Page 126 of Under Southern Stars
It is meant as a casual comment, a moment of shared exasperation between women, but Emma’s reaction is anything but casual. Her face drains of color, her eyes darting toward Madison to ensure she wasn’t listening.
“You…you don’t know?” she asks, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“Know what?”
Emma hesitates, then sets down her wine glass. “Come with me. We should talk privately.”
Alarm bells ring in my head as I follow Emma down a hallway and into what appears to be a small study. She closes the door behind us, her typically vibrant demeanor replaced by uncharacteristic seriousness.
“What’s going on?” I ask, suddenly apprehensive.
Emma runs a hand through her short hair, looking deeply uncomfortable. “Look, Sophia…I don’t know if now is the right time to get into this. You’re already dealing with so much with Jack and—”
“Emma,” I interrupt firmly. “Whatever it is, I need to know.”
She sighs heavily. “Okay, but first, listen. Sophia, you’re whanau now. Family. No matter what happens with Jack. Madison’s incredible, and you’re already part of us. That’s why I’m telling you this. Not as Jack’s sister. Just…as someone who’s got your back.”
Her uncharacteristic hesitation only increases my anxiety. “Just tell me.”
“It’s about Troy. His online presence.” Emma meets my eyes directly. “What I’m about to tell you is going to be upsetting. Really upsetting.”
“I can handle it,” I say, falling back on the calm I’d cultivated through years of ER crises.
Emma takes a deep breath. “Troy has been posting truly vile, misogynistic content online for months, possibly years. Real ‘redpill’ stuff—demeaning women, describing them asproperty, objects for men to use.” She pauses. “And it gets worse when he talks about daughters.”
The room seems to tilt slightly. “How do you know this?”
Emma opens a drawer in the desk. “Because Jack had our security consultant document it.”
She pulls out a folder and places it on the desk between us, looking deeply conflicted. “I shouldn’t be showing you this. Jack would probably be furious with me. But after hearing Madison talk about Troy’s attitudes toward her sports activities…I think you need to know what you’re really dealing with.”
“Jack was investigating Troy? When? Why?” My voice sounds distant, even to my own ears.
“After you mentioned those controlling texts about Madison’s nutrition,” Emma explains. “Jack was worried about Troy’s influence. He asked our family security consultant—Rawiri, ex-Special Forces—to look into Troy’s online presence.”
With trembling fingers, I open the folder. The first page is a profile screenshot showing a gym selfie of Troy, his face partly obscured but unmistakable to me, with a bio that reads: “Unapologetic Male. Financial Dominance. Traditional Values. Escaping the Matrix.”
As I flip through the pages, each screenshot is worse than the last. Post after post of Troy expounding on “female nature,” how women were “built for submission,” how feminism had “destroyed Western civilization.” Some posts detail his sexual exploits in degrading terms. Others discuss “strategies” for manipulating women into compliance.
My stomach lurches when I reach posts specifically about ex-wives and daughters.
“…ex-wives are usable goods at best, damaged beyond repair at worst…”
“…women hit the wall at 35, their only value after that is what they’ve produced for you…”
Then, the worst: “Daughters are liabilities if not properly controlled. A father’s primary responsibility is to instill obedience early, to prevent them from becoming unmanageable shrews incapable of attracting high-value men…”
The words blur as tears fill my eyes. “Oh my God,” I whisper, my hand flying to my mouth. “He’s talking about Madison. He’s talking about our daughter.”
“I’m so sorry, Sophia,” Emma says quietly.
I can’t tear my eyes from the page. Troy had written detailed “strategies” for “managing daughters” to ensure they remained “marriageable assets.” He advocates restricting their independence, monitoring their appearance, and teaching them to “respect male authority unquestioningly.”
The careful composure I’d maintained through countless traumas in the ER shatters. Tears stream down my face as I grip the edge of the desk to keep from collapsing.
“I tried to protect her,” I gasp between sobs. “I stayed in that marriage too long because I thought it was better for Madison. I let him demean me, control me, because I thought at least Madison was safe from his toxicity.” A ragged laugh escapes me. “And all this time, he saw her as nothing but a liability. A thing to be controlled.”
Emma moves closer, her hand on my shoulder. “You couldn’t have known, Sophia.”
