly. “You’re telling me to just stand here and do nothing while my daughter turns into some… some blue monstrosity?!” she spat, her voice trembling with both anger and desperation.

“I assure you, madam,” Wonka replied, his tone carefully measured, “this is not the outcome I had envisioned for my invention, but science is often a process of trial and error.” He gestured toward Violet, whose cheeks were now puffing out, her skin turning an alarming shade of violet. “Your daughter made the decision to try my experimental gum without permission, and now we must deal with the consequences as carefully as possible. Haste would only compound the issue.”

Mrs. Beauregarde’s eyes darted to her daughter, who now looked more like an overfilled beach ball than a human being. She turned back to Mr. Wonka with a glare that could melt steel. “You better fix this—now!”

“Patience, madam,” Wonka replied, his voice taking on a slightly patronizing lilt as he adjusted his top hat. “I understand the urgency of the matter. Believe me, I’m as invested in resolving this as you are. After all, my reputation is at stake here.”

He glanced back at Violet, who groaned as her body let out another ominous creak. “But as I said, the gum’s effects must play out first. Intervening now could have… unintended side effects.”

Mrs. Beauregarde opened her mouth to retort, but her words faltered as Violet’s body let out a loud gurgle, her size continuing to grow. The tension in the room thickened as all eyes returned to Violet, who whimpered, “What’s happening to me?”

“We have to let the air out of her fast!” Mrs. Beauregarde screamed, her voice shaking with panic as she grabbed Mr. Wonka by the lapels of his coat.

“There’s no air in there,” he replied calmly, gently brushing her hands away. His tone was more weary than concerned, as though he were explaining the weather to someone particularly excitable. “That’s juice. It always happens this way. I’ve tried it twenty times in the testing room, and twenty times, each Oompa Loompa ends up as a blueberry. It’s the most annoying thing.”

“Blueberry?! Annoying?!” Mrs. Beauregarde shrieked, her voice reaching a near-hysterical pitch. Her eyes darted between her grotesquely swollen daughter and the infuriatingly nonchalant chocolatier. “How can you be so calm about this?!” she screamed, addressing her phone and frantically filming Violet from every possible angle. “Everyone is going to hear about this disaster! You’ll be ruined!”

Meanwhile, Violet’s swelling finally began to slow, though her body was now impossibly round, her limbs sticking out awkwardly like a child’s doll. Her deep violet hue glistened in the factory’s strange light. Tears welled in her eyes as she made muffled grunts, desperate to call out to her mother, not for attention but for help. Yet her cheeks were so puffed up that words were an impossibility.

Mr. Wonka cleared his throat, his patience clearly fraying as he addressed Mrs. Beauregarde. “Madam,” he said, with forced politeness, “forgive me, but I hardly see how filming your daughter’s… altered appearance will assist in resolving this predicament. Perhaps you could put the camera down and focus on the matter at hand?”

Mrs. Beauregarde rounded on him, her phone still clutched in her hand like a weapon. “Focus on what?!” she demanded. “You just admitted you’ve had this problem twenty times before, and yet you still allowed this to happen?!” She gestured wildly at Violet, whose teary eyes glared at her mother with a mixture of humiliation and desperation.

“I hardly allowed this to happen,” Mr. Wonka said, his voice losing a touch of its usual whimsy. “If I recall, your daughter made the decision to take the gum without permission. A decision, I might add, that I explicitly advised against.” He shot a pointed glance at Violet, who groaned miserably in response.

Mrs. Beauregarde ignored him, turning back to her phone as she muttered, “The headline will write itself: Candy Tycoon Turns Child into Blueberry. You better pray you’ve got a lawyer, Wonka.”

Mr. Wonka pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. “Madam, as charming as your accusations are, I assure you, we have a solution for this. If you would kindly stop threatening me with your… technology and focus on comforting your daughter, we might actually make some progress here.”

With a sharp snap of his fingers, a group of Oompa Loompas appeared almost instantly at Mr. Wonka’s side. Dressed in their signature uniforms, they seemed ready for orders—until their gazes landed on Violet. For a moment, there was silence, followed by a chorus of uncontrollable laughter. Their high-pitched giggles echoed off the factory walls, making Violet’s face flush a deeper shade of purple.

“Alright, enough already!” Mr. Wonka barked, his usual whimsical demeanor replaced with stern authority. He clapped his hands to get their attention. “Now listen carefully,” he instructed, pointing toward the bloated girl. “I want you to roll the young lady into the boat and take her to the Juicing Room at once.”

“Juicing Room?!” Mrs. Beauregarde shrieked, stepping in front of Violet protectively. Her phone wobbled in her hand as she continued recording the scene. “What the hell are they going to do to her there?! I don’t want those little gremlins laying a finger on my daughter!”

Mr. Wonka didn’t flinch at her outburst. Instead, he folded his hands behind his back, his tone measured but firm. “Squeeze her,” he explained, as though it were the most obvious solution in the world. “We have to extract all that juice immediately. It’s the only way to return her to a manageable size.”

Mrs. Beauregarde’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “Squeeze her?! Like some kind of fruit?!” she demanded.

“Yes, precisely,” Mr. Wonka replied with a small nod, as though confirming a recipe. “The gum’s juice is highly concentrated and still expanding inside her body. If we don’t act quickly, she could… well…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely, though the implication was clear.

Mrs. Beauregarde turned toward Violet, whose wide, tear-filled eyes were silently pleading for help. “This is insane!” she yelled, her voice quivering. “You expect me to just hand her over to them?!”

“I assure you,” Mr. Wonka said with an air of professionalism, “the Oompa Loompas are highly trained in juicing procedures. They’ve handled situations like this before with remarkable success. If you want your daughter back to her normal size—and I assume you do—you’ll have to trust them.”

Mrs. Beauregarde hesitated, her grip tightening on her phone. “And what if they mess it up?”

“They won’t,” Mr. Wonka assured her, his tone softening just slightly. “But if they don’t do anything, well…” He left the rest unspoken, his eyes drifting to Violet, who let out a muffled groan of discomfort.

“Madam,” he added, his voice laced with impatience, “I suggest you make a decision quickly. Time is of the essence.”

Mrs. Beauregarde bit her lip, torn between fear and fury. Finally, she stepped aside, allowing the Oompa Loompas to approach. “Fine,” she spat, her voice trembling. “But if anything happens to her, you’ll regret it, Wonka!”

The Oompa Loompas exchanged knowing glances and positioned themselves around Violet, preparing to roll her toward the boat. Though their laughter had stopped, their tiny smirks betrayed their amusement at the absurdity of the situation. Violet, helpless and humiliated, let out another groan as the group sprang into action.

Violet’s ears burned as Veruca’s shrill laughter echoed through the inventing room, sharp and mocking. The sound cut through her like a knife, and she could feel tears welling up in her eyes. The Oompa Loompas worked in unison, giving her a coordinated shove that sent her rolling a few feet across the glossy floor. The motion was disorienting, and the humiliation was unbearable. A single tear escaped and trailed down her puffed, violet-hued cheek.

“Aw, poor blueberry,” Veruca sneered, doubling over with laughter. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before stealing!”

Violet couldn’t even muster a glare. She felt Mike’s sudden presence at her side, and before she could register what was happening, he punched Veruca sharply in the arm.

“Ow! What was that for?!” Veruca snapped, rubbing her arm indignantly.

“Shut up for once,” Mike muttered, his voice low but firm. Despite her misery, Violet felt no comfort in his actions.

She avoided looking at Charlie, who stood a few feet away with his hands nervously clasped. She knew he was watching her, his face undoubtedly twisted in pity and concern. The last thing she needed right now was his sad, silent “I told you so.”

Her body ached with each roll across the floor, her bloated limbs useless as she struggled to hold back the flood of tears threatening to spill over. The humiliation, the laughter, the pain—it was all too much.

Violet closed her eyes tightly, blocking out the room, the voices, the stares. I just want to go home, she thought desperately. I want to wake up and realize this was all just a bad dream. I just want this nightmare to end.

Violet stole one final glance at Mr. Wonka as the Oompa Loompas maneuvered her towards the door, their tiny hands pushing her bulbous form with surprising efficiency. She immediately regretted looking back. The expression on his face struck her deeply—equal parts pity and disappointment. He didn’t even look angry, which somehow made it worse. It was as though her misstep hadn’t just let him down but had also confirmed some sad inevitability he had seen coming all along.

Her stomach churned—not from the gum this time, but from shame. She wanted to shout at him, to explain, to say something that would wipe away that look, but her cheeks were too swollen to form proper words. All that escaped was a muffled grunt.

Meanwhile, her mother was oblivious to everything. Mrs. Beauregarde stood a few feet away, her phone held high as she spoke animatedly into the camera. “And as you can see, my poor Violet has been turned into an actual blueberry! This is absolutely outrageous—do you see this? This is going to go viral in minutes!” She angled her phone, making sure to capture every detail of the chaos.

“Ma’am?” Mr. Wonka’s calm voice interrupted her impromptu broadcast. He tapped her lightly on the shoulder. “Your daughter is that way.” He gestured toward the far end of the room where the Oompa Loompas were now carefully positioning Violet in the factory’s brightly colored boat, their movements precise and oddly professional for such an absurd task.

Mrs. Beauregarde blinked, finally tearing her eyes away from the screen. She glanced around in confusion before realizing that Violet was no longer by her side. Her face paled as the reality hit her, and she scrambled forward, her heels clacking loudly against the floor. “Violet, sweetheart! Wait for Mama!” she cried, her voice rising in panic as she chased after the group.

Violet could hear her mother’s shrill voice behind her, but it only made her feel worse. She wasn’t sure what was more humiliating—the fact that she had to be rolled like a fruit or that even now, her mother’s first instinct was to document it all for an audience. As the boat shifted slightly under her weight, Violet closed her eyes tightly and wished, more than anything, for this nightmare to end.

Chapter Text

“Charlie, do stay with the group now!” Mr. Wonka called out, his tone a mix of authority and distraction as he ushered the now smaller group of people away from the chaotic scene. The vibrant energy of the factory seemed to dim slightly, and the group’s chatter quieted as they moved further into the room.

But Charlie lingered, his gaze still fixed on the Oompa Loompas as they carefully maneuvered Violet into the brightly colored boat. Her swollen, blueberry-like form looked so out of place and vulnerable that it made his heart ache. Sure, she had stolen the gum, but she couldn’t have known it would lead to this. Charlie knew she wasn’t a bad person; she just made a mistake.

As the boat began to drift away, a faint sound caught his attention—a cheerful, upbeat ringtone echoing softly from near the machine. He turned toward the noise and spotted a pink, bedazzled phone lying on the floor by the gum machine. Picking it up, he immediately recognized it as Violet’s. The shimmering phone case with its rhinestones and decals practically screamed her name.

The screen lit up, displaying an incoming call from someone named Maggie. The phone vibrated persistently in his hand, the bright name flashing with each buzz. Violet must have dropped it in her panic during the commotion.

Charlie hesitated, glancing toward the door where the boat had disappeared moments ago. He briefly considered running after it to return the phone to her, but it was already too late. The boat and its passengers were gone, likely heading deeper into the labyrinthine factory.

He looked back toward where Mr. Wonka and the others had gone. Should he catch up with them? Maybe he could give the phone to Mrs. Beauregarde—surely she’d want it back. But then again, she hadn’t even noticed Violet dropping it, too preoccupied with her dramatic video tirade.

Charlie frowned, unsure of what to do. Clutching the phone tightly, he decided he’d hold onto it for now. If nothing else, it might give Violet some comfort later—assuming things ever returned to normal. For now, all he could do was rejoin the group and hope for the best.

“There you are, Skipper!” Grandpa Joe called, rounding the corner with a cheerful grin. “I thought I’d have to keep up with you!!” He chuckled, but his laughter quickly faded when he caught sight of Charlie’s guilty expression. The boy was clutching something behind his back, his shoulders stiff with unease.

“Charlie, is everything alright?” Grandpa Joe asked, his voice laced with concern.

“Y-Yeah,” Charlie stammered, though his tone betrayed him. Slowly, he brought his hand forward to reveal the pink, bedazzled phone. “It’s just… the girl who, um… left, dropped this.”

Grandpa Joe let out a relieved sigh, his posture relaxing. “A phone, is it? Well, that’s a load off my mind. For a second there, I thought you’d taken one of Mr. Wonka’s inventions, and after what happened to that poor girl, I was afraid you’d gone daft, boy!” He gave a small chuckle, though his eyes searched Charlie’s face for any lingering worry.

Charlie shook his head earnestly. “No, Grandpa Joe. I wasn’t going to take anything. I just… I thought I should give it back to her, but the boat already left.” He frowned, his brow furrowed as if he felt he’d failed somehow.

“Well, no harm done, Skipper,” Grandpa Joe said reassuringly, patting Charlie on the shoulder. “I’m sure Mr. Wonka’s got a Lost and Found or something for things like this.” He took the phone gently from Charlie’s hand, giving it a quick once-over before tucking it safely into his pocket.

“Come on, let’s catch up with the group,” Grandpa Joe said, nudging Charlie forward as they hurried down the hallway. Ahead of them, the colorful lights of the factory cast whimsical patterns on the walls, but the air felt heavier than before.

As they rounded another bend, Grandpa Joe raised his hand, calling out, “Excuse me, Mr. Wonka!”

The candy maker turned, his sharp features lighting up with a practiced, polite smile. “Ah, there you are! Did something catch your eye back there?” he asked, though his gaze lingered curiously on Grandpa Joe’s outstretched hand.

“This was left behind,” Grandpa Joe explained, holding out the phone. “It belongs to the young lady… Violet.”

Mr. Wonka’s smile faltered for the briefest of moments before he quickly recovered. He took the phone with a gloved hand, his brow knitting in thought. “Ah, yes. Well, I’ll see to it that it finds its way back to her… eventually,” he said, his voice light but noncommittal.

The phone let out another cheerful chime, its bedazzled case glinting under the factory’s bright lights. The name “Maggie” flashed across the screen once again. Mr. Wonka’s sharp eyes caught the name, and a small, amused chuckle escaped his lips.

“If you’ll all excuse me,” he said smoothly, holding up a hand to the group as he answered the call, “I believe this is for me.” He pressed the phone to his ear with a theatrical flourish. “Ahoy!”

There was a brief pause before a woman’s voice, laced with concern, answered on the other end. “Who is this? Violet? Is everything okay?”

Mr. Wonka’s smile widened, though there was a certain detachment in his tone. “This is Mr. Wonka of Wonka’s Chocolates and Confectioneries,” he announced, his voice dripping with charm. “Miss Beauregarde is, shall we say, indisposed at the moment and unable to come to the phone.”

The worry in Maggie’s tone grew. “What do you mean? What’s happened to her? Put her on!”

“Oh, I’d love to, truly,” Mr. Wonka replied, a hint of feigned regret in his voice as he adjusted his hat. “But you’ve caught me at a rather inopportune time. You see, I’m right in the middle of hosting a private tour. Very exclusive. Very important. I’d be delighted to pass along a message, though!”

The line crackled with Maggie’s frustration. “I don’t care about your tour! Tell me what’s going on with Violet!”

Mr. Wonka sighed lightly, as though dealing with a persistent customer. “I assure you, she’s in capable hands. That’s all I can say for now. Confidentiality and all that. But rest assured, everything will be sorted out soon enough.”

The phone’s speaker crackled as Maggie’s voice rang out, louder and more panicked than before. “Is she hurt? Why did she call me? What happened?”

Mr. Wonka’s usual calm demeanor faltered slightly as he held the phone away from his ear for a moment, giving the group an amused yet weary look. Clearing his throat, he brought the phone back and spoke with his signature smoothness. “Ah, I suspect she called you in a moment of panic—quite understandable, really. There was a minor incident—nothing too alarming—
”
“Incident?!” Maggie’s voice shot through the phone, cutting him off mid-sentence. “Are you saying Violet was in an accident?! Matt! Start the car! Violet was in an accident!”

“Ma’am, please,” Mr. Wonka interjected, trying to inject a note of reassurance into his tone. “I assure you, everything is under control. There’s no need to—”

“Listen, buddy,” Maggie’s voice dropped to a menacing growl, her words laced with fury, “I’m going to be there in ten minutes. You have exactly two choices: let me in to see my baby sister, or watch as I tear that factory apart brick by brick!”

The line went dead with an aggressive click, leaving Mr. Wonka holding the phone in silence for a moment. Slowly, he lowered it, his expression unreadable.

“What a charming woman,” Mr. Wonka muttered dryly. He snapped his fingers sharply, and an Oompa Loompa appeared seemingly out of nowhere, scurrying down the hallway with a brisk, determined gait.

Handing the phone to the small figure, Wonka gave a quick nod toward the direction of the juicing room. “This belongs to one of our guests—the blueberry girl. See that it’s returned to her safely.” He paused, his tone shifting to one of casual authority. “Oh, and let the boys in security know that in approximately ten minutes, a rather… enthusiastic woman will likely be attempting to break down the factory gates. Please allow her entry and escort her directly to the juicing room. She’ll be… eager to see her sister.”

The Oompa Loompa blinked up at him, a brief look of confusion crossing his face. Wonka raised an eyebrow, giving him a subtle, knowing nod. The tiny man shrugged, tucked the phone under his arm, and began speaking into an unseen earpiece as he bustled off down the corridor.

Mr. Wonka turned back to the group, his face lighting up with one of his trademark smiles, though it seemed just a shade more forced than usual. “Now then,” he said, clapping his hands together, “shall we press on? So many wonders yet to behold! Let’s not dwell on minor mishaps, hmm?”

As the group hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances, Wonka twirled his cane and began walking briskly ahead, the click of his shoes echoing down the hall. For a moment, his expression faltered—just enough to reveal a flicker of weariness—but he quickly masked it with his usual air of whimsy.

Chapter Text

As the Oompa Loompas carefully guided her through the maze of corridors, Violet squeezed her eyes shut, her teeth digging into her tongue in a futile effort to stave off the mounting wave of nausea. The factory’s endless twists and turns made it feel like the walls were spinning around her, and every jostling movement sent a fresh surge of discomfort through her swollen body. She clamped her jaw tighter, fighting to suppress the bile rising in her throat.

The Oompa Loompas, for their part, handled her with surprising care. Since lifting her from the boat, they had made sure to position her on her side, keeping her head secure and avoiding any unnecessary jolts. They communicated with one another in quiet, efficient murmurs, coordinating their movements as though Violet were a precious—but precarious—cargo. Yet even their best efforts couldn’t mitigate the constant motion, and Violet’s round body rolled slightly with every uneven step.

She tried to focus her mind elsewhere—on the steady rhythm of their shuffling feet or the muted hum of machinery in the distance—but her body betrayed her. A deep, ominous groan rumbled from her belly, louder than anything she had experienced so far. The sound echoed down the metallic hallway like a thunderclap, startling the Oompa Loompas into an abrupt halt.

They froze, their wide eyes darting between each other, their expressions a mix of concern and dread. For a moment, none of them moved, as though they were afraid the slightest jostle might trigger a catastrophe. One of them hesitantly prodded the side of Violet’s bloated form, and she winced, clenching her fists tightly.

“I’m not going to explode,” Violet muttered hoarsely, though she wasn’t entirely sure she believed it herself. Her skin felt stretched impossibly tight, and the relentless pressure in her stomach made her feel as though she were one wrong turn away from bursting like an overripe fruit.

The Oompa Loompas didn’t seem convinced. They exchanged another series of worried glances before cautiously resuming their journey, their steps slower and more deliberate than before. The tension in the air was palpable, and Violet found herself desperately wishing the trip would end soon—if only to escape the unsettling awareness of how fragile her situation had become.

Mrs. Beauregarde’s frustration bubbled over, her voice rising with every word as she trailed behind the peculiar procession. “Absolutely unbelievable,” she hissed, though her tone was loud enough to catch the attention of everyone nearby. Her manicured nails tapped furiously against her phone screen as she scrolled, her brow furrowed in a mix of irritation and worry.
“I mean, what kind of operation is this? First, they claim it’s an emergency—an emergency!—and not a single person bothers to call 911. Not one! Then Mr. Wonka vanishes into thin air like some magician at a children’s party. And now, now, these tiny… whatever-they-ares just stop in the middle of the hallway for no apparent reason!” She threw her hands into the air, the phone still clutched tightly in her grip.

She let out a frustrated huff, her voice growing louder and more frantic. “I’m telling you, I’ve had it! I’m at my breaking point here. Nobody’s telling me a thing about my Violet! Not one word! Is she okay? Is she hurt? Is she…” Her voice wavered, betraying the crack in her composure as her anger mixed with genuine fear.

Her thumbs flew across the phone as she tried to call someone—anyone—who might listen. “I’m freaking out, guys! I mean, seriously, freaking out! I have no idea what’s happening with Violet, and it feels like everyone here is just… just ignoring me!” She looked around wildly, as if expecting someone to finally offer an explanation.

Her eyes darted to the Oompa Loompas, who continued their methodical march with Violet in tow, seemingly unbothered by her outburst. Their calm, deliberate movements only served to fuel her anger further. She let out a sharp, exasperated groan. “This is the worst customer service I’ve ever seen! I’m calling the press—I’ll make sure everyone knows what kind of madness goes on in this factory!”

Mrs. Beauregarde maintained her relentless narration, her voice a grating mix of outrage and performative concern, until the group reached a towering door emblazoned with bold, red letters spelling “JUICING ROOM.” The Oompa Loompas wasted no time, guiding Violet through the entrance with mechanical efficiency. As her mother moved to follow, a female Oompa Loompa, blocking her path with an outstretched hand.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but authorized personnel only beyond this point,” the Oompa Loompa said firmly, her voice calm but unyielding.

Mrs. Beauregarde froze mid-step, her jaw dropping in indignation. “You’re kidding, right?” she scoffed, her tone dripping with disbelief. “I am her mother, and I demand to go in!”

“Ma’am,” the Oompa Loompa began, unflinching in the face of Mrs. Beauregarde’s growing fury, “there is dangerous machinery inside that must only be handled by trained professionals. I assure you, our team is highly skilled in managing these situations.” She spoke with a measured calmness, as though reciting a well-rehearsed protocol. “I promise you, we will provide full explanations and regular updates regarding your daughter’s condition.”

“And what about the millions of people who will be watching this?” Mrs. Beauregarde snapped, gesturing dramatically to her phone. “Because I promise you, they will be watching.” She jabbed a finger in the direction of the female Oompa Loompa, her voice rising with indignation.

Before the tiny woman could respond, a shocked voice interrupted from down the hall.

“What. The. Fuck.”

Everyone turned to see a disheveled young woman being escorted by two Oompa Loompas. Her wide eyes were fixed on Violet’s swollen, grotesque form, her face a mix of horror and disbelief.

“Oh my god!” the newcomer shrieked, rushing toward the doors of the Juicing Room. “Violet?! What the hell happened?”

“Maggie?” Mrs. Beauregarde snapped, spinning around to face her. “What are you doing here?”

“Violet called me!” Maggie’s voice broke through the tense silence, her panic evident as she rushed forward, brushing past one of the Oompa Loompas. Her eyes flickered between Violet and Mrs. Beauregarde, searching for some sense of understanding in the chaos. “Can someone please explain to me what the hell is going on here?!” she demanded, her voice rising with frustration and fear.

The Oompa Loompa, seemingly unperturbed by the emotional outburst, stepped forward, blocking the door with an outstretched arm. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we really need to begin the juicing process,” she said, his tone firm and authoritative as he motioned for Violet to be moved further into the room.

“The what process?!” Maggie exclaimed, her heart pounding in her chest. The word hung in the air, making her blood run cold. She could barely comprehend what she was hearing.

The Oompa Loompa didn’t flinch at her outburst but responded with mechanical calm. “The juicing process, ma’am. Due to the particular… condition your sister is in, the excess fluids must be safely extracted. It’s the only way to avoid further complications.”

Maggie stood frozen, absorbing the explanation as her mind raced. She glanced at Violet—her face now swollen, tear-streaked and distorted by the sudden, terrifying transformation—and then back to the Oompa Loompa. Her mind refused to grasp the gravity of the situation, but as the details slowly sank in, a feeling of grim determination replaced the disbelief that had overwhelmed her moments before.

“Wait—juicing?!” Maggie’s voice faltered, her throat tightening with emotion. She turned to Violet, her eyes locking onto her sister’s wide, panicked gaze. Violet’s tear-filled eyes flickered with a desperate mixture of fear and helplessness, and the sight twisted Maggie’s heart. She reached out, her hand trembling slightly as she cupped Violet’s cheek.

“Violet, listen to me,” Maggie said, her voice soft but steady, trying to convey reassurance through her own rising panic. “I’m going to be right outside, okay? Just… just do whatever they tell you, alright? They’re trying to help. They’re not going to hurt you.”

Violet nodded slowly, her swollen cheeks trembling as she wiped a tear from her eye. The sight of her sister’s struggle broke Maggie’s heart, but she forced a small, encouraging smile, trying to be strong for both of them.

As the enormous doors to the Juicing Room began to close, Violet cast one last, pleading look toward Maggie, her expression filled with silent desperation. Maggie’s heart clenched as she nodded once more, giving her sister a small, reassuring smile, even though she didn’t know what to expect next.

The heavy doors shut with a deafening clang, the sound reverberating in the air like a final, unbreakable barrier. Violet was sealed inside, leaving Maggie standing on the other side, helpless and hollow. She leaned against the cold metal of the door, her breath shaky as she fought to keep her composure. The weight of the situation settled heavily on her chest, and she closed her eyes, trying to summon the strength she didn’t feel.

Hours dragged on with the oppressive weight of time pressing down on Maggie. She paced back and forth in front of the Juicing Room doors, her footsteps quick and uneven—her nerves fraying as she wrestled with an endless swirl of impatience, frustration, and raw fear. Every so often, an Oompa Loompa would emerge, their tiny faces offering vague, impersonal updates about Violet’s condition, but nothing concrete. Every time they spoke, their words were reassuring, but they carried no real substance—just hollow promises about how things were “going smoothly.” Each promise chipped away at Maggie’s already fragile composure. She tried to focus on their words, but the gnawing unease deep in her gut wouldn’t let her relax.

She had asked—no, begged—at least a dozen times to see her sister. Each time, the same polite dismissal followed: “Soon, ma’am, soon,” or “The procedure is almost finished.” But the more time passed, the more Maggie began to feel like she was talking to a wall. There was no real answer, only vague reassurances that meant nothing to her.

Her mother, however, seemed completely unfazed by the mounting tension. She was still glued to her phone, documenting every moment of the situation, her voice carrying across the room as she narrated their every move to an invisible audience. She barely noticed Maggie’s distress, her focus solely on creating the perfect social media update. The screen of her phone flashed under the bright lights, capturing her daughter’s nightmare as if it were no more than a spectacle to be consumed by the world.

Maggie’s heart pounded in her chest as she watched her mother’s complete indifference to the gravity of the situation. Her frustration reached a breaking point, and she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Would you cut it out?!” she snapped, her voice cracking with the raw edge of desperation and anger.

Her mother froze, looking up from her phone with wide-eyed indignation, as if she couldn’t fathom what would have prompted such an outburst. “Excuse me?” she said, raising an eyebrow, as if Maggie were the one being unreasonable.

“This is all your fault!” Maggie yelled, the words spilling out like a dam breaking. Her voice trembled with anger, her chest heaving as she spoke. “Why weren’t you paying attention to her? Why weren’t you watching her like a decent mother?!”

Mrs. Beauregarde’s face turned crimson as she took an instinctive step back, her eyes widening with disbelief. “My fault?” she said, her voice rising in shock. “What do you mean, my fault?”

“Yes!” Maggie’s voice rose with each word, her emotions bubbling over. She couldn’t hold back anymore. “You were too busy filming everything, too busy trying to make it look perfect for your stupid audience! You didn’t even notice what was happening to Violet. She’s in there, trapped, and you’re acting like it’s just another one of your damn shows! You don’t care about her, you never have!”

Her mother’s face twisted in shock and anger, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Maggie saw her mother’s composure slip. But it wasn’t the kind of realization Maggie had hoped for. Instead, Mrs. Beauregarde’s expression contorted in defensiveness, as if Maggie’s words had struck her in some deeply painful way.

“How dare you insult my mothering!” Mrs. Beauregarde’s voice boomed, filled with fury. She thrust the camera toward Maggie’s face with a violent, almost manic motion, her eyes blazing. “The only regret I have as a mother is how I raised you! You turned out to be such a spoiled, selfish brat!”

Maggie recoiled, stunned by the venom in her mother’s words, but she quickly gathered herself, her voice cold and dripping with incredulity. “Selfish?” she repeated, the word thick with disdain. “I’m selfish? Are you kidding me?” Her voice rose with every word, biting with the sharpness of a jagged edge. “You’re the one who’s been exploiting Violet’s suffering for years, turning her into a tool for your vanity—all for your precious followers. You’re using her to build your pathetic online empire.”

Mrs. Beauregarde’s face twisted with indignation. She snapped back with venomous defensiveness, her voice faltering only slightly. “She never did anything she didn’t want to!” she barked, her fingers tightening around the phone. “Unlike some people, Violet actually wants to help this family. She knows the value of hard work!”

Maggie’s jaw hung open in disbelief, her hands shooting up into the air as if to physically dispel the weight of her mother’s words. “Do you even hear yourself right now?” she shouted, her voice rising higher with every syllable. “You don’t see anything wrong with using your twelve-year-old daughter as your primary source of income? A child, Mom!” She gestured fiercely toward the Juicing Room doors, her hands trembling with rage. “And while she’s in there”—her voice cracked—“facing God knows what kind of danger, all you can think about is getting the perfect shot for your stupid camera!”

Mrs. Beauregarde’s eyes flashed with anger, but her expression shifted subtly, as if the truth of Maggie’s words had momentarily pierced her carefully constructed defense. She stiffened, tightening her grip on the phone like a shield, as if to block out the sting of her daughter’s accusation. “Don’t you dare twist this around on me!” she shot back, her voice wavering, revealing a rare crack in her impervious facade. “I’m doing what I have to do to support this family. Violet enjoys being in the spotlight—she loves it!”

Maggie stood frozen for a moment, her chest heaving with a mixture of anger and heartbreak. She took a deep breath, her voice now quieter but no less powerful, laden with both pain and clarity. “No, Mom,” she said, her tone breaking as the weight of the truth pressed down on her. “She doesn’t love it. She loves you, and she thinks this is the only way to make you proud. But you’re too obsessed with fame and validation to even see it. She’s drowning under the pressure you’ve put on her—and you don’t even care.”

The words hung in the air like a heavy, suffocating fog. Maggie’s chest tightened, her voice faltering as she added, “You’re breaking her, Mom. You’re breaking her, and you don’t even see it.”

“I’m helping her!” Mrs. Beauregarde snapped, her voice cracking as her frustration mounted. She crossed her arms defensively, her posture rigid as though it could shield her from Maggie’s cutting glare. “Once people see this, we’re going to expose the entire Wonka brand! This is going to blow up—he’ll have nowhere to hide!”

“Expose him for what?” Maggie shot back, her voice laced with disgust. Her arms flung outward in exasperation. “He’s the only one trying to help Violet right now! Without him, what’s your plan? Film it all and hope your followers can magically fix her?”

“For negligence!” Mrs. Beauregarde snapped triumphantly, her eyes lighting up as though she’d won the argument. “He told me himself this has happened twenty times before! Twenty! And he still allowed this to happen to my daughter!”

“I don’t care what happened to anyone else!” Maggie’s voice rose, trembling with rage. “I care about helping Violet now! And as much as I hate to admit it, he seems like our best chance at doing that!”

Mrs. Beauregarde drew herself up, her indignation radiating off her like heat. “Well, I care about helping my daughter too,” she huffed, her tone dripping with self-righteousness.

“No, you don’t!” Maggie exploded, her voice cracking under the weight of her fury. “All you care about are your followers, your likes, your views—your goddamn fame!” She stepped closer, her face inches from her mother’s, her breath shaking with barely contained anger. “Well, how’s this for views?!”

In a blur of motion, Maggie snatched the phone from her mother’s hand. Before Mrs. Beauregarde could react, Maggie hurled it to the floor with all her strength. The phone shattered on impact, pieces of glass and plastic scattering across the factory floor with a deafening crack.

“No!” Mrs. Beauregarde wailed, dropping to her knees as though someone had struck her. She clawed at the broken remnants, her fingers trembling as she tried to piece them together. “You idiot! This was our ticket to fame, and you destroyed it! Do you even realize what you’ve done?!”

Maggie stared down at her, her chest heaving with anger and disbelief. “What I’ve done?” she echoed bitterly, her voice low but trembling with intensity. “What I’ve done is the only thing that’s mattered in this entire mess. I’m trying to focus on Violet—your daughter, not your brand—and you’re still sitting here mourning a goddamn phone!”

Mrs. Beauregarde didn’t respond, too consumed by her desperate attempts to turn the shattered screen back on, her frantic breaths punctuating the silence. Maggie turned away, shaking her head in disgust. “You’re pathetic,” she muttered under her breath, her voice heavy with disappointment. Without another glance at her mother, she stalked off, her heart pounding as she focused on the only thing that mattered: finding a way to help Violet.

The massive Juicing Room doors creaked open, and an Oompa Loompa emerged, his orange face partially splattered with a vivid blue liquid that dripped from his uniform. Maggie’s heart sank like a stone, dread coiling in her stomach as she struggled to find her voice. “Violet?” she croaked, her throat dry and constricted.

The Oompa Loompa wiped his hands on a cloth and offered her a reassuring smile. “The juicing process was a success,” he announced.

Maggie let out a choked gasp, her knees nearly giving out as relief flooded her body. “So she’s okay?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Can I see her?”

The Oompa Loompa nodded but hesitated, his smile faltering slightly. “They’re cleaning her up now,” he explained. “But I should warn you—there was nothing we could do about the coloration.”

Maggie’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?” she pressed, her stomach knotting again.

The Oompa Loompa folded the cloth neatly and met her gaze. “I mean she’s still blue,” he said matter-of-factly.

Maggie blinked, the words not registering at first. “Still… blue?” she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, ma’am,” the Oompa Loompa confirmed, his tone calm but final. “Her skin tone has been permanently altered by the juice she absorbed. It’s harmless, but… well, she’ll be blue from now on.”

Maggie stared at him, her mind reeling. Relief and concern battled for dominance as she tried to process what this meant for Violet. “But she’s alive?” she asked again, her voice desperate for confirmation.

“She’s alive,” the Oompa Loompa assured her. “And in good health. Aside from the color, she’s fine.”

Maggie exhaled shakily, pressing her hand to her chest as if to steady her racing heart. The words she’s alive repeated in her head like a mantra. Blue or not, Violet was still here, still breathing. And that was all that mattered.

“I need to see her,” Maggie said firmly, her voice regaining its strength.

The Oompa Loompa stepped aside and gestured toward the open door. “This way,” he said.

Maggie didn’t wait for further instruction. Her legs moved before her mind could catch up, carrying her through the open door of the Juicing Room. Her breath hitched as she stepped into the cavernous space, the air thick with the hum of machinery and the faint tang of fruit. Towering metal contraptions lined the walls, their intricate gears and pipes twisting like something out of a surreal nightmare. The sheer size of the room made her feel impossibly small, and her imagination churned with how terrifying it must have been for Violet.

Her eyes darted around frantically, searching for her sister among the mechanical giants. Then she saw her. Violet stood in the center of the room, a fragile figure wrapped in a towel that was far too big for her small frame. She was drenched, water dripping from her hair and pooling at her feet. Her clothes, now hopelessly stretched and distorted, hung loosely from her body in tatters. And her skin—Maggie’s breath caught in her throat—her skin was an unmistakable pale indigo, a haunting reminder of what she’d been through.

For a moment, Maggie couldn’t move. The sight of her sister, so vulnerable and changed, rooted her to the spot. But then Violet’s eyes met hers, wide and brimming with tears. The little girl’s bottom lip trembled as her face crumpled, and she let out a heart-wrenching sob. “Maggie…” Violet choked out, her voice thick with guilt and despair. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I messed up.”

The sound of her sister’s cries shattered Maggie’s paralysis. In an instant, she was across the room, pulling Violet into her arms. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion as she kissed her sister’s damp hair and stroked her trembling back. “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Violet buried her face in Maggie’s shoulder, her tears soaking into her sister’s shirt as she clung to her. “I didn’t mean to,” Violet sobbed. “I—I shouldn’t have taken it. I was just—”

“Shh,” Maggie interrupted softly, cradling Violet like she had when they were younger. “Shh. It doesn’t matter now. You’re safe, and that’s all that matters.”

As Maggie held her sister close, the enormity of what Violet had endured weighed heavy on her heart. But in that moment, nothing else mattered—not the strange blue hue of her skin, not the terrifying ordeal she had just been through. All that mattered was that Violet was alive and in her arms. For the first time in what felt like hours, Maggie allowed herself to breathe again.

Chapter Text

Seated stiffly at the airport gate, Veruca Salt let out an exaggerated sigh, her perfectly manicured nails tapping impatiently on the armrest of her chair. The events of the previous day still festered in her mind, a constant replay of indignity and injustice. How utterly disgraceful! All she had wanted was a squirrel—just one from the dozens, no, hundreds Mr. Wonka kept in his factory. Was that truly so unreasonable? She had asked politely, hadn’t she? Her lips pursed as she remembered the way both her father and that infuriating man had reacted, as if she’d demanded ownership of the entire factory itself. Ridiculous! Not that such a feat was beyond her capabilities.

She glanced sideways at her father, who sat silently beside her, his gaze fixed on the overhead television. Useless. Completely useless. He had wilted like a damp tissue under the pressure of Mr. Wonka’s disapproving stare, offering her no help at all. Veruca had always known her father was spineless, but his feeble attempts to reason with the chocolatier had been downright humiliating. If she couldn’t rely on him, then she’d simply have to take matters into her own hands—again.

True, she may have let her temper get the better of her. She was willing to admit that much. But what else was she supposed to do when faced with such obstinate refusal? She couldn’t help it if she wasn’t used to being told “no.” The solution was so obvious: give her the squirrel. Problem solved. Instead, she’d been subjected to the most mortifying experience of her life. Who could have guessed those furry little creatures were viciously trained like some kind of rodent bodyguards? The memory of their tiny claws and sharp teeth sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.

At least she’d survived with only a few scratches and bruises—and a lingering odor that no amount of scrubbing seemed to fully eradicate. Veruca shifted uncomfortably in her seat, catching the faintest whiff of the garbage heap she’d landed in after being unceremoniously labeled a “bad nut” by that infernal machine. Her father had spared no expense on their stay at a luxury hotel, complete with scalding baths and endless soap, but judging by the way other passengers edged away from them at the gate, the stench had proven harder to shake than her pride.

Her gaze wandered to her father again. He looked tense, his brow furrowed as he pretended to care about whatever drivel was being broadcast on the airport monitors. Veruca rolled her eyes. He was probably sulking over the money wasted on their ill-fated tour. She, on the other hand, had far more important matters to consider. Perhaps it was time to demand a private jet; at least then she wouldn’t have to endure the company of these commoners—and she could finally escape the faint but persistent smell of failure.

Scanning the crowd, Veruca Salt’s eyes landed on a family staring in her direction. With a haughty glare, she expected them to look away, but they didn’t flinch. A second, sharper glance revealed they weren’t gawking at her at all but at someone sitting a few seats away. Her lips curled in mild disdain as she recognized the girl instantly—Violet Beauregarde. It wasn’t exactly difficult to identify her. After all, it wasn’t every day that someone turned the same color as her name.

Violet sat hunched over, her deep indigo skin and hair unmistakable even under the sterile airport lighting. The transformation had been grotesque at the time, and Veruca had found the entire spectacle absurdly amusing. Watching Violet bloat up like an oversized blueberry and then get rolled away by those peculiar little Oompa Loompas had been a highlight of the day. But now, after a full day of enduring her own humiliation—side-eyes, whispered comments, and people sneaking pictures of her—Veruca no longer found much humor in the situation.

Her gaze lingered as Violet sniffled, dabbing her cheeks with the sleeve of her jacket while her mother stormed off, grumbling into her phone. A pathetic sight, Veruca thought, her lips pursing. Say what you will about Veruca’s father, but at least he hadn’t abandoned her in public to wallow in shame. Watching Violet’s shoulders shake as she tried to curl into herself, Veruca couldn’t help but muse that grown-ups could be every bit as cruel, if not more so, than children.

With a dramatic sigh, Veruca stood and approached Violet, her shoes clicking against the tile floor. The few people nearby glanced their way, but Veruca ignored them. She reached into her purse and, after a brief moment of hesitation, pulled out a handkerchief embroidered with the letter “V.” Sitting down beside Violet, she held it out like an offering.

“Enough with the sniveling,” Veruca said briskly. “Unless you want to attract even more attention.”

Violet peeked up at her through tear-blurred eyes, her expression shifting from despair to suspicion. “What do you want?” she muttered, her voice muffled as she buried her face in her knees. “Come to laugh at me some more?”

“What? No,” Veruca replied, bristling. “I noticed your mother stepped away—”

“And what?” Violet cut her off, her voice sharp and brittle. “Thought this would be the perfect time to rub it in? To tell me how stupid I am for chewing that gum? Or how hilarious it was watching me get rolled around by those creepy little freaks? Or maybe you just wanted to remind me how blue I am now? Like I don’t already know? Like I’m not a total embarrassment to my mom and everyone else!”

“Stop it!” Veruca snapped, her voice rising enough to draw stares. “I’m trying to do something nice! Would you stop whining for one second and just take the stupid handkerchief?”

Violet stared at her, stunned into silence by the outburst. After a moment, she reached out hesitantly, taking the delicate handkerchief from Veruca’s outstretched hand. For once, Veruca didn’t offer a snide remark or smug grin. She simply sat there, arms crossed, as Violet wiped her eyes.

“Now stand up straight,” Veruca commanded, rising to her full height and striking a pose of practiced poise. She adjusted her shoulders and tilted her chin upward, exuding an air of superiority. “Let these hillbillies know that even in your… condition, they’re still not worthy of your tears.”

Violet sniffled, her arms tightening around her knees as she glanced sideways at Veruca. “Easy for you to say,” she muttered. “You aren’t blue.”

“Yes, darling,” Veruca replied, her tone dripping with exaggerated patience, “but if you haven’t noticed, I reek as though a group of skunks had an unfortunate encounter with a vat of expired egg salad.”

“Really?” Violet asked, her brow furrowing in genuine curiosity.

“No, Violet,” Veruca said with a theatrical roll of her eyes. “The entirety of this airport is avoiding me just for fun. I’m surprised you let me sit this close. I’m going to need at least twelve baths in tomato juice once we’re home.”

Violet blinked, her expression softening slightly. “I didn’t notice,” she admitted earnestly. “After the… juicing process… all I can smell is blueberries.”

“Really?” Veruca asked, her haughty facade momentarily cracking into mild surprise.

“Really,” Violet confirmed. “I mean, I saw you come out of that factory with all that trash yesterday, but I was kind of… preoccupied to ask about it.” Her gaze drifted to the floor, a hint of a blush rising to her indigo cheeks.

Veruca let out a huff, brushing imaginary lint off her skirt as she tried to think of a clever retort. When none came to mind, she hesitated, then glanced at Violet with an appraising eye. “You know,” she said, her voice softer, “blue isn’t the worst color on you.”

Violet’s head snapped up, startled by the unexpected compliment. “What?”

“I’m just saying,” Veruca continued, waving a hand dismissively, “lots of people pay for hair that color. It’s unique, bold even. And when you get tired of it, there’s always hair dye. My stepmother practically lives at the salon, going from brown to bleach blonde every two weeks. Anything is possible, darling.”

“Yeah, but what about my face? My skin?” Violet shot back, her voice cracking with frustration. “I can’t exactly dye my skin.”

“Actually, you can,” Veruca countered, leaning in as though she were imparting some great wisdom. “My stepmother had these dreadful birthmarks along her back, and my father made her get surgery to make the dark spots match the rest of her skin. With enough money, darling, anything is possible.”

Violet’s jaw tightened as she turned away, her hands curling into fists on her lap. “Well, good for you,” she muttered, her voice thick with tears she was trying desperately to hide. “Must be nice having enough money to fix any problem. A few dark spots on your stepmom’s back? Sure, why not? Must be nice to just throw money at things and make them disappear.”

An awkward silence settled between them, so heavy it seemed to crush the air around them. Veruca stiffened, her first instinct to lash out at Violet for being so ungrateful and rude. After all, how was it her fault that Violet’s family didn’t have the kind of money hers did? Why was Violet blaming her for that?

And, really, wasn’t Violet partly responsible for her predicament? No one had forced her to chew that revolting piece of gum. It was practically asking for trouble. Mr. Wonka had even warned her to spit it out! Violet only had herself to blame.

But just as Veruca opened her mouth to unleash a tirade, she stopped. The sight of Violet hunched over, her shoulders trembling, gave her pause. Instead of anger, something unfamiliar and uncomfortable tugged at Veruca’s chest.

Without a word, Veruca stood up and smoothed down her dress, casting a quick glance at Violet before striding toward one of the airport shops along the gates. She didn’t entirely understand what she was doing, only that the usual satisfaction from putting someone in their place wasn’t there. Instead, she felt compelled—however reluctantly—to try something different.

The bustling airport terminal was lined with an assortment of shops, restaurants, and kiosks, each offering an array of products aimed at weary travelers. Veruca strolled through the concourse, her nose wrinkling as she passed pharmacies stocked with cold remedies, travel-sized lotions, and plush comforts like pillows and blankets. She caught the judgmental stares of restaurant workers, their noses twitching as they tried to pinpoint the source of the offensive odor trailing behind her. In true Veruca fashion, she glared back, daring them to say anything aloud.

After a moment of scanning her options, she spotted a high-end cosmetics boutique tucked into the corner of the terminal. Its sleek, glass-paneled entrance shimmered with vibrant displays of lipsticks, eyeshadows, and perfume bottles arranged like priceless treasures. Veruca pushed open the door, her nose assaulted by a mix of floral and musky scents designed to mask the very smell she was carrying.

As the entrance bell chimed, a well-dressed store attendant hurried to the front, her professional smile faltering as her nostrils flared. Her eyes darted around the store, likely searching for spoiled food or a forgotten trash bag. When her gaze landed on Veruca, the realization hit, and her forced cheeriness quickly morphed into barely concealed horror.

“Hello, little girl,” the woman began, her voice strained as she tried to steer Veruca toward the exit. “Are you lost? Do you need help finding your parents? Let’s go find security to assist you, shall we?”

Veruca slapped the woman’s hand away, her face hardening into a look of pure disdain. Without a word, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a shiny platinum card, holding it up like a badge of authority. The attendant’s eyes flickered to the card, her mouth tightening into a grim line of defeat.

Straightening her posture, the woman forced a brittle smile. “Ah, Miss Salt,” she said, her tone dripping with insincerity. “Welcome. How can I assist you today? We’ve just received a shipment of exquisite fragrances from Germany and some delightful floral scents from France.”

Veruca rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “Perfumes from other countries aren’t exactly thrilling when you work in an airport,” she quipped. “Besides, I’m not here for that. I need foundation and concealer—the kind you can mix to create custom shades.”

The woman blinked, momentarily thrown off. “Of course,” she said through clenched teeth, gesturing toward a display. “We have a range of primary and secondary colors, as well as neutral bases for blending. For someone with your complexion, I’d suggest starting with a light—”

“Not for me,” Veruca cut in, her tone sharp. “It’s for someone whose entire face is blue.”

The attendant froze, her eyes narrowing as she processed Veruca’s words. Her jaw clenched, and for a brief moment, she looked as though she might explode. Instead, she leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a barely polite tone. “Is this some sort of prank?” she asked, her irritation barely masked. “Because I don’t have time for jokes, Miss Salt.”

Veruca arched an eyebrow, smirking at the woman’s obvious frustration. “Do I look like I’m joking?” she retorted, waving the platinum card in the air like a flag. “If I say I want foundation for someone who’s blue, then you’re going to find it, mix it, or whatever it is you people do.”

“Now listen here,” the attendant began, straightening her shoulders and attempting to reclaim some authority. “I am a very busy woman—”

“No, you listen,” Veruca snapped, her patience snapping like a brittle twig. Her voice rose with each word, a crescendo of indignation. “I have been groped by a hundred filthy squirrels, thrown down a dark hole into an incinerator filled with garbage, only to be rescued by a bunch of tiny chanting freaks! And then, as if that wasn’t enough, I was publicly ridiculed by the entire world! I smell like dead skunks, and despite all of this, I am trying to do something nice for someone else! So would you please, for once in your life, just do your job! Get me the foundation colors for a completely blue face, swipe the little plastic card through the machine, and pack it all up in a pretty pink bag!”

The outburst left the attendant momentarily stunned, her jaw slack and her eyes wide with shock. “Okay,” she finally managed, her voice subdued, as she began picking through the shades of foundation with shaky hands.

“And grab me some of those perfume bottles while you’re at it!” Veruca barked, gesturing to a nearby shelf of fragrances.

The attendant leapt at the opportunity to comply, eager to get Veruca out of her store as quickly as possible. Within moments, she handed over a glossy pink bag containing the requested items and stepped back as if Veruca were a volatile chemical spill.

By the time Veruca returned to the terminal gate, a small crowd had gathered near Violet, craning their necks and whispering as they tried to sneak a glance at the blue-skinned girl. Veruca rolled her eyes at their nosiness and marched past. The moment she drew near, however, the crowd collectively winced and began scrunching their noses, murmuring about the sudden arrival of a horrid odor. Unable to locate its source, they quickly dispersed, leaving the two girls alone again.

“Honestly!” Veruca huffed, pulling out one of the perfume bottles and dousing herself liberally in the floral scent. “If I don’t get to soak in a hot bath soon, I’m going to become a social pariah!”

“Yeah, you’ll be the outcast,” Violet muttered gloomily, her voice heavy with sarcasm.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Veruca retorted, plucking the bottles of foundation from the pink bag. She held them up like a victorious trophy. “Your incident is purely cosmetic. Now, sit still, will you?”

“What are you doing?” Violet asked, her voice defensive as she pulled her hood further over her head, instinctively trying to shield herself from Veruca’s attempts.

“I’m trying to help,” Veruca replied, her tone clipped, yet laced with an air of impatience. She exhaled in exasperation. “Now, are you going to sit there sulking, or are you going to let me work?”

Violet hesitated, clearly uncomfortable, but after a moment of staring into Veruca’s determined face, she sighed and reluctantly allowed her to pull back the hood of her sweatshirt. The sudden exposure of Violet’s face to the open air felt like a raw unveiling of vulnerability, and Veruca immediately went to work, her hands deftly mixing various shades of red, white, and yellow on her palm. She dabbed at the colors, testing them against the blue-toned skin, trying to find the right mix to blend Violet’s complexion into something less startling.

As Veruca continued her meticulous work, Mr. Salt—eyes glued to the television for the longest stretch of peace he had enjoyed all day—suddenly realized that his daughter was nowhere in sight. She wasn’t engaged in any of her usual theatrics or drawing unwanted attention to herself. Frowning in annoyance, he scanned the room. When his gaze landed on Veruca, his stomach twisted into an angry knot.

His first instinct was to march over, pull her away, and give her a good reprimanding. This little frump had already managed to get them both thrown into a garbage pit during the factory tour, and now she was making fun of another little girl, mocking her for something she couldn’t control? As if she had done nothing wrong herself, as if it hadn’t been her who had forced them to clear out an entire airport terminal by simply existing, despite multiple showers and baths. The nerve of her! He was ready to slap her on the backside, consequences be damned, press be damned.

But then, something caught his eye—a shift in the scene that froze him where he stood. His own daughter, the same spoiled brat who had thrown fits since she could walk, was gently applying makeup to this other little girl. She was… helping her? And what’s more—Violet was smiling. His eyes widened in disbelief. A genuine smile. It wasn’t the forced, painful grin of someone trying to endure a public spectacle. She seemed happy—relieved, even. But Veruca wasn’t making fun of her? She was… caring for her?

He blinked, watching the two girls in stunned silence, trying to process the oddity of the situation. Veruca—who was always the center of attention, always demanding things go her way, always expecting to get what she wanted—was interacting with this girl, helping her, and actually smiling. And Violet—who had been so lost in her own world of embarrassment and discomfort—was accepting it, smiling back, no mockery in sight.

And here’s the most bewildering part—no money had exchanged hands. There was no demand for expensive makeup brands, no bickering over the right shade of something. There was just… this. Something as simple as a child trying to make another feel better.

Mr. Salt’s knees went weak. He slowly sank back into his seat, a strange, unfamiliar feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. He stared at the two girls, who seemed almost… normal. It was a rare and peculiar moment. Like witnessing an apex predator—say, a hyena—playing harmlessly with an injured gazelle. For the first time in ages, Veruca wasn’t the center of attention, and for reasons he couldn’t quite comprehend, he felt something he hadn’t felt in years—something very close to awe.

Sprinting through the bustling airport corridors, Maggie’s pulse quickened with each step. She had been frantic, her heart heavy with worry for her sister, but the moment her eyes landed on Violet, relief surged through her. The sight of her sister, sitting calmly with a small, unexpected smile on her face, left Maggie momentarily stunned. She had been expecting to find Violet in distress—maybe still reeling from her transformation or upset over their mother’s behavior—but instead, there she was, appearing almost content. What surprised her further was the presence of Veruca, the other girl from the factory tour, who sat next to Violet, her usual haughty demeanor replaced with an unexpected energy.

Veruca, with her glossy silver mink coat and an air of confidence, seemed to have changed in Maggie’s eyes. The girl who had once seemed so self-absorbed and entitled now appeared more animated than Maggie had anticipated. Her actions weren’t entirely selfish—at least not in this moment—and Maggie couldn’t help but notice that there was no obvious gain for Veruca here. There were no parents hovering around with their agendas, no schemes to manipulate or outshine others for once. In fact, Maggie realized as she looked around for their parents, she couldn’t spot them anywhere. Had they left Violet alone in this vast, impersonal airport? Maggie’s stomach twisted at the thought.

It should have shocked her more, but she knew better by now. Her mother, always scheming, was probably off somewhere filming herself in some dramatic re-enactment about how “devastating” the whole situation was, how Maggie was somehow tearing the family apart, while Violet needed privacy, and she was a good mother respecting that request. Meanwhile, her father, as oblivious as always, was likely sitting at some distant airport bar, too engrossed in a phone call to notice his youngest daughter sitting alone at a gate, let alone the strange, second transformation Violet was undergoing. Maggie sighed in resignation. She wasn’t surprised in the least.

“Hey, look at you,” Maggie said, her voice soft but warm as she settled down next to the two girls. She forced herself to ignore the pungent smell that lingered in the air, a mixture of strange perfumes and the scent of something almost too sour to bear.

Violet, looking a little embarrassed but clearly relieved, shifted in her seat and nodded toward Veruca. “Veruca did it,” she confessed, her voice small but sincere. “She helped me, so I don’t have to go on the plane with everyone staring at me.”

Maggie glanced at Veruca, who was now snapping the lid shut on a bottle of red foundation with a huff of dissatisfaction. The girl was clearly accustomed to doing things her own way. “That’s nice of you,” Maggie remarked, though she couldn’t suppress the bitter edge of disbelief at the oddity of the situation. Veruca, who had always seemed more interested in herself than anything else, was actually doing something kind? It was almost too bizarre to fathom.

“Of course,” Veruca added, her voice dripping with frustration. “We wouldn’t have to deal with any of this if my father would just call in the private jet. I mean, really. How hard is it to make a call?”

Violet’s eyes widened with genuine amazement. “You have a private jet?” she asked, her voice full of wonder, as if the idea of such privilege was something she’d never even dreamed of.

Veruca raised an eyebrow, her lip curling in mild surprise. “You don’t?” she asked

As the two girls continued their conversation, Maggie found herself easing into the moment, momentarily swept up in the surprisingly peaceful atmosphere. It was as though everything that had happened the day before—Violet’s startling transformation into a shade of blue, their mother’s obsessive attempt to monetize the situation, and the endless humiliation they had both endured—was a distant memory, forgotten and irrelevant. Here they were, seated in an airport terminal, talking like regular people, with no cameras, no viral videos, no press conferences. Just two girls making small talk, playing with makeup, and—surprisingly—getting along.

Maggie glanced at Violet’s face, which was now fully masked by a mix of foundation and concealer that Veruca had expertly applied. Her sister looked better—still blue, but more polished, like a strange, blue-tinted doll ready to face the world without the stares. The peace of the moment, for once, was comforting. A brief reprieve from the chaos.

Out of the corner of her eye, Maggie noticed Mr. Salt, Veruca’s father, standing a few feet away. His gaze was fixed on the two girls, his expression a strange mix of shock, curiosity, and something else Maggie couldn’t quite place. He seemed frozen, watching them as if witnessing a scene he hadn’t expected. Maggie, who was curious about his reaction, decided to approach him.

“Quite a situation we’ve found ourselves in,” Maggie said with a tentative smile, trying to break the ice. She sat down beside him, hoping to add a bit of lightness to the strange tension that hung in the air.

Mr. Salt snapped back to attention, blinking as if he’d just been pulled out of a trance. “Oh, um, I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said quickly, his tone apologetic but guarded.

Maggie chuckled awkwardly. “Oh! I’m so sorry; it’s been one of those days,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck. “I’m Maggie, Violet’s sister.” She extended her hand to him, attempting to make the connection despite the oddness of the situation.

Mr. Salt hesitated, his eyebrows knitting together slightly as he took her hand in a stiff, half-hearted shake. “Charmed. Although I wasn’t aware she had any siblings,” he replied, his voice carrying an edge of confusion.

Maggie smiled tightly. “Well, my mother doesn’t exactly like to talk about me, especially since I left home. Trust me, she’s done her best to keep me out of the picture with Violet, but she’s more than happy to bring me up if it means more views on her—” Maggie paused, her voice trailing off as she realized Mr. Salt’s attention had already shifted. He was staring at the overhead TV, his eyes glued to the news program as if it held his undivided interest.

Maggie’s lips pressed into a thin line. She was used to being ignored by her mother, and now it seemed like she was getting the same treatment from Mr. Salt. She cleared her throat, trying again. “So,” she said, raising her voice slightly, “it seems like they’re getting along really nicely.”

Mr. Salt barely looked up from the television. “What?” he muttered distractedly, and then, as if recalling the conversation, nodded absently. “Oh, yes. In all honesty, I’m quite surprised. Veruca can be a bit… abrasive when it comes to other children. So for her to be willingly interacting with another child in a positive manner is quite… intriguing. And frightening”

Maggie blinked, taken aback by his choice of words. “Frightening?” she asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.

Before Mr. Salt could elaborate, however, a familiar voice cut through the moment, breaking their conversation with perfect timing.

“Maggie, there you are!” her father’s voice rang out, approaching with a brisk pace. His face wore its usual expression of distant disinterest as he walked straight toward them, and for a moment, the conversation was abruptly cut off as Maggie’s father entered the scene.

“Maggie, could I possibly speak to you alone?” her father asked, his voice unusually serious. His expression was firm, his eyes momentarily locking with hers, signaling that this wasn’t a casual conversation.

Maggie hesitated for a moment, her gaze flicking toward Violet, who was still engrossed in conversation with Veruca. The two girls hadn’t even noticed that Mr. Beauregarde had approached the gate. They were in their own little world, completely absorbed in each other’s company. Maggie felt a brief moment of relief and warmth, glad that at least one of them had found some sort of connection in this chaotic mess. Maybe Violet would make a new friend, someone her own age, someone who could understand her. Maggie smiled to herself at the thought, hoping that, before they parted ways, the two girls would exchange phone numbers or something.

With one final glance toward the girls, Maggie stood up and followed her father down the terminal corridor. They walked in silence for a while, the heavy sound of their footsteps filling the quiet space. Maggie tried to steady her breathing, her heart hammering a little faster with each step. She wasn’t sure why, but something about the way he had asked to speak with her alone felt… off.

After several minutes, they stopped at a bench just outside one of the airport restrooms. Maggie, despite the growing unease in her chest, remained on her feet for a moment longer, unwilling to sit down just yet. Her father, however, seemed eager to keep moving. He shifted impatiently, glancing down the hallway before his eyes returned to her. But Maggie wasn’t ready to walk any farther—she couldn’t leave Violet completely alone in this massive airport, not after everything that had happened. Unlike their parents, who never seemed to care about the emotional impact on their children, Maggie refused to abandon her sister.

“I’m surprised Mom’s not with you,” Maggie said, trying to fill the silence with small talk. “She’s usually on the front lines, trying to manage everything while you’re—”

“I’m divorcing your mother,” her father interrupted her suddenly, his tone flat but weighted with finality.

Maggie froze. The words hung in the air, reverberating in her mind. Divorce. Her father had said it so plainly, as though it were just another piece of news. But to Maggie, it felt like a bomb had gone off. She hadn’t heard him speak like that in years—let alone say something so blunt, so decisive. Maggie couldn’t even remember the last time they’d spoken at length, let alone about anything that mattered. He was always so distant, so detached, and now, when he finally had her full attention, it was to drop this bombshell.

She blinked a few times, trying to process what he had said. It didn’t make sense. He had never shown any interest in discussing their family issues, let alone talk about something this monumental

“Why now?” Maggie asked, her voice low. She struggled to meet his eyes, instead staring at the floor between them. It was easier to ask the question than to look him in the face and process the truth behind it. There were so many things she wanted to say, but the words stuck in her throat, leaving her with only that one question, the one that felt the most pressing, the one that made the most sense in the moment.

Her father didn’t answer right away. For a few long seconds, he stood there, as if trying to decide whether or not to continue. Maggie couldn’t help but wonder how long he had been planning this—how long he had been carrying this decision around in silence, and why, after all this time, he had decided to finally speak up.

“Beatrice told me what happened… and Violet, too,” he said quietly, his voice filled with an odd mixture of regret and realization. “I didn’t fully understand what your mother was doing with you girls,” he confessed, his gaze wandering for a moment, as if the weight of his own words had taken him somewhere far away. “She’s always been so consumed by trends and pageantry, by the spectacle of it all. I thought that’s what everything was about—the videos, the competitions. I thought it was just some kind of bonding thing between you two. A way for her to stay close to you while indulging in her… well, whatever you want to call it.” He paused, dragging on his cigarette again, exhaling the smoke into the air. “But after hearing about Violet on that tour, after seeing her… transform into whatever that was, and Beatrice filming it, not even trying to help… It’s made me rethink everything. It’s shaken my perception of things, Maggie.”

Maggie didn’t know how to respond, a lump forming in her throat. She wasn’t used to hearing her father speak this openly—let alone admit that he had been blind to so much. She opened her mouth to speak, but he continued before she could find the words.

“Violet told me how she called you,” he said, his voice softer now, more reflective. “Not me. Not her mother. Her first instinct was to call you. And, well, for good reason. The way you cared for her when she came out of that factory… that’s something neither Beatrice nor I have ever shown her. When I saw her, when I saw what had happened to her, I didn’t do anything. I didn’t try to calm her, to comfort her. I just stood there, frozen. I stood there and did nothing.”

Maggie shifted uncomfortably, her father’s words settling heavily in the air between them. She could feel the weight of his guilt, the sense that he was not just admitting his failure as a father, but also the absence of any true emotional connection with Violet. Her father, the man who had always seemed so distant, was now revealing just how much he had missed. How much he had overlooked in his own children’s lives.

“Well, to be fair,” Maggie said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, trying to ease the tension that had thickened around them. “I froze up seeing her for the first time, too. It was… well, it was pretty overwhelming.” She shifted again, discomfort crawling over her. “But I understand what you’re saying, Dad. I do.”

Her words felt inadequate, even as she tried to soften the situation. She could tell that her father wasn’t looking for an excuse, but more a moment of validation for the regret he was feeling. He wasn’t blaming anyone but himself, and that was harder for Maggie to process than she realized. The focus of his words wasn’t on her mother, or on any of the failed moments in their marriage—it was on Violet, and the relationship he had failed to nurture with her.

Her father’s guilt hung in the air like the last traces of his cigarette smoke, and Maggie was left to wonder whether his shame was more about his inability to be there for Violet, or the realization that his connection with his daughters had always been so fractured.

“Maggie,” her father said, his voice heavy with finality, “I’ll give you full custody.”
The words landed between them with an almost deafening weight. The entire airport seemed to slow, as though time had briefly frozen, and every sound was muffled by the gravity of what he’d just said. Maggie blinked, her breath caught in her throat. For a moment, she couldn’t process the full extent of his statement.

Then, her anger surged, hot and uncontrollable. “You’re a coward,” she spat, the words sharp and venomous, cutting through the silence that had settled between them.

Her father flinched as if he’d been physically struck. “What?” he asked, utterly taken aback by the venom in her voice, his expression a mix of confusion and hurt. “I don’t understand.”

Maggie stepped closer, her face twisted with frustration and disgust. “I said you are a coward!” she hissed, her words like daggers. “That’s it? You finally wake up and see what’s been going on behind that shiny corporate office of yours, and now you’re just gonna throw in the towel? Walk away like it’s nothing? She needed you—she always needed you! Not just in that damn factory. You could’ve stepped in at any point, Dad!”

Her voice trembled with emotion as the floodgates opened. “Did you ever watch any of Mom’s videos? Or even think about how they were made? Because whatever you saw of Violet, I promise you, that’s only the surface. You wanna know why Violet started chewing gum? It wasn’t some silly habit—Mom turned her into a nervous wreck! She couldn’t stop biting the inside of her cheek until it started bleeding! She switched to gum so she wouldn’t destroy her mouth, and what does your precious wife do? Turns it into a competition!”

Maggie’s eyes burned with fury. “She’s put Violet on crash diets, dressed her up for fan service, Dad. Fan service! She’s twelve! Twelve! And you could have stopped it all. You could have told Mom no. You could’ve stopped her from filming, from using your daughter for views. God, even Wonka was acting like more of a father than you ever did!”

Her father was visibly shaken, his face pale as he processed her words. But instead of anger, all Maggie saw was defeat, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of his own guilt. His voice cracked, barely a whisper. “What more do you want from me? You wanted custody, and now I’m handing it over to you. Isn’t that enough? Isn’t that enough to show you that I’m trying?”

Maggie’s heart pounded in her chest, but this time, her voice wasn’t filled with anger—only raw pain. She stepped forward, grabbing his arm, her grip tight. “I want you to fight for her!” she shouted, her face flushed with emotion. “I want you to admit that all of this—everything that’s happened—is finally slapping you in the face, and that you’ve realized just how much of a lousy father you’ve been. I want you to swear that you’ll do better, that you’ll try to fix this! But I will not take custody of your little girl unless you promise that you will fight for her with everything you’ve got!”

Mr. Beauregarde lit another cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face before the smoke began to curl around him like a protective veil. He avoided his daughter’s gaze, focusing instead on the glowing tip of the cigarette, as though it might offer him some comfort or escape. His voice was low, almost resigned as he spoke, the words coming slowly, each one heavy with the weight of unspoken regret.

“This… all of this,” he began, his words trailing off as he exhaled a cloud of smoke into the air, “it’s slapped me right in the face. Made me realize I’ve been a lousy dad. I haven’t been there for Violet, not in the ways I should have been. I want to do better. I really do.” His shoulders sagged, the weariness of his failure evident in every movement. “No judge in their right mind will let Violet stay with her mother after the right evidence is presented. I’ll get full custody and I’ll sign it over to you. You have my word.”

With that final, grim statement, Mr. Beauregarde turned away from Maggie, the conversation over in his mind. He moved quickly, walking away without another word, leaving Maggie standing there, feeling a strange mix of disbelief and exhaustion.

As he disappeared into the distance, sound slowly began to seep back into her ears—the clattering of luggage, the murmur of voices in the distance, the hum of the overhead lights. But Maggie was numb, her heart heavy, a tight knot of emotion in her chest that she couldn’t quite unravel. This was what she had wanted, what she had been fighting for all along.

She hadn’t truly expected her parents to magically transform into good people overnight. Hope still lingered, faint and fragile, but she couldn’t ignore the reality of who they were—especially her father.

Maggie glanced back at her sister. Violet was wiping away a tear, looking up at something one of the new friends—some girl who had found her in the chaos—was talking to her about. Violet seemed distracted, her attention drifting between the conversation and the tears she was still trying to hide. Maggie watched her for a moment, noticing that, despite her little sister’s effort to engage, Violet was likely overhearing everything.

This was progress. Violet would live with her and Matt. She would be safe. She wouldn’t have to make videos or participate in those absurd pageants anymore. For once, she would just be a regular kid—free to laugh, to play, to simply be.

But as Maggie stood there, trying to absorb the weight of the situation, a sinking feeling settled in her stomach. It should have felt like a victory. It was a victory. But why did it feel so wrong? Why did everything feel so… broken?

Maybe it was the hollow feeling in her chest, the recognition that the family they had all once been a part of would never be the same again. Maggie didn’t know how to reconcile the relief she felt with the pain of what had been lost. She wasn’t sure if she would ever have the answers to those questions, or if things could ever truly feel right again.

Chapter Text

“Jesus,” Matt huffed, hauling several large boxes into the living room. The boxes thudded heavily against the floor as he wiped the sweat from his brow, looking both exhausted and slightly relieved. “Well, your mother called the police on me,” he muttered, taking a quick breath. “But luckily, it was Officer Mariland on shift, so I got the rest of her stuff without any trouble.”

Maggie looked up at him, grateful, her face softening as she rushed over to give him a kiss. “Thank you so much, honey.” She smiled warmly before stealing a quick glance at the open box at her feet. She carefully examined the contents—a mix of toiletries, books, and a few clothes—and sighed. “I think this is just what she needs. It’ll help her feel more at home here, you know?”

Matt looked up toward the staircase, his eyes following the dimming path of light that faded as it climbed higher. The silence between them grew heavy, and for a moment, the weight of everything that had happened seemed to settle into the room. He cleared his throat and asked, his voice tinged with concern, “Has she come out at all?”

Maggie bit the inside of her lip and slowly shook her head. The words were stuck, tangled in the knot in her throat. She wasn’t sure if there was anything to say, if there was anything that would make the situation better. The silence that followed felt endless, like it could stretch on forever, both of them uncertain about how to bridge the gap between the world they had left behind and the one they were trying to build.

It had been a whirlwind of change, of unexpected turns, but somehow, it felt like things were finally starting to fall into place. Violet had been all over the news after the factory incident, her face plastered on tabloid covers and news stations, labeled as one of the “factory rejects.” Maggie seethed at the term, finding it beyond insulting. She had tried to reach out to the media, to get them to stop using it, but to no avail. The tabloids didn’t care about the truth. They cared about a story.

But if there had been any silver lining to the chaos, it was that Violet’s situation had finally proven what Maggie had known all along. Her mother’s behavior was harmful, and the evidence was undeniable. The courts had finally taken Maggie’s claims seriously, the impact of the incident too great to ignore. Within weeks, Violet was in her care.

Maggie had always held on to the belief that once Violet was away from their parents, everything would improve. That somehow, a fresh start would fix the damage. But reality hit hard. Transitioning from a life of being constantly filmed, scrutinized, and pushed to perform to a semblance of normality was no simple feat, and Maggie had underestimated the emotional weight of it all.

It was almost normal, but not quite. Violet was still blue from head to toe, her skin the color of a bruised sky. Maggie had tried everything she could think of—scrubbing her skin until her hands were raw, consulting countless doctors, dermatologists, skincare professionals, and even plastic surgeons. No one had any answers, no one knew what had happened or how to undo it. They all shrugged, helpless.

And then there was Wonka. Maggie had sent over a thousand messages—emails, voicemails, letters—desperate for any kind of response. She had reached out to the company repeatedly, but each attempt was met with silence. Not even an acknowledgment.

Her stomach tightened as she thought of the unanswered questions, the uncertainty of it all. But for now, there was one thing she knew for sure: Violet was here, safe. And that was something Maggie would fight for with everything she had.

“I called her dressage instructor,” Maggie said, her voice a little too bright as she tried to break the tension. “She said, considering everything that’s happened, she’d be willing to give Violet private lessons for a fraction of the normal price!”

Matt paused for a moment, glancing at her over his shoulder as he headed towards the door to retrieve the rest of the boxes from his truck. His brow furrowed with concern. “Are you sure that’s the best idea?” he asked carefully. “I mean, I get that you’re trying to help, but remember what that therapist said? What happened to her—it was insane. It was horrible. And now we’re moving her to a whole new place… it’s a lot for her to process.”

Maggie’s frustration flared, and she whipped around to face him, her voice sharp. “What was I supposed to do? Leave her with my mother? Let her parade Violet around like some circus act for her own benefit? You think she’d be better off there, exposed to that? You think that’s what she needs right now?”

Matt stood there for a moment, his hands still gripping the box in his arms, looking down at the floor before he met her gaze. “I’m not saying that,” he said gently, taking a deep breath. “I get why you’re upset, I really do. But what I’m saying is, it’s a lot for a little kid to go through, and maybe, just maybe, we need to slow down. Give her some space to adjust, to breathe.”

Maggie’s shoulders slumped as her emotions overwhelmed her, and she let out a long, heavy sigh. She slid down against the wall and dropped her head into her hands, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on her. “I know… I know,” she muttered, her voice laced with exhaustion. “But I don’t know what else to do. It’s just—this is hard. It’s hard for me too. There’s no manual on how to handle this, no chapter in any parenting book about what to do when your little sister’s been exploited her whole life, gets… gets deformed in some freak accident, and then has to figure out how to be a normal kid while the entire world paints her as a freak. And then, there’s me—her sister—who doesn’t know the first thing about being a mom.” She shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “I’m just doing what I think is best, but nothing ever seems to work the way I hoped it would.”

Matt quietly sat down next to her, wrapping his arms around her in a tight embrace. His presence was a silent comfort, grounding her. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice low but steady, “you’re right. No one could have prepared you for any of this. Not the accident, not the fallout, not the responsibility. But for what it’s worth… I think you’re doing great. You’re doing the best you can, and that’s all anyone can ask for.”

Maggie let out a short, humorless chuckle as she rested her head on Matt’s shoulder. Her voice wavered, thick with emotion as she sniffled. “Really?” she murmured, her voice cracking. “My mother hates me, I can’t get Violet out of her room, she’s still fucking blue, and that bastard won’t return any of my messages.”

Matt’s hand gently stroked her hair, his touch soft but steady. “Your mother hates everyone,” he said quietly, trying to lighten the mood. His words made Maggie laugh through her tears, a small, shaky sound that barely escaped her lips. It was a fleeting moment of relief, but it was something. “So that’s not really a reflection on anything you’re doing,” he continued. “And I know you’ve tried everything to get Vi back to the way she was. Maybe you’ve done everything you can. I know it sucks to hear that, but maybe the only thing you can do for her right now is just… be there. Just be there for her.”

Maggie’s mind swirled with conflicting thoughts. Matt was right, and yet, the realization hit her like a blow to the chest. The factory’s hold music, that dreadful tune, still haunted her dreams, echoing endlessly, an ever-present reminder of everything that had gone wrong. She’d exhausted every possible route to fix things, to bring Violet back to some semblance of normal, but something inside her refused to accept defeat.

She shook her head, her resolve hardening. There had to be more she could do. The thought of her sister, still trapped in that dark, quiet room, consumed her. It ignited a fire in Maggie, a desperate need to act, to find something, anything that might shift the course of this endless cycle. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—sit still, not when Violet was locked away in that space. She refused to accept that there were no answers left. There had to be a solution, one she hadn’t thought of yet, and when she found it, it would fix everything.

Determined, Maggie hoisted a box and made her way toward Violet’s room. The weight of the box seemed to mirror the heavy burden she felt in her chest, but she pushed forward. There was no turning back now.

“Vi?” Maggie’s voice was soft as she knocked gently on the door, but the silence that met her was all-encompassing, thick and oppressive. “I’m coming in. Hope you’re decent.”

She turned the handle and stepped inside. What greeted her was a scene that had become all too familiar, one that made her stomach twist in both frustration and sadness. The room, stark and sterile, was a canvas of emptiness. The walls were bare, save for the boxes that had accumulated like forgotten relics over the months. Violet lay on the mattress at the center of the room, swathed in a purple hoodie and matching sweatpants. She was absorbed in her laptop, eyes fixed on the screen beneath the heavy shade of the window. The remnants of breakfast and lunch, now cold and forgotten, littered the floor beside her.

Maggie’s gaze swept over the scene, and the weight of it all settled heavily in her chest. She longed for anything, for some sign of change. She wished the plate was empty, the box opened, the laptop shut off. She wished for the sound of shoes tapping out a dance practice, for walls adorned with photos, or even the chaos of a burst of paint across the once-pristine walls and carpet. Anything, she thought, anything to disrupt the endless monotony that had become their lives.

But instead, there was only silence—thick, heavy, and unbroken. And Maggie stood there, torn between wanting to fix it all and knowing, deep down, that no quick fix would ever be enough.

Maggie settled herself into the corner beside Violet, the box resting gently at her feet. She looked around the room, taking in the space that had become so alien to her. Violet’s new sheets, blankets, and pillows were neatly folded in one corner, yet they seemed out of place amidst a backdrop of neglected decorations and scattered memorabilia. The yellow linens, decorated with intricate black bees and delicate flowers, caught Maggie’s eye. They were a subtle design—youthful yet not too childish, light enough to brighten the space but serene enough to reflect a sense of calm. The fabric, soft to the touch, had been chosen with careful thought. Maggie had bought them long before the tumult of the factory tour, with the hope of creating a cozy retreat for Violet, even if it was just for weekends or visits. She had imagined a warm and welcoming space, a haven for her sister if things didn’t work out with the custody battle. The bag, still hanging on the chair, had its price tag hanging out—another reminder of the life that seemed so out of reach.

“Guess what? I’ve got some good news,” Maggie said with a forced brightness in her tone, trying to mask the tension in her chest. She kept her voice light, though the words felt heavy. “I had a chat with your old riding instructor, Ms. Purnickel. We both agreed it might be a good idea to restart your lessons. And considering your situation,” Maggie added quickly, noticing Violet’s skeptical glare, “she’s on board to give you private tutoring—just you, her, and Blueberry on the farm. Maybe a few other horses in the stalls, but it’ll be quiet, a personal setting. Just like old times.”

Violet’s response was immediate and flat. “No.”

The word hung in the air, its simplicity cutting deeper than Maggie had expected. She had hoped for at least a little openness, but she could feel the weight of Violet’s resistance like a wall between them. Maggie exhaled in defeat, remembering the therapist’s advice to give Violet space and not push her too hard, too fast. The words had been kind and well-intentioned, but what did “gradually adapt” even mean? How long would it take? And what if Violet never got better?

“Okay, how about we press pause on this for now?” Maggie said slowly, trying to recall the therapist’s advice. “If you’re not up to it right now, that’s okay. We can revisit it when you’re in a better mindset. No pressure.”

Violet, still absorbed in her screen, paused for a moment. Then, raising an eyebrow, she gave Maggie a look that wasn’t quite skeptical but more bemused. “What’s in the box?” she asked, her voice a bit softer now, the change in tone enough to make Maggie’s heart skip. It was the first time in days that Violet had shown any real curiosity, and it was a lifeline Maggie was desperate to cling to.

Maggie’s face lit up, her excitement palpable as she almost bounced in her seat. “Oh, this?” she nearly squealed, her voice betraying her eagerness. “Well, it took a ton of calls and even a run-in with Officer Mariland, but Matt went back to the old house and brought back a little surprise for you.” Her heart raced as she opened the box, ready to share whatever small piece of normalcy she could bring to Violet. Maybe it wasn’t much, but it was something—something that could bridge the distance between them, even if just for a moment.

Violet’s eyes flickered up from the screen just in time to see Maggie lift two towering trophies out of the box. The gleaming gold and silver caught the light, their size imposing and hard to ignore. Violet’s throat went dry, her mind paralyzed as she watched her sister continue to unpack the endless array of glittering trophies, ribbons, and tiaras—all engraved with her name. The room, already cramped with unused furniture and forgotten belongings, now seemed to shrink even further under the weight of those gleaming accolades.

Maggie, in her usual enthusiastic manner, seemed to take no notice of Violet’s stillness. “I thought these would be perfect to decorate your room!” she exclaimed with a wide smile, placing the trophies on the empty vanity. The surface was cluttered with old boxes and bits of forgotten memorabilia, but Maggie pushed them aside with practiced efficiency, completely unaware of Violet’s mounting unease. “We can hang up some of these ribbons,” she added, enthusiastically spreading them out across the room. She followed up by setting down a framed picture—an image of Violet in full pageant regalia, holding up a first-place trophy, her face radiant with the joy of victory. The trophy Maggie had placed next to the picture seemed to loom ominously in the corner of the vanity, towering over Violet’s fragile form as she sat there, frozen.

“There!” Maggie said brightly, stepping back and surveying the scene with satisfaction. “Adds a nice pop of color, don’t you think?” She picked up one of the tiaras, perched it on her own head, and made a show of admiring herself in the mirror. She hoped that her playful antics would spark a laugh from Violet, but the room was thick with an uncomfortable silence. Violet’s gaze never wavered from the photo, her fingers now lightly tracing the frame as if trying to make sense of the person staring back at her.

“I’ll go grab the rest of the boxes; there’s, like, five of them filled to the brim, girl!” Maggie chirped before stepping out of the room, the door clicking softly behind her.

But Violet barely registered her sister’s departure. She remained motionless, her eyes locked on the first-place photo of her past self—the beautiful, confident girl who had once worn those tiaras and ribbons like they were the greatest accomplishments of her life. Now, they felt like an entirely different person. She carefully picked up the photo, staring at it for a long moment, trying to reconcile the girl in the picture with the girl she had become. The girl staring back from the mirror wasn’t the same one who had grinned proudly in that photograph. She wasn’t sure who she was anymore, but she couldn’t look away from the reminder of who she had been. Slowly, almost cautiously, Violet turned her gaze toward the mirror. Her reflection seemed foreign—distorted and unrecognizable after everything that had happened. The image of herself, blue and broken, was far from the flawless girl she had once been. But she had no choice but to face it, and for the first time in months, she allowed herself to truly look.

Violet hesitated for a moment before slowly lowering the hood of her sweatshirt, revealing her reflection. The girl staring back at her seemed unrecognizable, and she couldn’t tear her gaze away. Her once-fair skin, which had been a soft porcelain, was now a sickly shade of greyish-blue—an unnatural, mottled hue that seemed to scream of sickness and decay. Dark, bruised patches of indigo lingered under her eyes, like smudges of exhaustion and sorrow, while her skin bore strange, splotchy marks, as though a rash had erupted across her body, spreading down her arms and legs. Her once-smooth complexion was now covered in imperfections, each one a silent testament to the horror she had endured.

Her golden hair—once glossy and perfect—had morphed into a rich, dark purple, streaked with an unnatural blue where her ash blonde highlights had once been. She reached up, running her fingers through the strands, feeling the thickness and weight of the color in disbelief. She couldn’t remember when her hair had last been blonde, or when it had last felt like her own.

With a shaky breath, Violet lifted the hem of her hoodie, unwillingly revealing her stomach and hips. She winced at the sight of deep, angry stretch marks that crisscrossed her skin like jagged scars. Her once-flat stomach had become soft and uneven, and her hips bore the marks of growth, of change, of an existence she never asked for. The sight of it was too much to bear. She quickly let the fabric fall back down, but it didn’t stop the overwhelming sensation that washed over her. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to ignore it, to look away from the body that felt alien to her.

But after a few shaky breaths, she opened her eyes again and faced the mirror. This time, she forced herself to really look. Her reflection seemed to mock her, her skin streaked with dark purple lines, set against the pallid grey that consumed her face and neck. The indigo beneath her eyes seemed to echo the bruising of her soul. She ran her hand over the marks, the texture rough and unfamiliar. As she did, tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision.

Memories came rushing back—her mother’s cruel words, the lessons drilled into her about beauty, about what was acceptable, and what was not. Her mother had taught her that imperfection was ugly—rough, bumpy skin, the “saggy bits” of a body that refused to conform, the dark circles under her eyes that made her look tired and worn. But most of all, her mother had ingrained the deepest message of all: that she was fat. Fat. The word echoed in her mind, a label that had been stamped on her, never to be erased. It was the word that haunted her, the one she feared, the one she believed to be true.

And there she was, standing in front of the mirror, seeing everything she hated about herself. She wasn’t the beauty queen anymore—she wasn’t anything close to it. She was a freak, a grotesque version of herself that even she couldn’t recognize. She wasn’t even worthy of the attention she had once gotten. Even her sister seemed to be trying to hide her, to cover her up, as though Violet herself were something to be ashamed of. And why wouldn’t she be? All Violet could see was a failure—a broken, warped version of what she once had been. A factory reject, as if she were the aftermath of a failed experiment. And deep down, she believed that’s all she would ever be.

In the blink of an eye, Violet’s reflection crumpled, shattered into a thousand jagged pieces, courtesy of the portrait of her past—a cruel reminder of the girl she no longer recognized. A guttural scream tore from her chest as she grabbed the nearest trophy, the weight of it in her hands a fleeting comfort before she hurled it with all her strength at the mirror. It collided with the glass, sending it into a rain of shattered shards, scattering across the floor like glittering confetti, the jagged edges gleaming like cruel reminders of the past.

She didn’t care. Every glimmering fragment of those trophies, once symbols of achievement, now felt like a suffocating weight. Each one was a condemnation, a piercing acknowledgment that the world would never see her as beautiful again. She wasn’t worthy of adoration, not for her appearance, not for anything. Not for her mother, not for herself.

Her mother. The thought brought another scream tearing from her throat, a sound that felt like it could shatter her insides. Her voice cracked under the pressure, raw and ragged as the anger and pain rushed through her. This monstrous transformation—this horrific grotesqueness—was her mother’s fault. If not for her, Violet wouldn’t be standing here, consumed by the ugliness she couldn’t escape.

These trophies, once so precious, now lay in pieces on the floor, their sharp fragments glinting in the dim light like the shattered remnants of her old life. They weren’t just awards or accolades; they were symbols of everything her mother had put her through. Each throw, each shatter, each crash of ceramic or glittering plastic against the wall was an echo of the torment Violet had endured: every perfect smile and forced laugh in front of a camera, every day spent on her feet in grueling dance practices that left her bleeding in shoes too small, every month spent on restrictive liquid diets, every humiliating weigh-in, the burning sting of a spray tan, the suffocating tightness of a corset, and the unbearable weight of her mother’s screams, threats, and insults—all for the sake of a few thousand views. These were the things Violet had endured, all so that her mother could feel validated, all so that Violet could be her perfect doll.

With each memory, each reminder of her mother’s cruelty, Violet flung another trophy into the air, watching with a sick satisfaction as it shattered against the floor. The perfect princess she had once been—her image, her identity, her sense of self—broke apart in a thousand pieces, irreparable and fragmented.

“Violet?! Violet, are you okay?!” Maggie’s voice sliced through the chaos, panicked and high-pitched as she barged into the room. She froze as a trophy flew past, narrowly missing her head and smashing against the wall with a deafening crack.

“Maggie?!” Matt’s voice rang out from the stairs, and he rushed up, his heart pounding in his chest as he heard the destruction unfolding. His body moved instinctively, ready to intervene, to stop Violet before she hurt herself. But Maggie stepped in front of him, her arm blocking the doorway.

He looked at her, confusion clouding his expression, as if she had suddenly transformed into someone he didn’t recognize. His gaze flickered from Maggie to the chaos in the room. “What’s going on?” he asked, concern laced with bewilderment.

Maggie’s eyes were wide, pleading. She gave him a small shake of her head, wordlessly urging him to trust her, to not intervene just yet. He hesitated, his instincts still urging him to act, but at last, he nodded reluctantly and stood beside her, both of them watching as Violet continued to spiral. The sound of trophies crashing, breaking into pieces, filled the room—a heartbreaking soundtrack to a girl coming undone.

Chapter Text

Violet continued her relentless barrage, throwing each trophy, each memory of a life she no longer recognized, into the air. The room became a battleground—trophies smashed into the walls, ribbons tangled in the debris, and glass scattered across the floor like broken promises. The sound of the shattering glass was almost rhythmic, each piece a painful punctuation to the anger and grief that consumed her. The walls bore the dents of the violent impacts, the window panes cracked with sharp, jagged lines like scars of her fury. Violet’s breathing was ragged, as if she were trying to expel the hurt with each throw, but instead, it only intensified. The air grew thick with destruction, and her body trembled with the weight of it all.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, hot and unrelenting, as she stood amidst the chaos. Her chest tightened with the suffocating weight of everything she couldn’t say, everything she had kept buried for so long. The room seemed to close in on her, the blurry edges of the space spinning around her as dizziness overwhelmed her. Her legs betrayed her, trembling violently, and before she could steady herself, she crumpled to the floor, collapsing in the midst of the mess she had created.

Maggie stood frozen for a moment, her heart breaking at the sight of her sister, so fragile, so consumed by her own pain. Without hesitation, she moved toward Violet, enveloping her in the comfort of her arms. Violet’s sobs filled the room, the sound raw and guttural as if the weight of years of hurt had been released all at once. Maggie held her tightly, offering no words, just the steady rhythm of her presence as Violet’s grief poured out in uncontrollable waves.

After what felt like hours, Maggie managed to coax Violet out of the room. It wasn’t easy, but with patience and gentle words, she guided her sister to their bedroom, where the quiet offered some respite. As soon as Violet laid down, sleep claimed her almost instantly, the exhaustion of the emotional storm finally catching up with her. Maggie softly closed the door behind her and made her way back to the chaos, where Matt was already working to clear the debris.

“Well, that wasn’t exactly my brightest idea,” Maggie muttered under her breath, sweeping up shards of shattered trophies and broken glass into a dustpan. Each movement felt mechanical, her mind still reeling from the outburst, but her body moving on autopilot, cleaning up the destruction.

Matt, who had been silently working alongside her, glanced up as he tossed another pile of glass into a box. “Well, this might’ve been one of your best moves,” he said, his tone calm but thoughtful. Maggie raised an eyebrow, clearly puzzled.

“Think about it,” Matt continued, seeing her confusion. “She’s been trapped in that room, trapped in herself, since the tour. If even half of what you’ve told me about what happened is true, this kind of release probably should’ve happened a lot sooner. It’s not surprising that she’s had trouble expressing herself, considering what she went through with your mom. So, in a weird, destructive way, this might’ve actually helped her more than we realize.”

Maggie’s shoulders sagged with a deep sigh, her mind racing as she reflected on his words. “Maybe… I just wish it could’ve been something healthier, like art therapy or something,” she murmured, leaning against the broom handle, her forehead resting against the top of it. Her eyes wandered around the room, taking in the disarray, the remnants of Violet’s emotional outburst. The yellow sheets with the little black bees, still folded and waiting, caught her attention once more. They had once been meant to bring comfort, but now they felt like another reminder of how much Violet had lost.

She knew she needed to give Violet space, allow her to process everything at her own pace. But standing in this chaotic room, surrounded by the fragments of Violet’s pain, Maggie couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. “Maybe just a little cleaning won’t hurt,” she thought, though she wasn’t sure if it was for Violet’s benefit or her own. She could see the mess—feel the weight of it—and a part of her longed to create some order in the midst of the chaos.

Maggie carefully retrieved the yellow linen from the corner of the room where it had been abandoned, its soft fabric wrinkled from being tossed aside. As she began to fluff out the creases and smooth the sheets, her gaze wandered over to the bed, where Violet’s laptop lay open. Just as Maggie attempted to move the laptop aside to make space, the device suddenly emitted a chime—a new email. She froze. The email notification blinked insistently, a reminder of the constant barrage of messages Violet received from an ever-growing pool of people. Maggie had blocked Violet’s mother from all of her social media accounts, so who could possibly be sending this many messages? She shouldn’t look, she knew that. But the screen was already on, the curiosity gnawing at her.

Her finger hovered over the trackpad, the cursor moving hesitantly across the screen. She clicked, and the laptop blinked to life, revealing an array of open browser tabs, each one a snapshot of Violet’s digital life. Maggie hesitated but couldn’t stop herself from scrolling through. The content in the tabs shifted quickly as she sifted through the digital clutter, her eyes flicking over the screen.

“What are you doing?” Matt’s voice broke through her thoughts, pulling her back into the present. His tone was laced with concern.

Maggie jumped slightly, her heart racing at the sudden interruption. “Nothing,” she mumbled defensively, trying to mask the guilt that crept up her spine.

Matt raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “Are you snooping through her laptop? Mags, that thing is like her diary!”

“I’m not snooping!” she snapped back, a little more sharply than intended. She exhaled sharply, collecting herself. “I’m just… taking an active role as her guardian. You know, making sure she’s practicing online safety.” Maggie’s fingers lingered over the touchpad, but the guilt only deepened. She glanced at Matt, seeing the suspicion in his eyes, and knew he wasn’t buying it. “Okay, fine. So I’m snooping. But look, she has hundreds of unread messages in her DMs. I blocked all her ‘fans’ and my mom, so I just want to know who’s messaging her.”

Matt let out a resigned sigh, not pressing further but sitting down beside her. He glanced at the screen, his attention now drawn to the glowing display of messages. Maggie continued scrolling, her eyes darting over the messages in the first tab. She saw at least fifty different messages from someone named “SweetnSaltyPrincess.”

Curious, she clicked on the profile picture. The face in the photo made her heart stop for a moment—this was the same little girl who had comforted Violet at the airport, the one who had offered her a small moment of kindness amidst the chaos. Maggie couldn’t help but feel a strange tug of empathy for her.

As she read through the messages, the tone shifted from lighthearted curiosity to frustration. At first, the girl had simply invited Violet over a couple of times, expressing excitement at the prospect of spending time together. But as the weeks went on, the messages grew darker. The once-friendly notes turned aggressive, then outright angry. “Why haven’t you responded? What’s wrong with you?” the girl wrote in one. “I can’t believe you’re ignoring me,” another read. The escalation was alarming, but what struck Maggie the most was the sudden shift in tone toward concern and worry. The girl began apologizing for her previous anger, expressing that she was just trying to help Violet.

This girl, SweetnSaltyPrincess, seemed to care for Violet, at least to some extent. But why hadn’t Violet responded? Maggie’s brow furrowed in confusion and concern. What was it that had caused Violet to shut out the few people who might have offered her kindness? And why hadn’t she even mentioned this girl to Maggie? The questions only piled up, a growing sense of unease settling over her as she sat there, trying to make sense of what she had found.

Maggie continued scrolling, her fingers trembling slightly as she sifted through Violet’s messages. The next profile that caught her attention belonged to someone named “digitaloverlordd237853.” The lack of any profile pictures immediately made her suspicious—who would create an account with such an impersonal and generic username? But as Maggie clicked on the messages, her suspicion began to fade. The tone of the messages was surprisingly mild. The boy, or perhaps young man, had asked Violet how she was doing, extending an invitation to play online games and join video calls. There was no aggression, no manipulation—just casual curiosity, perhaps even a bit of genuine friendliness.

In one of the earlier messages, he mentioned the tour, hinting that he must have been one of the kids who attended. Maggie tried to recall the faces of the children Violet had met. There had been so many, so much chaos. Then she remembered—Mike, one of the winners. He was deeply into gaming, always talking about the latest releases and strategies. He seemed nice enough back then, but now, seeing his name associated with this “digitaloverlordd237853” profile, Maggie couldn’t help but wonder why Violet hadn’t responded to him either. Was it too much to deal with? Or was there something more going on that Violet wasn’t telling her?

But before Maggie could get lost in those thoughts, her eyes landed on the next cluster of messages—a series that immediately struck her as odd. The profile picture was a little grey silhouette, the default image you see when a user hasn’t uploaded anything. The account was barren, no posts, no profile information, no personal detail to go off. But something about the username gave it away immediately—“Charlie_Bucket.”

Her heart skipped. There was no doubt in her mind who this was. Charlie Bucket—the last Golden Ticket winner, the boy from the poor family who had found his way to the factory. Maggie remembered reading about him, about how his family had struggled financially, and how this whole experience had likely been a surreal dream come true for him. He must have only recently gained access to social media, to the internet itself. His messages, like the others, began innocently enough, with light-hearted questions asking how Violet was. He seemed eager to reconnect, to reach out, almost like he was trying to be her friend.

“Hey Violet! It’s Charlie from the tour. Mike mentioned this might be the best way to reach you. I just wanted to check in and see how you’ve been after everything. Mr. Wonka assured me that the procedure went fine, so there’s no need to worry too much. But I thought it’d be nice to hear directly from you. You can’t always take his word for it—he said Mike was perfectly fine, but when I saw him, he was like 7 feet tall! Now he’s playing basketball for his school team. I’m planning to go to one of his games—maybe you could come too? Hope all is well, and I’d love to hear from you. -Charlie” (Read on March 2nd)

“Hey Violet, it’s Charlie again. I just wanted to give it another shot and see how you’re doing. Mike’s game went really well! He talked about going to Nationals, and I got a little confused because I remember you mentioning that you placed second at Nationals, but I don’t think basketball was ever your thing. He called me stupid, but I remembered what you told me and told him to shove it. We grabbed sodas afterward. I really wish you could’ve been there. -Charlie” (Read on March 15th)

“Hey Violet, it’s Charlie. Mike introduced me to this cool game today, and I thought you might enjoy playing it too if you’re up for it. If you win, you get a trophy at the end—well, not a real one, it’s digital and you don’t get to keep it, but still! Anyway, we’re playing around 8 tonight. Hope to see you there! -Charlie” (Read on March 22nd)

“Hey Violet, Mike told me I didn’t have to keep introducing myself and that you’d just know who I am and talk to me when you felt like it. I hope you’re doing well and that you feel like it soon. -Charlie” (Read on March 27th)

“Hi Violet, Mike’s heading to Nationals and will be traveling to New York. Do you live in New York? I thought you did. He sent you the address if you want to come to the game—Veruca’s going to be there too! I didn’t even know they were talking! Hope to see you there! -Charlie” (Read on April 3rd)

“Mike told me I don’t need to sign off every message.” (Read on April 3rd)

“Hey Violet, I wanted to make sure you’re alright. I met with Veruca at Mike’s game, and she told me about what happened at the airport. I didn’t know that you were still blue all over; I thought Mr. Wonka had fixed everything. No wonder you didn’t want to come to any of the games. I’m really sorry about all of that—I didn’t know. You probably think I’m a real jerk… is that why you haven’t replied to any of my messages? I’m going to talk to Mr. Wonka tonight about it—if he can make cotton candy sheep, then I’m sure he should have no problem with a skin-changing candy. -Charlie (I know Mike said I don’t need to sign off on every message, but my mother said it was polite.)” (Read on April 15th)

“Hey Violet, Mike mentioned that you weren’t replying because you’re angry with us. Is that true? Mike still lies sometimes, but he seemed pretty sincere about this. Pretty mad too. I’m not mad; I get why you might be angry with me. I was going to tell Mr. Wonka, but I didn’t know what else to do! I know you told me not to and that you could handle it, but you just looked pretty scared to me, and I was scared too. I’m not sorry for telling him, but I am sorry that I wasn’t able to do more. He said that you might not want to talk because you feel embarrassed about what happened. I understand, but we’re not going to make fun of you or anything. It was an accident. I really hope to hear from you soon. -Charlie” (Read on April 17th)

“Hey Violet, just wanted to update you—I talked to Mr. Wonka again about the situation. He told me it will be tricky, but nothing’s impossible. :) (Mike taught me how to make faces! He can make a whole dinosaur! :0) -Charlie :)” (Delivered on April 20th)

“Hi Violet, I was making candy balloons today and thought of you! :) Did you want me to send you a box? -Charlie :) image 1 of 1 attached” (Delivered on May 1st)

“Hey Violet, Mike sent me a video that your mom posted about how you got taken away from your house, and that you’re living with your sister now. I’m really sorry that happened; it looks really scary :( Your mom seemed really upset. Please let me know if there’s anything you need. Hope to hear from you soon. -Charlie :)” (Delivered on May 5th)

“Hey Violet, there’s a lot of stuff online about your mom. Mike told me some of the stuff she’s being charged with. Your mom seemed a little controlling on the tour, but I didn’t think it was anything like that. I’m really sorry. If you need anything, I’m still here. Please type back soon. -Charlie :(” (Delivered on May 10th)

The messages continued for weeks, each one echoing the same patterns. At first, Charlie’s messages were filled with concern and invitations to play games or join video calls. He apologized repeatedly for his earlier missteps, trying to reassure Violet. But after that last message in April, there was a clear shift. Violet hadn’t even bothered to read, let alone reply to, any of Charlie’s texts. Maggie scrolled through the endless stream of messages, her heart breaking with every passing one. Charlie had poured so much effort into reaching out, trying to make her feel seen, trying to bridge the distance between them, yet Violet had completely shut them out. The other kids, too—SweetnSaltyPrincess, DigitalOverlord—had continued sending messages, but there was no reply from Violet, not even a sign of acknowledgment. It was like she’d vanished from their lives entirely.

Maggie couldn’t understand it. These kids had been trying so hard to reach her, offering support, friendship, even just a friendly game. Why had Violet been avoiding them so completely? What had changed?

“I don’t get it,” Maggie muttered under her breath, her fingers hovering over the mouse, as her gaze stayed glued to the screen. “They’ve been reaching out to her for months. And she hasn’t even tried to talk to any of them. I remember her and that other girl talking at the airport too. They seemed to get along so well. It just doesn’t make sense—Violet just stopped talking to all of them. What happened?”

Matt sighed heavily, reclining back onto the mattress with his hands behind his head. He looked at the ceiling for a moment, contemplating. “She stopped reading them in April, right? That’s when everything with CPS was wrapping up—right around the time they were finishing their investigation on your mom. Violet’s smart, Maggie. She probably figured out that things weren’t going to end the way she hoped they would.”

Maggie’s chest tightened at the thought, her heart racing with frustration and confusion. “What do you mean? She was miserable there! She hated it! She was so unhappy, Matt.” She looked at him, her voice rising. “She wouldn’t have just given up on everyone like that. I don’t believe that’s what happened.”

“You love your sister a lot,” Matt said gently, his tone soft yet firm, but there was an underlying sadness in his voice. “But I think that sometimes clouds your judgment. You’re looking at everything through the lens of being the protective, loving sister. And I get it, you want to shield her from the world, but you’re only seeing it from your perspective, not hers. The truth is—whether you like it or not—you left.”

Maggie’s chest tightened, her face flushing with heat. She snapped back before she could stop herself, the words tumbling out in an almost frantic rush. “I know I left her! Why does everyone keep reminding me that? Don’t you think I know that?! I’ve been trying to get her back since the moment I left! I was just a kid! Why was this all on me anyway?!” Her voice wavered between anger and helplessness, each word a small explosion of guilt and frustration.

Matt didn’t react to her outburst. He just held his ground, calm but unwavering. “Hold on,” he said, his voice calm but serious enough to make her pause. “Let me finish. You left Violet with your mom, and you had every reason to leave. I’m not saying you did anything wrong in that moment. It was probably the best thing you could’ve done. But the fact of the matter is that you still left her. Violet was alone with your mother for years. And yeah, your mom’s insane, but she was one of the only constants in Violet’s life. Even if it was toxic, she never left Violet. Your mom was the one who was always there, even if she twisted the truth. That made her the only person Violet could trust.”

Maggie stayed silent, her chest tightening as she processed his words. Matt wasn’t done, though.

“Then suddenly, the person who left—you—shows up out of nowhere and wants to turn everything upside down. And I’m not just talking about trying to take her away, Maggie, I mean everything. You might think it’s for the better, but to Violet, it’s a storm of conflicting emotions. She hates you for leaving, but she loves you for coming back. She feels betrayed again for you wanting to uproot her from everything she’s ever known, but she also loves you for wanting to take her out of the mess your mom has created. And don’t forget the factory incident. It was one thing to be in the public eye, but then all of a sudden, that’s taken away from her. She goes from being a constant figure to suddenly being invisible. That’s a lot for anyone, especially someone her age.”

Matt paused for a moment, his eyes softening with concern. “And then there’s the fact that she’s been taken from the one thing that’s been familiar to her. She’s lost everything in a matter of weeks—her life, her sense of self, everything she’s ever known. Her mother wasn’t exactly an advocate for mental health, was she? Violet probably doesn’t know how to handle all this, and when she couldn’t, she just shut down. She had no other way to cope.”

Maggie’s gaze dropped to the floor as the weight of Matt’s words settled in her mind. His insight had pierced through the defenses she had built around herself, unraveling everything she thought she knew about the situation. Each word felt like a leaden stone pressing into her chest, slowly sinking lower as a heavy realization began to form. Maybe she had been too eager, too relentless in trying to fix things for Violet, without truly considering what her sister needed. She had been so focused on rescuing her from their mother’s control, and on helping her adjust to a life she hadn’t chosen, that she hadn’t paused long enough to see the toll it was taking on Violet. The challenges they were facing were far bigger than she had imagined, and for the first time, Maggie wondered if she had been so caught up in her own mission to save Violet that she had failed to listen to her, failed to truly understand her.

Her thoughts spiraled, recalling the chaos of the factory incident, the way everything had exploded around them in a single moment. In the aftermath, she had only fixated on the fact that something had to be fixed—anything—to make it all better. She knew how to fix things, that was her strength, her identity. She had removed Violet from the glare of the media and their mother’s grasp, given her a fresh start away from the prying eyes of the public. But in her urgency to fix, to make everything right, had she missed something deeper? Something within herself, something she hadn’t even thought to address?

Her musings were abruptly interrupted by the familiar chime of her computer. Maggie lifted her head, eyes instinctively darting toward the screen. Another notification. Another message. Charlie. She felt a pang of guilt at the thought of infringing on Violet’s privacy yet again, but that guilt was quickly overshadowed by an overwhelming curiosity. She hesitated for only a moment before clicking on the notification, knowing full well what she was doing but unable to stop herself.

The message from Charlie appeared, as innocent and kindhearted as ever:
“Hey Violet, it’s Charlie again. I get that you might not feel like talking, but I still wanted to check in, you know? The others are planning to get together, and Veruca claims she doesn’t mind if you join, but I’m pretty sure she cares a lot. She keeps bugging me daily, asking if I’ve heard from you. Mike thinks I should give up reaching out, but I reckon he’s just missing you too. There’s a surprise planned that I think you’ll really enjoy. Hope to hear from you -Charlie” (Read on January 24th)

It was January 24th, and Maggie couldn’t believe how much time had passed. Nearly a full year since the tour—one full year since she had nearly shattered the gates of that wretched factory, the place where her sister had been turned into a public spectacle. Violet, reduced to nothing more than a grotesque and embarrassing display, all captured on camera by their mother, who seemed to take a sick pleasure in recording every painful moment of her daughter’s humiliation. A year spent navigating a relentless maze of medical appointments that only seemed to drag Violet further into despair, the gut-wrenching court dates that left them all emotionally exhausted, and the therapy sessions that, no matter how many they attended, never seemed to provide the comfort they so desperately sought.

Then there were the countless emails, phone calls, and unanswered messages. Maggie had tried every avenue she could think of to reach Mr. Wonka, to track him down, to find some way to fix the damage that had been done to Violet. But each attempt had been met with nothing but silence, a void that had only deepened over the months. She’d felt hopeless, like a constant weight pressing against her chest.

But now, as she sat there staring at the screen, an idea suddenly flickered in her mind, as if a light had just been turned on. Maggie quickly scrolled back up through the message thread. Her fingers froze as she landed on the first invitation—the invitation to the meet-and-greet that was being held at the factory. A gathering. A reunion. All of the kids from the tour were going back to the place that had started it all. The very thought of it sent a jolt of anxiety through her veins, but also a sense of opportunity. This was her chance—maybe her only chance—to finally fix things, to fix Violet.

“What are you doing?” Matt’s voice broke through her thoughts. He had noticed Maggie’s hand hovering over the keyboard, the faint click of the keys signaling something urgent.

“Helping,” Maggie muttered, barely looking up from the screen as her mind raced.

“Are you crazy?!” Matt’s voice was sharp with frustration as he stood from the bed, his brow furrowed. “Spying on her is one thing, but this? She’s going to see what you wrote, Maggie! The therapist said we need to give her space and let her go at her own pace! This—this is the exact opposite of that!”

Maggie didn’t need to hear the rest of his words. She had been hearing the same thing for months. Let her breathe. Let her take her time. Let her heal. But what had letting Violet go at her own pace gotten them? Violet hadn’t left her room in almost a year. No progress, no movement, just silence. The walls of Violet’s isolation were growing thicker with every passing day.

“Matt, she hasn’t left her room in almost a year,” Maggie argued, her voice tight with frustration. “Do you know how many times I’ve tried to reach out to Mr. Wonka? How many calls, how many emails? How many days I’ve spent waiting for a response, praying for something, anything that would give me hope?”

Matt opened his mouth to speak, but Maggie cut him off before he could protest.

“1,825 phone calls, 1,825 unreturned messages, and 738 unanswered emails,” Maggie said, her voice flat, almost robotic. The numbers spilled out of her like a litany of failure. “They want to meet in the factory. This is my last shot, Matt. It might be my only shot at fixing this. At fixing her.”

The silence that followed hung heavy in the room. Maggie’s hands hovered over the keyboard, her finger trembling slightly as she prepared to type. This was it. She could feel the urgency building in her chest, threatening to suffocate her. If this was what it took, if this was the only way forward, she would do it. She would do anything to bring Violet back to life, to save her from the isolation that was slowly eroding her soul.

But deep down, a small voice whispered to her that she might be making a mistake—that maybe it wasn’t just Violet who needed fixing. Maybe she did too.

Matt let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the situation. He could see how desperately Maggie was trying to help Violet, but he also knew that pushing her too hard might backfire. The tension between respecting Violet’s privacy and understanding Maggie’s frustration was growing by the second. He leaned against the doorframe, rubbing his temples.

“Mags, seriously,” he began, his voice soft but firm, “I understand how much you care, but pushing her like this could backfire. We need to focus on making this place feel safe and comfortable for her. The last thing we want is to rush things and make her feel cornered. Trust me, she’ll reach out when she’s ready. This whole thing is delicate, and we can’t rush it.”

Maggie crossed her arms tightly, her jaw set in a way that made it clear she wasn’t going to let this go easily. Her eyes burned with frustration as she stood in the center of the room, not just looking at him but searching for something, anything, that would give her a reason to pause.

“Matt, I feel like we’re running out of time,” Maggie said, her voice tight with anxiety. “I just can’t shake this feeling in my gut that I need to do something. Anything. I can’t just sit here and watch Violet waste away in that room. Every day I wait, it feels like she’s slipping further and further away from me. From us.”

Matt’s expression softened as he watched Maggie, the vulnerability in her eyes more powerful than any words she could say. He knew that feeling of desperation, that gnawing sense of powerlessness. But he also knew that Violet’s mental state was fragile, and they both had to walk a fine line between helping her and pushing her too far too fast. He hesitated, feeling the weight of the decision pressing on his chest.

There was no easy answer, no clear path forward. If Maggie did what she was thinking—breaking the boundaries Violet had so carefully constructed around herself—it could spark a temporary anger or a sense of betrayal. But if it gave Violet a chance to come out of her shell, to reconnect with the world, to see that there were people who still cared, maybe it would be worth the risk. But the question lingered in Matt’s mind: Would it truly be worth it? Could they undo the damage it might cause?

Maggie stared at him, her eyes unblinking, as if waiting for some kind of confirmation. After a long pause, Matt nodded reluctantly, knowing that the decision had already been made in her mind. He didn’t like it, but he understood. Maggie clicked the small blue send icon, her finger lingering for a moment as if in hesitation, before finally letting it go.
The message was sent.

“Hey Charlie, omg, sorry I’ve been like super busy lately! Totally wanna meet up with everyone, just send all the deets to my sis Maggie, she’ll handle the plane tickets and stuff. Her number’s below. So excited to see you all! Can’t wait!” (sent on January 24th)

As the screen refreshed, Matt exhaled slowly, his thoughts still whirling. He didn’t know if this was the right decision, but what he did know was that Maggie had made it with everything she had—the hope that it could help Violet, that it could bring her back to the world, even if it meant taking a leap into the unknown.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the house felt oddly still, as though the events of the day before had never happened. Violet woke up in the same spot she had spent most of the night—Maggie and Matt’s bed—and without a word to either of them, she slipped back into her own room. She moved with mechanical precision, as though the world around her had faded to the background. The quiet hum of the house was the only sound as she resumed her usual position on her bed, the familiar weight of her laptop in front of her. The screen flickered to life, revealing a list of open chats—her messages.

Violet’s heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t remembered opening them the night before. As her eyes scanned the screen, her confusion deepened. The chats had all been opened, marked with that familiar “read” timestamp. And, more confusing still, there was a response in one of the threads—Charlie’s thread. A message, oddly forward and completely unlike anything she would normally write. She blinked at it, unsure if she was seeing things.

Frowning, she clicked on the message to read it.

“Hey Charlie, omg, sorry I’ve been like super busy lately! Totally wanna meet up with everyone, just send all the deets to my sis Maggie, she’ll handle the plane tickets and stuff. Her number’s below. So excited to see you all! Can’t wait!”

Her stomach dropped. What was this? She never spoke like that. Who was this person, writing as her? A burst of fury shot through her chest as the realization hit: Maggie had gone through her private messages, and worse—she had responded to Charlie as though she were Violet.

“Maggie, what the fuck?”

Violet stormed into the living room, her face red with anger. Maggie was sitting on the couch, a bagel in hand, clearly trying to act casual as if nothing was wrong. She looked up at Violet, smiling a little too brightly, clearly trying to deflect the storm brewing in her sister’s eyes.

“Hey, good to see you up and about,” Maggie commented, her tone light and cheerful, as though the tension between them hadn’t already spiraled out of control.

Violet couldn’t contain herself. “You went through my messages and responded to them as me?” Her voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

Maggie’s smile faltered for a brief moment, but she quickly masked it with a sigh, her gaze drifting toward the window for a second as if gathering her thoughts. “Yeah, I did,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant, but Violet could see the defensive posture in her sister’s shoulders. “Just trying to help you out a bit. You’ve been struggling to connect with people since… well, you know.”

“Struggling to connect?” Violet’s voice was an icy whisper at first, her anger growing with each word. “Maggie, that’s not your decision to make.” She took a step forward, her fists clenched by her sides, the hurt clearly bubbling to the surface. “It’s my life, my feelings, and you can’t just interfere like that. You think you know what’s best for me, but you don’t!”

Maggie tried to keep her tone calm, but there was a flicker of guilt in her eyes. She opened her mouth to respond, but the words seemed to get lost before they reached her lips. This was exactly what she had been afraid of—violating Violet’s boundaries in her desperate attempt to fix things. And now, as Violet’s raw emotion surged, Maggie realized how deep she had overstepped.

Maggie bristled, her defensiveness flaring up. “Well, excuse me for caring,” she snapped, her tone sharp. “You’ve done nothing but hole up in that room for months, Violet! These kids seem nice, and they genuinely care about you. I just thought if I gave you a little push, maybe you would—”

“I would what?” Violet interrupted, her voice rising with every word. “Go back to being the happy, bubbly princess from the stupid videos? Is that what you want?” Her frustration boiled over, her voice trembling with anger and hurt. “I’m sorry I can’t plaster on a smile and play pretend for you right now, Maggie! I’m sorry I’m not exactly eager to show off and make friends at the moment! It might have something to do with the fact that every single one of those assholes saw me get rolled around like a fucking ball because I was too fat to move! And now I’m stuck like this! I’m blue! I look like a joke!” Her voice cracked as she jabbed her finger toward herself, tears threatening to spill. “If I want to see them again, it will be on my terms, not because you decided for me. You completely invaded my privacy, Maggie—just like Mom always did.”

Maggie froze, the words hitting her like a slap to the face. For a moment, all she could do was stare at Violet, her jaw tightening. Then her expression hardened, her anger rising to meet Violet’s. “Don’t you dare compare me to her,” she shot back, her voice low but seething with intensity. “I’m not Mom, and you know it. I’m not trying to control you, Violet—I’m trying to help you because I care about you. I want you to have a chance at a normal life, something Mom never gave either of us!”

Violet let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Help me? By going behind my back and pretending to be me? Yeah, that’s real helpful, Maggie. You’re just like her—always deciding what’s best for me without even asking what I want.”

“Shut up!” Maggie yelled, her voice cracking with a mix of anger and desperation. The words had barely escaped her lips before regret washed over her like a tidal wave. Her eyes widened, and she immediately tried to backpedal. “Violet, I—”

But it was too late. Violet didn’t wait to hear whatever excuse or apology Maggie was about to offer. She spun on her heel, her face a mask of hurt and fury, and stormed off toward her room. The sound of her door slamming reverberated through the house, rattling the walls and leaving an oppressive silence in its wake.

Maggie stood frozen in place, her chest heaving as the weight of what had just happened settled over her. Her own words replayed in her mind, sharp and unforgiving. She clenched her fists tightly, her nails digging into her palms as a wave of guilt threatened to drown her. How had it come to this? Had she just ruined the fragile trust she had been fighting so hard to rebuild?

Behind her, Matt appeared quietly, a steaming mug of coffee in hand. He leaned against the wall, taking a measured sip before speaking. “Hate to say it, but… I told you so.”

Maggie flinched at his words, not because they were sharp, but because they were true. She let out a shaky breath and sank onto the couch, burying her face in her hands. “What am I going to do?” she murmured, her voice muffled and heavy with despair. “She’s never going to trust me again, Matt. I completely blew it.”

Matt set his coffee down on the table and crouched beside her, his expression softening. “Look, you messed up,” he admitted, not sugarcoating the truth. “But Violet’s not just mad at you, Maggie. She’s mad at everything. The factory, your mom, herself… She’s dealing with more than either of us can probably understand. It’s not all on you.”

Maggie peeked at him through her fingers, her eyes rimmed with unshed tears. “That doesn’t make it better. I’m supposed to be the one she can trust. I keep screwing that up.”

Matt sighed, resting a reassuring hand on her knee. “You’re human, Mags. You’re going to screw up sometimes. The important thing is what you do next. Give her space, let her cool down, and when she’s ready, you try again. Not for control, not to fix everything—just to be there for her.”

Maggie nodded faintly, though doubt still lingered in her eyes. “What if she doesn’t let me? What if she shuts me out for good?”

“Then you keep showing up,” Matt said firmly. “That’s what she needs to see. That you’re not going anywhere, even when it’s hard.”

Maggie swallowed hard, the lump in her throat refusing to go away. “I just… I just want her to be okay.”

“I know,” Matt said softly. “And she will be. Just give it time.”

Maggie nodded again, though her heart still felt heavy. She wasn’t sure how she was going to fix this, but one thing was certain—she wasn’t giving up on Violet. Not now, not ever.

Around dinnertime, Matt knocked gently on Violet’s door before stepping inside, balancing a plate of lasagna, a side of salad, and a slice of garlic bread in one hand. The smell of the food filled the small room, but Violet didn’t even glance up from her laptop.

“Hey, kiddo,” Matt said casually, his voice light but with an undercurrent of concern. “Thought you might be hungry.”

“I’m not,” Violet huffed, her tone clipped and full of defiance. She kept her eyes locked on the screen, her posture rigid—a clear signal she wasn’t in the mood for company. The events of the morning still hung heavy between them.

“Well, that works out,” Matt said with an easy grin, sitting down on the edge of her bed. “Because I am.” He speared a piece of salad with his fork and popped it into his mouth as though he hadn’t just walked into a storm cloud of tension.

Violet’s eyes flicked toward him, narrowing. “What do you want?” she asked, snapping her laptop shut with more force than necessary.

Matt shrugged, chewing his food before answering. “Nothing. Just wanted to talk.” His tone was so nonchalant that it disarmed her irritation, if only slightly. “We’re worried about you. All of us. Especially your sister.”

Violet scoffed, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “Yeah, well, she sure has a funny way of showing it.”

Matt sighed, setting the plate of food down on her nightstand. “She was desperate, Violet,” he said gently. “She’s been trying to be patient, but she’s scared. She’s scared because she loves you, and she doesn’t know how to help. And if we’re being honest, she’s not the only one who’s worried.”

Violet’s expression flickered for a moment, but her walls went back up just as quickly. “I’m fine,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You might think you are,” Matt said carefully, leaning forward so she couldn’t just brush him off. “But to the rest of us? You’re a walking cry for help, kiddo. And if you really are okay, you need to give Maggie—and the rest of us—some kind of sign. Right now, you’ve got everyone guessing, and it’s killing her.”

Violet’s jaw tightened, her gaze dropping to the plate of food. For a long moment, she said nothing, the silence stretching between them like a chasm. Matt didn’t push further. He knew the words would take time to sink in.

He picked up the garlic bread and took another bite, glancing at her sideways. “You know, if you’re not gonna eat this, I might have to finish it all myself. And that’d be a shame, considering Maggie made it just for you.”

Violet looked at him sharply, her defenses cracking just a little. “She made it?”

“Yep,” Matt said, nodding. “Burned the first batch, of course. Nearly set the smoke alarm off. But she kept at it. For you.”

Violet didn’t respond, but her arms loosened slightly from their defensive position. Matt saw the faintest flicker of emotion in her eyes—something other than anger or frustration. He didn’t press further, standing and brushing imaginary crumbs off his pants.

“Anyway,” he said, heading toward the door. “Food’s here if you want it. And Violet… just think about what I said, okay?”

“I feel ugly,” Violet said suddenly, her voice trembling as the words spilled out. Matt, who had been halfway out the door, froze mid-step. He turned back, his expression softening, and walked over to the bed. Sitting down beside her, he waited patiently for her to continue.

Violet stared at her hands, wringing them nervously in her lap. “And like… like I can’t do anything I used to do. Because I failed.”

Matt frowned, confused but careful not to interrupt. “What do you mean? What did you fail at?”

Her lip quivered as she fought to get the words out. “What happened… it wasn’t just a freak accident,” she said quietly. Her voice cracked, but she pressed on. “Wonka warned me not to take it, and I… I stole it.”

Matt’s eyes widened in surprise. In all the months they’d spent dancing around the incident, Violet had never spoken so openly about what happened at the factory. He leaned forward slightly, his tone gentle but curious. “You stole it? Knowing what was going to happen?”

“No,” Violet admitted, shaking her head quickly. “I didn’t know. I just… I didn’t listen.”

Matt let out a small sigh, his expression softening even more. “Kiddo, it sounds like you made a bad choice that led to an accident. That doesn’t make you a failure.”

“But I let everyone down,” Violet said, her voice thick with emotion as tears welled up in her eyes. She looked up at Matt, the pain on her face raw and unguarded. “If it wasn’t for me, I might’ve won the prize. Mom and Dad might still be together. I’d still get to live with them, and I wouldn’t—wouldn’t be like this.” She gestured to herself, her voice breaking on the last words.

“Hey, hey, stop,” Matt interrupted firmly but gently, reaching out to place a comforting hand on her shoulder. “None of that is your fault.”

Violet tried to look away, but Matt wouldn’t let her retreat into herself. He tilted his head, catching her eyes. “Listen to me,” he said earnestly. “Your parents splitting up? That had nothing to do with you or what happened at the factory. And as for the rest of it… you didn’t know what was going to happen. You made a mistake, Violet. That’s it. You’re not the first kid in the world to make a mistake, and you won’t be the last.”

Tears streamed down her face now, but she didn’t look away. “But it doesn’t feel like just a mistake. It feels like everything’s ruined.”

Matt nodded, acknowledging her feelings without dismissing them. “I know it feels that way now, and I get why you think that. But you’re more than one moment, Violet. You’re not ruined. You’re just figuring things out—just like everyone else.” He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “And you’ve got people here who care about you, no matter what.”

For the first time in what felt like ages, Violet let out a shaky breath that sounded like it was carrying the weight of the world. She nodded slightly, brushing the tears from her cheeks. “Thanks, Matt,” she whispered, her voice small but sincere.

“Anytime, kiddo,” Matt said with a soft smile, leaning back on the bed. “Now, how about we finish that lasagna before it gets cold? It’s way better fresh, trust me.”

A faint smile flickered across Violet’s lips, fragile and fleeting like the first break in a storm. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. She slowly picked up her fork and took a small bite of the lasagna, chewing thoughtfully. Matt watched her, giving her a moment before he cleared his throat.

“So, out of curiosity,” he began, casually tearing off a piece of garlic bread and popping it into his mouth, “have you thought about maybe following through with that email Maggie sent?”

Violet’s fork paused mid-air. “What do you mean?” she asked, her tone cautious.

“I mean…” Matt gestured vaguely with the garlic bread, “you know, going back.”

Violet froze for a moment, her eyes flickering with uncertainty. She set her fork down and began picking at the edge of her plate, avoiding Matt’s gaze. He could tell she was mulling it over. This was an opening.

“They’re nice kids, Vi,” Matt said gently, leaning forward. “And they’ve been trying their hardest to reach out to you. I think maybe it’s time to let them in.”

Violet’s hands stilled, her voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t see me,” she said, her words trembling. “They did. I was a monster. They just want to make fun of me.”

Matt shook his head, leaning back slightly but keeping his eyes on her. “Do you really believe that?” he asked, his tone calm but firm.

Violet hesitated, her fingers resuming their nervous fidgeting. “I don’t know,” she muttered, her shoulders hunched as though bracing for impact. “Maybe.”

Matt set his plate down and leaned closer, his voice soft but insistent. “Violet, I read those same messages,” he said. “And honestly? It would be pretty sick if a group of kids spent an entire year sending you messages, checking in, trying to include you, just to make fun of you.”

Violet’s lips pressed into a thin line as she stared at her lap. Matt continued, sensing he had her attention.

“Charlie, Veruca, Mike—they’re not perfect, sure. But from what I’ve seen, they’re just kids trying to figure out life, same as you. And from the way they talk about you, it’s pretty clear they don’t think of you as a monster. They think of you as their friend.”

Violet’s chest tightened, a mix of fear and hope battling inside her. “What if they don’t mean it?” she asked, her voice cracking. “What if they see me and laugh, or—or say something behind my back?”

Matt gave her a reassuring smile. “Then you’ll deal with it, just like you’ve dealt with everything else. But I don’t think that’s what’ll happen. From what I can tell, they genuinely care about you, Vi. And I think, deep down, you know that too.”

For a long moment, Violet didn’t respond. Her fingers tightened around the edge of her plate, her brow furrowed in thought. Finally, she glanced up at Matt, her eyes uncertain but filled with a flicker of something he hadn’t seen in a long time: possibility.

“I’ll think about it,” she said quietly, her voice barely audible.

“That’s all I’m asking, kiddo,” Matt replied with a gentle smile, picking up his plate again. “And hey, if nothing else, it’s a chance to get out of the house and eat some candy. Can’t be all bad, right?”

Violet huffed out a reluctant chuckle, the faintest hint of a real smile tugging at the corners of her lips. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A step forward.

Chapter Text

Maggie sat on the couch, flipping through the pages of a parenting book she’d picked up at the library. She was desperately skimming for a chapter—any chapter—that might offer guidance on how to deal with a traumatized preteen. But every example seemed far too simple, far removed from the reality she was facing. None of these books seemed to have any advice for a situation involving a 12-year-old who had been transformed into a blueberry and thrust into the public eye.

Her fingers drummed absently against the book’s spine as she sighed, about to close it in frustration, when a soft voice broke the silence.

“Maggie?”

Maggie’s head snapped up so quickly she nearly dropped the book. Standing in the doorway was Violet, unhooded, her face visible and her posture hesitant but open. For the first time in what felt like ages, Violet was out of her room—willingly. And she was talking to her?

“Hey,” Maggie said, quickly snapping the book shut and sitting upright. Her voice betrayed a mix of surprise and hope as she added, “You’re, um… you’re talking to me?”

Violet lingered for a moment, the tension visible in her small frame. “I’m still mad about what you did,” she started, her tone guarded but firm. “You really acted like Mom, going through my personal stuff like that.”

Maggie’s heart sank. She knew this moment was fragile, but hearing those words stung more than she’d expected. “I know,” she admitted softly, setting the book aside and giving Violet her undivided attention. “I shouldn’t have done that. You’re right. It wasn’t fair to you.”

For a moment, Violet didn’t respond. Her arms crossed over her chest, a protective barrier between herself and the world. But there was something in her eyes—a flicker of vulnerability—that told Maggie this wasn’t just anger. It was hurt, a wound reopened by someone she was supposed to trust.

“I just… I didn’t know what else to do,” Maggie confessed, her voice quieter now. “I’ve been so scared for you, Vi. I thought maybe if I helped, even in a dumb way, it would make things better. But all I did was make you feel worse. And I’m sorry for that.”

Violet’s gaze shifted to the floor, her fingers picking at the hem of her sweatshirt. “It did make me feel worse,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “It made me feel like I couldn’t even trust you.”

Violet hesitated “But,” she continued, her tone shifting slightly, “I understand why you did it. I guess I haven’t been fair to you either.”

Maggie tilted her head, curiosity flickering across her face, but she stayed silent, letting Violet take the lead.

“You’ve been trying your best,” Violet admitted, her voice trembling just enough to reveal how hard it was for her to say these words. “And I’ve just been turning you down at every turn. It’s just been… hard, you know?”

Maggie nodded gently, her heart aching as Violet’s words spilled out.

“I know Mom and Dad weren’t the best,” Violet went on, her voice barely above a whisper, “but I miss them. I miss them even though I know I shouldn’t. And I miss being able to go outside without everyone staring at me like I’m some kind of freak. I miss feeling like a champion instead of…” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard. “Instead of a loser.”

The words hung in the air, raw and painful. Maggie’s eyes softened, and she rose from the couch, taking a careful step closer to her sister. “Oh, Vi,” she said gently. “You’re not a loser. Not even close. You’re one of the strongest people I know, and you’ve been through so much.”

Violet didn’t respond immediately, her gaze fixed on the floor as she struggled to keep her emotions in check. Maggie hesitated, then opened her arms slightly. “I know I’ve messed up,” she added, her voice steady but full of emotion. “But I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. We’ll get through this together. I promise.”

For a moment, it seemed like Violet might retreat back into her shell, but instead, she took a tentative step forward, leaning into Maggie’s embrace. It was hesitant at first, but as Maggie wrapped her arms around her, Violet let out a shuddering breath, allowing herself to relax just a little.

“I replied to Charlie,” Violet said softly, her words tentative but clear. She stood near the edge of the couch, fidgeting with the hem of her sweatshirt, her eyes flickering between Maggie and the floor.

Maggie’s head shot up, her heart skipping a beat. “You did?” she asked, her voice a mix of surprise and cautious hope.

“A real reply,” Violet clarified, her lips quirking into a faint, almost mischievous smile. “By the way, I would never say sis or deets.”

Maggie chuckled, a sense of relief washing over her. “Too much?”

“Way too much,” Violet said with a raised eyebrow, her tone teasing but not harsh.

“So, um…” Maggie hesitated, leaning forward slightly. “What did you say?”

Violet shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her expression a mix of vulnerability and resolve. “I told him I was sorry for not replying sooner,” she began, her voice measured and deliberate. “That there’s been… a lot of personal stuff going on.” She paused, her fingers brushing against her wrist as if grounding herself. “And that I wanted to meet up with everyone too.”

Maggie’s eyes widened, her breath catching for a moment. “You did?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper.

Violet nodded, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush. “Yeah. I mean… it’s scary. The idea of seeing them all again after everything.” Her voice trembled slightly, but she continued. “But I think… maybe it’s time. I can’t hide forever, right?”

Maggie blinked rapidly, trying to mask the tears welling up in her eyes. “Vi, that’s… that’s really brave of you,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “I know it’s not easy, and I’m so proud of you for even considering it.”

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” Violet muttered, crossing her arms but not unkindly. “It’s just a message.”

“Still,” Maggie said, standing up and placing a hand gently on Violet’s shoulder. “It’s a big step. And no matter what happens, I’ll be right there with you, okay?”

Violet glanced at her sister, the guarded look in her eyes softening. “Thanks,” she said quietly. “But, uh… let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s just a reply for now.”

Maggie smiled, recognizing the courage it had taken for Violet to make even this small move. “One step at a time,” she agreed. “And for the record, no more fake messages from me. Promise.”

“Good,” Violet said with a smirk, her tone lighter than it had been in months. “Because if you ever try ‘sis’ or ‘deets’ again, I’m never talking to you.”

Maggie laughed, the sound light and genuine, cutting through the lingering tension like a breath of fresh air. “Deal,” she said warmly, pulling Violet into a quick but firm hug. For the first time in what felt like forever, Violet didn’t stiffen or pull away.

“I meant what I said in the message, by the way,” Maggie continued, her voice soft but resolute as she pulled back slightly to meet Violet’s gaze. “I’ll handle all the plane tickets, hotels, and logistics. You shouldn’t have to worry about any of that. I just want you to focus on being around people again. You deserve that.”

“You’re coming with me, right?” Violet asked, her voice tinged with hope as she looked up at Maggie.

“Of course,” Maggie assured her without hesitation, brushing a stray strand of Violet’s hair behind her ear. Her tone shifted, a hint of determination creeping in. “Besides, I’ve got a few things to say to Mr. Wonka myself.”

Violet’s stomach twisted into a tight knot at the mention of his name. That’s right. She swallowed hard as reality set in. Charlie had won the contest, and the grand prize was becoming Wonka’s heir. She had seen the headlines a while back—how Charlie and his family had moved into the factory. If she went to see Charlie, it was almost inevitable that she’d see him too.

Her mind flashed unbidden to the last time she had laid eyes on the eccentric chocolatier. The memory was vivid and painful: the pity in his gaze, the subtle shake of his head, the overwhelming disappointment radiating from him as she was rolled out of the room in that mortifying state. The shame had been suffocating then, and the thought of facing him now after all this time made her chest tighten.

“I… I don’t know if I can,” Violet murmured, her voice trembling as she averted her gaze.

Maggie’s expression softened, and she reached out to gently squeeze Violet’s shoulder. “You don’t have to see him if you’re not ready,” she said, her tone gentle yet firm. “This is about you, not him. If it feels like too much, we’ll figure something out.”

Violet nodded slowly, trying to push the memory away, though the knot in her stomach remained. She wanted to believe Maggie’s words, but the shadow of her past loomed large. Still, a small part of her—the part that had replied to Charlie’s message—hoped that maybe, just maybe, she could face it all.

Chapter Text

As the days passed, Maggie began noticing small but significant changes in Violet—little shifts that gave her cautious hope. Violet was coming out of her room more often, her hoodie no longer pulled up to shield her face at all times. She began engaging in brief conversations, sometimes even laughing at Matt’s terrible jokes. She started eating the meals Matt prepared and even sampling Maggie’s attempts at cooking, despite the occasional burnt edges or overly salty seasoning. These tiny victories felt monumental, a testament to the progress Maggie had been praying for.

Then, the day finally arrived—the day they would return to the factory.

The decision hadn’t come easily for Violet. It had taken weeks of coaxing, countless heart-to-heart talks, and more than a few emotional therapy sessions before she ultimately agreed to go. Maggie kept her promise, taking care of every detail with meticulous precision. Flights were booked, accommodations arranged, and itineraries confirmed. For a while, Violet almost seemed excited, occasionally bringing up the idea of seeing Charlie and the others with a flicker of anticipation in her voice.

But as they drove closer to the factory gates, Maggie noticed the shift. Violet, who had been nervously fidgeting with her bracelet just moments before, suddenly fell silent. Her hands tightened into fists on her lap, and her posture stiffened as the iconic gates of Willy Wonka’s factory loomed into view. The colorful swirls of candy decor and intricate ironwork that adorned the gates seemed less magical and more ominous under Violet’s wary gaze.

Her courage, which had been carefully built up over weeks, seemed to drain from her in an instant. She swallowed hard, her breathing shallow as the car slowed to a stop in front of the gates. The memories of her last visit—the embarrassment, the chaos, and the overwhelming sense of failure—came flooding back like a tidal wave.

Maggie glanced at her sister, immediately noticing the tension etched into her features. “Hey,” she said softly, reaching over to give Violet’s hand a gentle squeeze. “We don’t have to do this if you’re not ready. Say the word, and we’ll turn around. No questions asked.”

Violet didn’t answer at first. Her wide, uncertain eyes were fixed on the gates as though they might spring open at any moment and swallow her whole. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, and Maggie could see her wrestling with the decision.

After a long pause, Violet finally whispered, “What if they don’t want to see me? What if they’ve all moved on, and I’m just… this reminder of everything I did wrong?”

Maggie shook her head firmly. “They do want to see you, Vi. Charlie’s been reaching out to you for a year. You’ve seen the messages—they care about you, not what happened. And besides, you’ve come so far. This is your chance to reconnect, not just with them, but with yourself.”

Violet’s gaze dropped to her lap, where her fingers were nervously twisting the hem of her shirt. She took a deep breath, shaky but determined, and nodded slowly. “Okay,” she said quietly, though her voice trembled. “Let’s do this.”

Maggie smiled, her heart swelling with pride. “That’s my girl,” she said, starting to open the car door.

As they stepped out, the towering gates began to creak open. The sight was almost overwhelming, but Maggie stayed close by Violet’s side, her hand resting lightly on her sister’s shoulder. Whatever happened next, they would face it together.

“Violet! You came!” A familiar voice called out, warm and brimming with excitement, cutting through the tension in the air.

Violet turned toward the massive factory doors as they swung open, revealing Charlie standing just inside. For a moment, she froze, taking him in. He looked… different. The last time she’d seen him, he had been a scrawny boy with hollow cheeks, scruffy clothes that hung off his bony frame, and a nervous energy about him that seemed like it could crack under the weight of the world. But now? Now he looked healthier, happier. His cheeks had a soft, rosy plumpness to them, and his posture was relaxed, almost confident. His clothes, however, were another matter entirely.

He was wearing the most absurd outfit Violet had ever seen—an unmistakable homage to Wonka himself. A deep purple coat with gold accents hung from his shoulders, paired with a green waistcoat and a ridiculously oversized bowtie. His hair, once messy and unkempt, now had a slight wave to it, brushed back in a way that mirrored the chocolatier’s eccentric style.

Violet couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped her lips. “Hey, long time no see,” she said with a small smile as she walked toward him, her nerves temporarily forgotten. “You look… good. Different, but good.”

Charlie beamed, his grin lighting up his face. “Thanks! You too,” he replied, his tone genuine, though his eyes darted quickly over her, as if gauging how to approach the conversation. “I mean, it’s been ages, hasn’t it? I wasn’t sure if you were really gonna show up.”

“Yeah, well,” Violet shrugged, trying to keep her tone casual even though her heart was pounding. “Figured it was about time I stopped hiding, you know? And Maggie was… persistent.”

Charlie laughed at that, nodding knowingly. “Sounds about right. She seems like she’d be good at that.”

There was a moment of silence as they stood there, neither quite sure what to say next. Violet shifted on her feet, glancing past Charlie into the factory. The colorful, whimsical world inside looked just as magical as she remembered, though now it carried a bittersweet edge.

“You really look like him, you know,” Violet said, gesturing to his outfit with a teasing smirk. “The whole get-up—it’s like you’re a mini-Wonka.”

Charlie rubbed the back of his neck, laughing sheepishly. “Yeah, it’s… part of the job, I guess. Comes with the title.”

“Title?” Violet raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, uh…” Charlie hesitated, glancing over his shoulder as if someone might overhear. “Guess I’m kinda… running the place now. Mr. Wonka’s still around, of course, but he’s, uh, let me take the reins in some ways.”

Violet’s smirk faltered for a moment, replaced by a flicker of unease. The memories of her last encounter with Wonka were still sharp, still raw. But she swallowed hard and nodded. “That’s… wow. That’s a lot of responsibility for a kid.”

“Tell me about it,” Charlie replied, his voice light but his expression betraying a hint of the pressure he felt. “But hey, let’s not talk about me. It’s really good to see you, Violet. Everyone’s been dying to catch up with you.”

“Everyone?” Violet asked, her voice tinged with both curiosity and trepidation.

Charlie nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, they’re all inside. Veruca’s already trying to boss people around, Mike’s glued to his phone as usual, and Augustus is hovering near the chocolate fountain.” He paused, his expression softening. “They’ve missed you, Vi. We all have.”

Violet’s throat tightened, but she forced a small smile. “Well, I guess I’d better not keep them waiting, huh?”

Charlie grinned and stepped aside, gesturing grandly toward the factory’s interior. “After you.”

With a deep breath, Violet took her first step inside, the familiar scents of chocolate and candy washing over her. It was overwhelming, but as Charlie walked beside her, she felt a small spark of courage flicker to life. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t going to be as bad as she feared.

Charlie led Violet into the chocolate room, and the moment she stepped inside, a wave of nostalgia hit her. Everything was exactly as she remembered—lush, vibrant meadows of candy flowers and oversized lollipops surrounded the soft, chocolate-colored grass. The towering trees, their branches heavy with sugar-coated fruit, swayed gently in the breeze. The sight of the chocolate river flowing, its smooth, dark liquid rushing down its banks, brought back memories she thought she’d buried. The chocolate waterfall that once captivated her was still there, its cascading water catching the light and shimmering in the air. For a moment, it was as if nothing had changed.

The rest of the kids were already there, all waiting for her arrival. Violet’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of them—she hadn’t seen any of them in so long, and now they were all here, standing in the same place where it all started.

Mike was the first to break the silence, his deep voice cutting through the air. “Hey, look who finally made it!” he called out, holding his fist out for a fist bump. Violet blinked in surprise, and when her eyes locked onto Mike, she froze for a moment. He was huge—taller than she remembered, with long limbs that seemed to stretch out in every direction. He had to be well over six feet now, his once-lanky frame filled out with muscle.

“Wow,” Violet murmured, lifting her hand slowly to return the bump. “Mike, you’re… you’re huge now.”

Mike gave a smug grin, his eyes twinkling with that same cocky gleam he’d had back then, but there was something different in the way he smiled—less sharp, more warm. “Yeah, I’ve grown a bit.” He added with a shrug, looking her over with a knowing glance. “Glad you made it.”

Before Violet could say anything more, Veruca’s voice cut through the air, sharp and a little impatient. “It’s about time,” she said, her expression a mix of annoyance and the subtle relief of seeing Violet at last. She was standing with her arms crossed, a haughty air about her as she brushed imaginary dirt off her designer clothes. Her face had softened somewhat, though, and her eyes held a flicker of something more genuine than the usual spoiled attitude she used to project.

Violet couldn’t help but laugh softly, feeling the familiar tension of their dynamic but realizing how much things had changed since they were last together. “I know, I know,” she said, meeting Veruca’s sharp gaze with a playful smile. It was strange, but somehow comforting.

A deep, welcoming voice broke through, and Violet turned to see Augustus approaching. She blinked, momentarily thrown off. The boy who had once been impossibly large and round was now so thin it almost took her a moment to recognize him. His cheeks were more angular, and his clothes hung loosely on him, but his smile was just as bright and warm as ever.

“Violet, you came!” Augustus said, his voice full of genuine joy. It took Violet a second to fully process, but when she did, her mouth fell open in surprise.

“Augustus?” she asked, almost in disbelief. “You look so… different. I barely recognized you.”

Augustus laughed, his laugh as hearty and full as always, but there was a slight edge of vulnerability in it, something that made him appear more humble than before. “Yeah, I lost a little weight. Healthier lifestyle, I guess,” he said with a shrug, but his eyes gleamed with sincerity as he added, “It’s really good to see you.”

Violet was at a loss for words. She glanced around at the others, trying to gather her thoughts, and the only thing she could muster was, “Wow… you all look so different.” She laughed nervously, unsure of how else to continue. The last time she saw them, things were different—so much had changed since then, for all of them, for her. It was surreal to see the same faces again, but they weren’t the same people.

“Ah, it seems the last of the party is here,” a voice called out, the familiar sound sending an icy chill straight through Violet’s spine. Her heart skipped a beat as she turned toward the entrance, her pulse quickening. There he was—Mr. Wonka. He looked exactly the same, eccentric as ever, standing with that trademark flair and the odd gleam in his eyes. But today, instead of the disappointment she had last seen there, there was something different. A calm, almost pleasant smile graced his face, his posture warm and welcoming.

Violet’s stomach dropped like a stone, remembering the last time she’d been in his presence. She hadn’t been this nervous before. The memory of being paraded around the factory, the judgment in his eyes as he witnessed her transformation, made her feel as though she were back in that very moment. She couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing had really changed. She wasn’t sure she could face him again, especially after everything that had happened.

“Miss Beauregarde, I’m so glad you could join us today,” Mr. Wonka said politely, his voice smooth and almost jovial. “Charlie has been particularly excited about your arrival.”

Violet blinked, trying to process his words, but it felt like everything had slowed down. She opened her mouth but her throat felt tight, constricting her ability to speak properly. After a moment, she managed a weak, strained smile. “Th-thanks… that’s nice,” she muttered, but her voice faltered. She averted her gaze, trying her best to hide the unease that had taken root deep within her. Her eyes darted to the floor as her face flushed a deep shade of red, the rush of emotion threatening to spill over.

Sensing her sister’s discomfort, Maggie quickly stepped in front of Violet, positioning herself between Violet and Mr. Wonka. She met Wonka’s gaze squarely, her voice calm yet firm. “Mr. Wonka, I’m Maggie. We’ve spoken only that one time, but—”

“Ah, yes,” Mr. Wonka interjected with a grin, his eyes twinkling with a strange mix of curiosity and amusement. “You’ve been trying to reach me for quite some time now, haven’t you?”

Maggie nodded, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she took a breath. “Yes, and I was hoping to discuss—”

“Business, I suppose,” Mr. Wonka said with a light chuckle, his tone implying the subject was one he was all too familiar with. He raised a hand to signal a pause. “But if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I don’t have the time for business just yet.” His attention shifted back to Violet, his expression becoming more serious, though still with that underlying warmth. “If the young lady wouldn’t mind, there is a discussion I need to have with Miss Beauregarde.”

Violet’s heart skipped a beat. She felt as though she’d been struck by a sudden wave of vertigo. “M-me?” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. Her palms began to sweat, and her stomach twisted with uncertainty. She glanced briefly at Maggie, but her sister’s reassuring gaze only made her feel more exposed. She wasn’t sure she was ready for whatever Mr. Wonka had planned.

Mr. Wonka’s gaze shifted to Maggie, his expression both polite and slightly amused as he waited for her approval. “Yes, if it’s okay with your sister, of course,” he said smoothly, his eyes glimmering with a hint of curiosity and excitement. His words carried a subtle but unmistakable weight, as if he were making an offer that Violet couldn’t easily refuse.

Maggie’s heart skipped a beat as she processed his words. She glanced at Violet, her younger sister standing stiffly beside her. Violet’s pale face was taut with uncertainty, her eyes flickering nervously between Mr. Wonka and the floor. Maggie could see the wariness in her sister’s posture, the way her fingers twitched as if wanting to retreat, yet something held her back. The tension in the air was palpable.

Maggie took a deep breath, feeling the responsibility of the moment settle heavily on her shoulders. She had been trying so hard to give Violet space and let her make her own choices, but this felt different. The stakes felt higher. She turned to Violet, her voice soft but firm, her tone filled with reassurance. “Violet?” she asked gently, giving her sister the chance to decide.

Violet’s lips parted slightly, and for a brief moment, it seemed like she might back out. She swallowed hard, her throat tight as if the words she needed to speak were stuck somewhere inside her. Her eyes darted to Mr. Wonka again, and for a fleeting second, Violet’s expression shifted to something unreadable—perhaps a mix of fear and hesitation, or maybe even curiosity.

“Yeah…” Violet finally whispered, her voice barely audible, and she nodded slowly, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as if trying to steady herself. “Yeah, that’s okay.” She didn’t sound entirely convinced, but there was a quiet acceptance in her voice that she couldn’t ignore.

Mr. Wonka’s smile stretched wider, his enthusiasm practically infectious. “Wonderful!” he exclaimed, his voice ringing with the same joy and energy he had carried throughout their meeting. His tone made Violet feel like she was the guest of honor at an event she hadn’t prepared for, and his excitement only made her more uncertain. Without missing a beat, he gestured for her to follow.

“Come along then, Miss Beauregarde,” he said, his steps light and brisk as he began to lead her away from the group. Violet hesitated for a split second, feeling the weight of the moment settle over her, but before she could second-guess herself, Mr. Wonka was already moving, his pace quick and purposeful. She followed, her feet dragging slightly, the sound of her footsteps echoing softly in the grand, sprawling space of the factory. Her nerves tingled with anticipation, her heart pounding faster than she would have liked.

As Violet walked away, she glanced back at Maggie once more, the fleeting glance of her sister’s worried eyes giving her a sense of comfort, even if it only lasted a moment. Maggie gave her a subtle nod, a silent gesture of support, but Violet couldn’t shake the unease that settled deep in her chest. She didn’t know what was coming next, but she knew it would be something she couldn’t undo.

Chapter Text

Violet and Mr. Wonka walked side by side along the riverbank, their footsteps the only sound breaking the otherwise peaceful silence. The air was thick with the sweet scent of chocolate and candy, a strange contrast to the unease twisting in Violet’s stomach. Her eyes remained focused on the ground ahead, the steady rhythm of their walk offering her a brief moment of solace, even as her mind raced.

The silence stretched on, neither of them speaking, though Violet could feel the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. Finally, it was Mr. Wonka who broke it, his voice light and casual. He reached down and plucked a candy buttercup from the lush green grass, holding it out toward Violet with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Buttercup?” he offered, his voice soft but carrying an almost playful tone.

Violet glanced at the delicate candy flower in his hand, the colorful petals looking almost too perfect to eat. She shook her head, her throat tight. “No, thank you,” she replied quietly, her gaze drifting back to the path beneath her feet.

Mr. Wonka didn’t seem bothered by her refusal. He simply shrugged and popped the buttercup into his mouth, savoring it with a contented hum. “Suit yourself,” he said, his voice nonchalant as he chewed, seeming to enjoy the candy far too much for it to be just a simple treat.

The silence stretched on, and with every step, Violet’s discomfort grew. Her heart felt heavy in her chest, like it was pressing against her ribs. She couldn’t take it anymore. The words slipped out before she could stop them, her voice rushing like a dam about to burst.

“Mr. Wonka, I’m sorry I stole the gum from you,” she said, her words tumbling out in a rush. She didn’t even know where to start, but once it began, she couldn’t stop. “I didn’t mean to, I swear. It wasn’t like me at all. I don’t even know what I was thinking, honestly. I saw it and it was just… so tempting and I didn’t even think about it, I just grabbed it, and then I felt stupid the whole time, like, ‘What was I doing? Why did I even take it?’ And I know it was wrong, I know, but it felt like—”

Mr. Wonka stopped walking, his head turning slightly toward her, raising an eyebrow as though surprised by the sudden outburst. His gaze was calm, but Violet could feel every inch of her guilt under his scrutiny. She paused, trying to steady herself, but the words kept coming, faster than she could control.

“And I don’t even know why I took it! I mean, I guess I thought I could prove something? Like I could handle it or whatever, and I—” She cut herself off, shaking her head as her rambling continued. “It was just dumb, and I’ve never done anything like that before in my life. I’ve always been careful, I always follow the rules, but this time I… I messed up. I messed up, and I never got a chance to tell you I was sorry. I’ve felt terrible about it ever since. Like I can’t even look at myself without thinking, ‘You did that, Violet, you did that.’ And it wasn’t just taking it, it was everything that happened after, and I’m so sorry for making a scene, for letting everyone down, for—”

Violet’s breath came in quick, shallow gasps now. She stopped walking, suddenly feeling dizzy, her face flushing as she realized she’d just blurted out everything. She hadn’t meant to say so much, but there it was, all her guilt, her regret, spilling out like water over a broken dam.

Mr. Wonka stopped too, looking at her with a soft expression. He didn’t interrupt, just let her speak, and when she finally fell silent, he let out a quiet, almost amused, chuckle.

“Calm yourself, my dear,” he said gently, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of her emotions. He placed a hand on her shoulder, as if to steady her, and she suddenly realized how much she needed it. “Take a breath.”

Violet’s eyes widened, and she swallowed hard, finally taking a deep breath as he suggested. Her chest felt tight, but slowly, the suffocating panic seemed to ease. She could still feel her heart pounding in her ears, but for the first time in what felt like forever, she was no longer rushing to say everything at once.

“Sorry,” she whispered, still embarrassed. “I just… I couldn’t stop. I didn’t mean to say all that.”

Mr. Wonka smiled at her, a smile that was surprisingly warm, and his eyes softened with understanding. “There’s no need to apologize, Violet,” he said kindly. “You’ve been carrying this with you for a long time, haven’t you?”

Violet nodded, wiping a tear away before it could fall. “Yeah. I just wanted to make it right.”

“You already have,” he said, his voice low and reassuring. “You’ve apologized, and that’s more than enough.”

Violet blinked, surprised. She hadn’t expected him to say that, but it was exactly what she needed to hear. And for the first time in a long time, she felt a weight lifting from her shoulders, even if just a little.

Violet’s eyes dropped to the ground as she shifted uncomfortably, her hands fidgeting nervously. “But you looked so disappointed last time I saw you…” she murmured, her voice trailing off. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him directly, not after everything that had happened.

Mr. Wonka didn’t immediately respond. He let the silence stretch between them, his expression softening as he took in her words. Finally, he spoke, his voice steady and calm. “I was,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “I was disappointed, Violet. I had hoped you would listen to reason, not let your emotions take over. You were impulsive, and I knew the consequences of that.”

Violet flinched at the reminder of that impulsive moment—the gum, the desire to prove herself, the uncontrollable consequences that followed. The weight of it all seemed to press down harder on her chest. “But I didn’t,” she said quietly, her words barely above a whisper. “I didn’t listen to you, and I… I failed. I messed everything up.”

She bit her lip, feeling the sting of her own failure rush back in waves. There was a bitter taste in her mouth as she thought about how everything could have been so different if only she’d taken his advice. If only she hadn’t been so stubborn.

Mr. Wonka regarded her with a thoughtful expression, his eyes narrowing slightly as he seemed to weigh his words carefully. “Violet,” he said after a pause, his voice softening. “Failure is the mother of invention. It’s not something to be feared.”

Violet lifted her gaze slowly, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Mr. Wonka smiled faintly, a knowing glint in his eye. “Every great invention, every breakthrough, was born out of failure. It’s not the mistake that defines us; it’s what we choose to do with it that matters. You made a choice, and it didn’t work out, but that’s not the end of the story. It’s only a chapter. The important thing is what comes next.”

Violet stared at him, trying to process his words. It was a lot to take in. She had spent so much time beating herself up over what had gone wrong that she hadn’t really thought about what could go right. She hadn’t realized that maybe her failure wasn’t the end of the world, but just a part of the process.

“So you’re saying… it’s okay to mess up?” Violet asked cautiously, her voice still small but filled with a flicker of hope.

“Of course,” Mr. Wonka replied gently, his eyes warm now, understanding. “It’s okay to mess up, as long as you learn from it. You have the ability to do incredible things, Violet. You just have to give yourself the chance to try again.” He gave her a reassuring smile, a quiet confidence in his words.

Violet shifted uncomfortably, her brow furrowing as she looked up at Mr. Wonka. “So… is this what you wanted to talk to me about?” she asked, her voice a little hesitant. “Seeing if I learned from stealing?”

Mr. Wonka let out a small sigh, shaking his head slowly. His face was calm, almost thoughtful, as he looked at her. “No, Violet,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “I realized you learned your lesson long before you could even admit it to yourself. The moment you started to turn blue, you understood. The consequences, the weight of your choices—they became real to you in that instant.”

Violet blinked, taken aback by his words. She hadn’t really thought of it like that. The physical transformation, the change she couldn’t stop, had been a reminder of her impulsive choice—a reminder she would never forget. But hearing him say it so plainly, it felt as though there was something more to it than just the immediate aftermath.

“So… what did you actually want to talk about then?” she asked, genuinely curious now. Her nerves had started to settle a bit, but the uncertainty still lingered, and her mind raced with possibilities. Was this just about that one mistake, or was there something deeper Mr. Wonka had in mind?

Mr. Wonka paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered her. He stood still for a few beats, as if weighing the right words to say. The light from the chocolate river sparkled across his face, casting an almost dreamlike glow. “I wanted to talk about potential,” he said slowly, deliberately. “You’ve got more of it than you realize, Violet. More than anyone can truly see in themselves. But potential doesn’t wait around. It calls for action. And action requires courage.”

Violet swallowed, her pulse quickening as she processed his words. She had heard of potential before, but it always sounded so… abstract. So far out of reach, something other people had, not her. She wasn’t sure how to respond, but her curiosity burned stronger now.

“I don’t know if I can ever go back to who I was,” she said quietly, more to herself than to him. “I’m not that person anymore.”

Mr. Wonka looked at her, a subtle smile tugging at his lips. “No,” he agreed. “You’re not. But the person you are now—she has the potential to be something even more extraordinary.”

Violet’s heart skipped a beat, unsure of what exactly he meant, but something about his words felt… hopeful. “So, you think I can still be something… good?”

“I think you can do great things, Violet,” Mr. Wonka replied, his voice warm but serious. “But only if you let yourself. The key is understanding that growth comes from both failure and success. The important part is to never stop moving forward, no matter the direction.”

Violet stood there, frozen in thought. For the first time, she wasn’t sure if she should dismiss his words as nonsense or if she should really try to believe in them. The idea of growth, of second chances—it was something she hadn’t allowed herself to consider in a long time. But now, in this moment, something inside her began to stir, cautiously, like a spark in the dark.

She looked up at him, her voice barely above a whisper. “How do I start?”

Mr. Wonka’s eyes sparkled with a quiet confidence, and he gave her a nod. “One step at a time, my dear. One step at a time.”

Violet rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest with a slight scoff. “Easy for you to say,” she muttered under her breath, her gaze flicking towards him. “You’re not blue.”

Mr. Wonka didn’t seem bothered by her sarcasm, instead raising an eyebrow as he leaned in slightly, his lips curling into a small smirk. “And who’s fault is that?” he asked, his tone playful but with a hint of amusement.

Violet’s face flushed, the flush spreading from her cheeks to her neck as the weight of his words hit her. She hadn’t expected him to call her out so easily, and she felt a slight pang of embarrassment. “Fair,” she said quietly, her gaze dropping to the ground.

Mr. Wonka took a step back and chuckled softly, the sound light and genuine. “Personally, I see nothing wrong with being a little blue,” he remarked, his voice thoughtful as he gestured vaguely at her, “But I suppose Charlie had a point when he mentioned the… shall we say, negative consequences it might have on your social life.”

Violet’s brow furrowed as she processed his words. She hadn’t really thought about it that way. It was hard to ignore the stares, the comments, and the odd looks she received from people when they saw her in her current state. She shifted uncomfortably but didn’t respond right away.

Mr. Wonka continued, as if he hadn’t noticed her discomfort, his voice taking on a more informative tone. “That was actually the first invention Charlie ever started working on, you know. He was the one who became obsessed with figuring out a way to reverse the… well, the blueness.”

Violet’s eyes widened in surprise. She had known that Charlie had taken on the factory’s management role, but she didn’t realize he had started inventing things right off the bat. “Wait, Charlie was working on that?” she asked, her voice tinged with both curiosity and disbelief.

Mr. Wonka nodded, his eyes twinkling with a mix of pride and mischief. “Oh yes, in fact, he had a whole lab set up for it before he even thought about anything else. Said he couldn’t stand seeing people ‘like you’ suffer.” He raised his eyebrows at her, his words gentle but teasing. “You have no idea how much he’s been running himself ragged over it.”

Violet stared at him for a moment, her thoughts swirling. She hadn’t realized that Charlie had gone to such lengths to fix the situation, that he had cared so much. It made her feel… strange. But in a good way. “I didn’t think he’d be so… invested in something like that.”

Mr. Wonka gave a soft chuckle, a knowing smile playing at his lips. “Oh, Charlie’s a bit more than he lets on. But that’s the thing about him—he’s always been quick to see what others can’t. He has a knack for figuring things out.”

Violet couldn’t help but smile a little. She hadn’t thought of Charlie that way, but maybe she should start. Maybe there was more to him than the goofy kid she’d once known.

Mr. Wonka held out a small, glittering piece of candy, the light catching it in a way that made it shimmer with a sort of mysterious allure. The candy seemed to radiate a faint glow, and the delicate scent of something sweet and unfamiliar filled the air around them “He poured all of his energy into making this”

Violet eyed it warily, her curiosity piqued but her skepticism still lingering. “What is it?” she asked, her voice soft and hesitant as she reached out to take the candy, her fingers brushing against Mr. Wonka’s.

Mr. Wonka gave a small, knowing smile, his eyes twinkling as if he were sharing a secret. “Something that should help,” he said cryptically.

Just then, a soft voice from behind her caught her off guard. “Something that should help,” Charlie repeated, stepping forward from the shadows. He was wringing his hands nervously, his face flushed slightly with the discomfort of his own words. “I didn’t know what else to do, Violet. I… I know everyone else got something out of their time here at the factory.” He gestured vaguely towards the rest of the room, his expression strained as though unsure of how to phrase his next words. “Augustus started swimming lessons, Mike’s in Nationals with his basketball team, and Veruca… well, she’s still… herself. But you, you just seemed… sad. And I wanted to help.”

Violet turned to face Charlie fully now, her gaze shifting from the candy to him, the weight of his words slowly sinking in. She could feel the stirrings of something—hope, maybe—start to blossom deep inside her chest. The realization that Charlie had been thinking about her, about helping her, made her heart race in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

“You’ve been working on this… this whole time?” Violet asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid that speaking too loudly might shatter the moment. Her eyes searched Charlie’s face, looking for the sincerity she’d almost forgotten he was capable of. “For me?”

Charlie nodded slowly, his eyes meeting hers with a quiet determination. “Yeah. For you, Violet.” His voice was softer now, almost vulnerable. “I know it’s not the same as what the others got, but… I didn’t want you to feel left out. I just wanted to do something to help you feel better.”

Violet’s heart clenched as she looked at the boy she once knew as a goofy, adventurous child, but now saw as someone who had grown—grown into someone who genuinely cared. Her eyes softened, her earlier apprehension melting away as she realized just how much effort Charlie had put into this. “Charlie…” she began, her voice trembling slightly. “I… I didn’t know. I didn’t realize how much you cared.”

A faint blush spread across Charlie’s cheeks as he rubbed the back of his neck, awkward but endearing in his vulnerability. “I know I’m not great with words,” he muttered, “but… I just wanted you to know you’re not alone in this.”

Violet stood there, the candy in her hand forgotten for a moment, as she processed the unexpected kindness from the last person she had ever expected to see as her ally. She felt a surge of emotion rising in her chest—something between gratitude, confusion, and a deep, aching longing to connect again.

“Thank you,” she whispered, barely able to find the words that seemed to carry so much weight. “I didn’t think anyone… noticed.”

Charlie gave a shy smile, looking away quickly, as if embarrassed by the weight of her words. “Well, maybe you just needed someone to notice,” he said softly.

Violet looked down at the candy again, the idea of what it might represent feeling both like a small, tender gesture and something far more profound. Maybe this time, things were different. Maybe this time, she could be seen.

Hesitant, Violet slowly brought the small piece of candy to her lips. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but when it touched her tongue, it melted smoothly, releasing a rich, sweet flavor. The caramel was deep and warm, almost like melted toffee, with a delicate swirl of vanilla that balanced the richness perfectly. She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the sensation. The taste was luxurious, soothing her nerves as it coated her mouth.

She let out a soft, delighted sigh and looked up at Charlie, her eyes bright. “It tastes wonderful,” she said, her voice full of genuine surprise.

But Charlie wasn’t paying attention to her words. His gaze was locked onto her face, his eyes wide and focused, as if he were studying her every move. He didn’t respond to her praise right away, but his lips slowly curved into a soft, proud smile. “It works,” he said quietly, his tone filled with a mixture of anticipation and relief.

Violet furrowed her brow in confusion, not entirely sure what he meant by that. But before she could voice her thoughts, she felt a strange sensation wash over her. It was familiar, like the tingling, electric feeling she had experienced the first time she chewed one of Wonka’s gums. Her chest tightened, and for a moment, she felt a rush of anxiety flood through her.

“What did you do?” she asked, her voice shaking slightly, a knot forming in her stomach.

Charlie, still watching her intently, didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a small, sleek compact mirror. He flipped it open and held it out to her, watching her closely.

Violet hesitated for a moment, her gaze shifting from his eager face to the mirror. As she looked into it, her breath caught in her throat. Slowly, the blue tint that had covered her face began to fade, like it was being erased by an invisible hand. The color retreated down her neck and arms, revealing her porcelain skin beneath.

Violet stared in shock, unable to believe what she was seeing. Her face—her real face—was coming back. The blue that had been so much a part of her for so long was disappearing, leaving behind the skin she remembered from before everything had changed. She reached up tentatively to touch her cheek, almost as if she were afraid it would vanish again.

“I could only figure out the skin,” Charlie said sheepishly, his voice laced with regret. “Sorry, there’s nothing I can do about your eyes or the hair.” He looked at her apologetically, a hint of sadness in his expression as he spoke the words.

Violet’s fingers trembled as she touched her face, the smoothness of her skin feeling almost unreal. She stared into the mirror, watching as the last traces of blue faded away, leaving her skin as it had been before the accident. She felt a surge of emotions—relief, disbelief, and a strange sense of vulnerability all at once.

“Charlie…” she whispered, her voice barely audible as she struggled to find the words. “I… I didn’t think you could do this. I didn’t think it was even possible.”

Charlie shifted uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck. “It wasn’t easy,” he admitted, looking away for a moment. “I didn’t know if it would work, but I wanted to try. I… I wanted you to feel like yourself again.”

Violet’s eyes filled with tears, and she bit her lip to keep from crying. She hadn’t expected this—any of this—and the overwhelming kindness that Charlie had shown her made her chest ache with gratitude. “Thank you,” she said softly, her voice cracking with emotion. “I didn’t think anyone could help me. I thought I’d have to live like this forever.”

Charlie smiled at her gently, his own eyes softening. “You don’t have to be alone in this,” he said quietly. “And you don’t have to be blue anymore, either.”

Violet nodded, her throat tight as she blinked away the tears. The candy in her mouth seemed to dissolve into the background, her mind focused entirely on the changes happening inside her, both physically and emotionally. For the first time in a long while, she felt like there was hope again.

Violet’s heart raced with a mixture of disbelief and overwhelming gratitude. She couldn’t help it—before she even fully realized what she was doing, she laughed and pounced on Charlie, wrapping her arms tightly around him in a big, spontaneous hug. The momentum nearly knocked him off his feet, and for a brief moment, his eyes widened in surprise as he stumbled back. But the shock didn’t last long. As his arms instinctively came around her, he smiled, a little embarrassed by the force of her embrace but clearly pleased.

Charlie let out a small, surprised laugh as he steadied himself, his hands lightly gripping her shoulders. “Whoa, hey there!” he said, still holding her in a friendly hug. Violet pulled back just enough to look at him, her face glowing with a mixture of joy and relief. Her heart felt lighter than it had in a long time. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion. “You really… you really did it.”

“Anything for a friend,” Charlie said with a wink, his voice soft and genuine.

After a few more moments of shared silence, the trio turned and began walking back toward the river, Violet in the middle, walking closely alongside both Charlie and Mr. Wonka. The air felt lighter, somehow fresher, as though the weight of everything that had been weighing her down had been lifted, even if just for a moment. Violet felt herself smiling uncontrollably, like the world had shifted back into place.

As they neared the others, Maggie spotted them from a distance. Her eyes widened in astonishment as she took in the sight of her sister walking toward her, completely changed. She blinked, almost not believing what she was seeing.

“Violet!” Maggie called, her voice filled with shock and disbelief. “You’re—You’re—”

Violet’s grin grew even wider, her cheeks flushed with pride. “It’s all thanks to Charlie!” she said, beaming from ear to ear, her voice bright and full of excitement.

Maggie’s eyes darted between Violet and Charlie, who stood beside her, looking at her expectantly. Then her gaze shifted toward Mr. Wonka, who was standing a little further back, watching the scene with a quiet, almost amused expression. It didn’t take long for Maggie to piece together the situation. There was no way that Charlie had done this alone. There was no way this could have happened without Mr. Wonka’s involvement.

Her voice softened with a mixture of gratitude and awe as she turned toward him. “How can we ever thank you?” she asked, her tone sincere but filled with a hint of disbelief. “We never expected… I mean, I didn’t think it was even possible.”

Mr. Wonka, ever calm and composed, gave a small smile. “As I told your mother, I had every intention of restoring Violet to her original state,” he said with quiet certainty. “However, it seems I needed a little help myself this time.” He glanced over at Charlie, a look of appreciation passing between them. “I suppose even the greatest of inventors can use a bit of assistance from time to time.”

Charlie gave a modest shrug, a light blush creeping up his neck as he looked at the ground. “It wasn’t just me,” he murmured, his voice humble. “It was the candy, and the time… and, I guess, some good luck.” He smiled up at Violet, who gave him a nod of acknowledgment. She was grateful, more than words could express.

Maggie stepped forward, her eyes softening as she looked at the two of them. “Thank you,” she said, her voice warm and sincere, the gratitude in her words genuine. “I don’t know what we would’ve done without you both.”

Charlie gave a small, embarrassed wave, as though to brush off the praise. “It was really no big deal,” he said with a shy laugh. But the look in his eyes—clear and full of hope—told a different story. He was just happy to see Violet truly herself again.

Violet, standing tall between them now, felt a sense of belonging and peace she hadn’t known for a long time. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this good,” she said softly, mostly to herself, but loud enough for Charlie and Maggie to hear. Her smile never faded, and her voice held a sense of finality to it, as if she had closed a chapter in her life and was ready to turn the page.

As the group moved toward the heart of the factory, laughter and light conversation echoing through the vibrant candy-filled landscape, Violet glanced back at the chocolate river one last time, a small, determined smile on her face. For the first time in her life, she didn’t feel like she had to prove anything to anyone—she was finally ready to let go of the past and start writing a sweeter future.