Chapter 23 | Gilded Love
Three Days Grace | – I Hate Everything About You
"Seriously…"
Pacifica lay on her bed. It had already been a day since she went into the woods with Dipper and Mabel, and she was still sore. She scoffed at herself, how could someone like her end up in a situation like that?
She rolled onto her side, grabbing her phone and staring at the darkened screen, catching her own reflection. Falling into old habits again, she thought. It wasn't like she didn't like the twins; in fact, it was quite the opposite. Yeah, maybe almost getting flattened by a giant tree wasn't exactly what she had in mind for summer fun, but somehow, being there, in the middle of it, made it all bearable.
She sighed, flopping onto her back, eyes tracing the ceiling. Being out there, running through the trees with Dipper and Mabel, made her feel… different. Like, for once, she could breathe. Like she wasn't being crushed beneath a family name and a laundry list of expectations she no longer wanted to meet.
Like she felt—
Free.
Her phone buzzed. She turned it on, holding it above her face. A message from Mabel.
She wanted to ignore it. Instead, she immediately opened it.
It was a picture Mabel had taken while they were in the woods.
Mabel, holding up her phone for a selfie, grinning wide. Pacifica was in the background, pretending not to care but clearly striking a pose. Wendy and Dipper stood at the front, pointing at something in the distance, looking way more interested in whatever was happening offscreen than the camera.
A smirk crept onto Pacifica's lips. It was silly. Completely chaotic. But that's what hanging out with the Pines felt like. And she didn't mind it.
Her eyes lingered on Dipper. Her thoughts drifted back to that moment—the way he ran ahead of her without hesitation. The determination in his eyes. The muscles in his arms as he swung his backpack over his shoulder. The grunts he made as he—
Her eyes went wide.
What am I doing?!
She shook her head violently, as if that alone could erase the heat creeping onto her face. But her gaze drifted back to the photo, her mind spiraling.
Ever since the twins had returned to Gravity Falls, everything had been different. They were the last people she expected to see at her job. And yet, now that they were back, it was like the town had come alive again—dangerous, unpredictable, alive.
She sighed, turning off her phone and letting it fall onto her chest.
A ghost that erases memories. A tree monster. What's next? A man-eating mole?
Her thoughts raced ahead of her, faster than she could keep up with. Too much had happened. It was all chaotic—fast. Too fast. A ghost in the shadows, a giant tree man, a deal fueled by family lies.
That last thought hit her harder than the rest.
Family lies.
The words stuck in her throat like tar.
She hadn't had time to really think about it. But the evidence was right there.
Her parents had made a deal with someone. Someone who had given them wealth, power, and, worst of all, something to protect it. A presence that lurked in the shadows, erasing memories of those who got too close to the truth.
Someone who had erased her memories.
Her stomach twisted. Her throat felt dry.
My own parents.
She squeezed her phone, gripping it so tightly her knuckles turned white. They were the ones who made the deal. They were the reason for all of this.
The resentment burned in her throat, heavy and undeniable. But underneath it, something else throbbed—small, stubborn, and just as painful.
But she didn't know why it was there.
Her phone vibrated again, its bright jingle breaking through the silence.
She glanced at the screen, immediately frowning at the calendar notification.
Pageant.
She groaned. "Another thing to deal with…"
Moonlight spilled through her window, draping the room in a pale glow. She let out a slow breath, staring at the ceiling as exhaustion pulled at her limbs.
The weight of the past few days dragged her under.
She didn't fight it.
Her eyes fluttered open.
The room was dark, save for the slivers of light filtering through the curtains, spilling in thin golden lines across the floor.
A tap on her shoulder.
She turned.
An older man stood beside her, clipboard in hand.
"You're up next, Ms. Northwest."
Pacifica nodded, stepping toward the curtain. She was backstage in the high school gym, waiting.
With a sigh, she glanced down at her dress. A deep ocean blue, threaded with shimmering dark strands that caught the light just right. Layers of silk lined the fabric, draping over her shoulders and arms.
It was elegant. It was expensive. It was perfect.
And yet, as she stared at herself, all she felt was disappointment.
Her mother had taken complete control over her wardrobe, cycling through dozens of dresses in the days leading up to the pageant. Each time Pacifica grew attached to one, another would take its place. Her opinions had never mattered.
She frowned, a memory forcing its way to the surface.
She had been standing in her closet, running her fingers over a dress—a soft and familiar lake-foam green, its delicate woven patterns mesmerizing. She had liked it. No, she had loved it. But before she could even entertain the thought of wearing it, her mother had stepped in, yanking it from her hands without a second glance.
The words that followed were sharper than knives, laced with cold precision. They bit into her skin like a winter storm, leaving no room for argument.
And so, she had simply stood there, head low. Nodding.
Like always.
Pacifica exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the fabric of her dress. She had held herself together for so long, but it was slipping. The cracks were deepening. The mask she had worn her whole life—pristine, practiced, untouchable—was starting to crumble.
A mask.
The thought sent a chill through her.
She remembered the dream she'd had the other night. The image of her reflection shattered across the floor, porcelain fragments glinting like broken glass.
It had stayed with her. Lurking at the edges of her mind, a whisper she couldn't quite silence.
Was it right all along? Was that reflection the real me?
Her name echoed from the other side of the curtain.
She straightened, inhaling sharply. Letting the breath out slow, as if she could push every unwanted thought out with it.
Then, she stepped forward.
The curtain parted, and the lights hit her like a crashing wave, bright and blinding.
She moved with rehearsed precision, her strides smooth, effortless. The crowd murmured with interest.
At the end of the stage, she struck a poised stance, looking out over the audience. Applause rippled through the room, cameras flashing in bursts of white.
Her eyelids lowered slightly.
It was all so mechanical. A performance. A routine. She glanced at her arms, at the way she held herself.
Hollow.
Empty.
Like she wasn't really there.
Like she was just… doing something to do it.
She looked back into the crowd.
Who am even I doing this for?
Her gaze swept over the rows of chairs, scanning every face, every shadowed figure in the audience.
Searching.
For what?
For who?
A pang of desperation bloomed in her chest. She looked again—once, twice, again and again—like she had missed something. Like if she just searched hard enough, the answer would be sitting there, waiting for her.
Then, the realization slammed into her like a truck.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She curled her fingers into tight fists, nails digging into her palms.
They would never come to watch…
Her stomach twisted. A heat rose to her face, half from frustration, half from humiliation. How could she be this stupid? How could she have even considered the idea that they—her parents—would be here?
They never came. Not to her recitals, not to her competitions, not to anything.
They only cared about the results. The trophy, the plaque, the proof of her success.
But not her.
Pacifica sucked in a sharp breath and spun on her heel, her movements stiff, forced. She scolded herself internally.
How dumb can I be? Seriously?
The second she stepped behind the curtain, a tight, twisting pain spread through her chest. That same dull ache from last night—no, worse. Deeper.
It hurt.
She clutched at her ribs as she pushed past the stagehand, not even glancing at him. His voice was a muffled hum in her ears. She just needed to leave.
The moment she reached the doors to the backstage hall, she shoved them open and broke into a sprint.
Her heels clicked wildly against the tiled floor as she made a beeline for the nearest bathroom. She barely made it inside before stumbling to the sink, her breath coming out in ragged gasps.
Fumbling with the faucet, she twisted it on and splashed cold water over her face, not caring about the makeup running down her cheeks.
Her hands gripped the edges of the sink. The water swirled down the drain, spiraling like her thoughts.
Slowly, hesitantly, she looked up.
Her reflection stared back.
Mascara streaked down her skin. Her eyes, rimmed red, shimmered with the tears she refused to let fall.
Her chest throbbed—deep, aching pulses of something she couldn't put into words. Like something inside her was breaking, fracturing into pieces too small to fix.
Her parents weren't there. They would never be there.
She knew that. She had always known that.
And yet, it still hurt.
More than their words ever could.
The car hummed softly as it rolled down the road, vibrating beneath her as they passed rows of trees and buildings. Pacifica sat in the back, her elbow propped against the door, chin resting against her palm. A sash draped across her torso—'Gravity Falls Beauty Pagent'—completely misspelled.
She watched the scenery pass by in a smear of colors, but her mind was elsewhere.
"Are you okay, miss?"
The voice was soft, hesitant.
She turned her head slightly, catching Benson's eyes in the rearview mirror. His grip on the wheel was firm, his gaze locked on the road ahead.
Pacifica let out a breath.
"I'm fine."
Flat. Hollow. Even she didn't believe it.
Her eyes flicked back to the window, where the landscape blurred past like smudged paint on a canvas. Benson studied her through the mirror for a moment longer.
Her other hand, resting in her lap, was clenched tight. Nails pressing into her palm. She blinked, staring out as if something new might appear. But it was all the same.
Blurred. Muddled.
Hazy—just like those glass walls she always found herself looking through.
The tightness in her chest refused to fade. A dull, throbbing weight pressed against her ribs.
She told herself she didn't care.
So why did it still hurt?
She bit her lip. Why does this get to me?
She'd spent the whole summer finding more and more reasons to hate them. Her parents. Their name. Their legacy. She kept telling herself it didn't matter. And yet, here she was.
The final nail in the coffin?
That stupid ghost.
She ran her tongue over her teeth, fingers curling slightly. A slow-burning fire had been building in her chest—small at first, but growing.
Heat curled in her throat.
Anger.
Resentment.
Hate.
The mansion came into view.
Benson pulled into the driveway, stepping out to open the door for her. She muttered a thanks, stepping out and making her way inside.
The moment she entered the foyer, her eyes swept across the polished marble floors and cold, pale walls.
Just a while ago, she had been running for her life here, a ghost lurking in the shadows behind her.
Her fingers twitched, remembering the note Dipper read.
The Echo Collector… right?
She rolled her eyes. What a stupid name. Seriously.
And yet… her body shivered slightly at the memory of it creeping from the darkness.
The way it pooled into existence. The way it lurched toward her. She tightened her arms around herself.
Dad… how could you…?
"Ah, Pacifica, there you are."
Her breath hitched.
She turned.
Preston and Priscilla stood near the sitting room, drinks in hand. Her father kept his face buried behind a newspaper. Her mother took a sip from her glass.
Priscilla hummed. "So? Did you manage to put a frown on everyone's face?"
Pacifica's grip on the sash tightened.
Her mother's gaze flickered downward.
She smirked. "Excellent! I knew that dress was the perfect choice. Right, honey?" She tapped Preston's arm.
Preston barely glanced over his newspaper. His gaze swept over her, up and down, calculating.
"Yes, I agree," he said, turning the page. "I'll read about your win in the paper tomorrow."
And just like that, he folded the paper and walked away.
Just like that…
Pacifica's fingers twitched at her sides. A slow, simmering heat built in her chest, spreading through her limbs like a creeping fire. Her jaw tightened. She muttered under her breath, the words slipping out before she even realized they were loud enough to be heard.
"Seriously…"
Priscilla stopped mid-step.
"Excuse me?"
Pacifica's breath hitched. Her vision blurred at the edges, but not from tears—no, from something deeper. A tension, a pressure, something she had been holding back for far too long.
She furrowed her brow and took a step forward, her boot hitting the marble with a sharp click. Her hands were shaking, her body buzzing like a wire about to snap.
"You… you weren't there," she spat. "Neither of you! You don't even—" She swallowed hard, emotions clogging her throat. "Why do I even do this for you? Why do I—"
The words tumbled into silence, caught between her anger and the ache lodged deep in her ribs.
Preston stopped walking. Slowly, he turned around, his brow raised in quiet warning. His voice cut through the air like a taut string pulled too tight.
"Pacifica Elise Northwest, you—"
"NO."
Her voice broke as she cut him off, louder than she meant to be.
"After what you did…"
Her breath came out ragged, her vision swimming. She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. "You don't care who I am. Just what I look like."
Preston's expression didn't change. He just stared. But she wasn't done.
Her throat tightened, the heat behind her eyes threatening to spill over. "You don't care about me. Just what I offer." A hollow laugh escaped her lips, bitter and sharp. "All that matters is that I smiled in the photos, right?"
She didn't wait for an answer. She turned on her heel and stormed toward the stairs, her pulse pounding in her ears.
Her footsteps were uneven, nearly tripping over herself in her rush to escape. She didn't stop until she was inside her room, slamming the door behind her with a force that rattled the walls.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Pacifica exhaled shakily, looking down at herself. The sash still lay across her body, the misspelled words grinning up at her like a taunt.
She gritted her teeth and ripped it off, throwing it across the room. Her hands balled into fists at her sides, shaking. The frustration clawed at her insides, burning, writhing. She turned, grabbed a pillow, and screamed into it until her voice cracked.
The scream drained out of her, leaving only ragged breathing and the dull sting of tears on her cheeks. Dark streaks of mascara stained the fabric beneath her fingertips, but she didn't care.
She stumbled to her closet, pulling open the doors with more force than necessary. Her hands searched for something, anything, comfortable to throw on. But as she reached for a shirt, her eyes caught on something else.
A dress.
Seafoam green.
Her breath stilled.
For a second—just a second—her fingers twitched toward it, an old habit, like smoothing the fabric would make everything feel normal again. But her stomach twisted.
She yanked her arm back. Her pulse pounded in her ears, louder, louder, louder.
Another reminder. Another string they tied around her life like a leash.
She turned away from it, ripping off her dress and hastily pulling on her lounge clothes instead. The crumpled fabric of her gown hit the floor in a careless heap. She'd deal with it later. Or not at all.
Pacifica strode into the bathroom, gripping the counter to steady herself.
She lifted her head.
Her reflection stared back at her, eyes red and puffy. Twin black streaks trailed down her cheeks, her hair ruffled, her bangs uneven. She was a mess.
The image in the mirror wavered, growing hazy.
She sucked in a breath, but it felt like her lungs weren't working properly.
Weirdmageddon.
The thought slammed into her like a weight to the chest. The filthy potato sack, the scavenging, the nights spent curled up in fear, wondering if she'd even wake up the next morning.
My parents…
Her stomach twisted. She could still picture them, frozen in gold, their faces broadcasted on every screen in Gravity Falls.
And she could still hear her own voice, raw and unguarded.
Even they don't deserve this…
Her hands tightened around the sink's edges.
How.
Why.
Then it clicked.
The throbbing in her chest, the sick, sinking feeling, the thing she had been trying to smother under all her anger.
Because deep down inside of her, buried beneath all the resentment and bitterness, there was still a place for them.
A small, stupid, fragile piece of her heart.
And it hurt.
A single tear slipped down her cheek, dripping onto the porcelain sink.
She hated it.
Hated that it was there. Hated that it wouldn't leave.
Because love shouldn't feel like a cage.
But hers did.
She stumbled back from the mirror, her breath uneven. The world around her blurred, the walls closing in like those glass barriers she could never quite break through.
Her room spun. Everything was spinning.
Just like my dream, she thought.
She barely made it to her bed before collapsing into the covers, curling into herself, hugging the pillow like it was the only thing keeping her from shattering completely.
And in the quiet, she couldn't stop the sobs from slipping out.
Her voice trembled, barely above a whisper.
"Why…"
Another tear slid down her cheek, lost in the fabric of the pillow.
I hate them…
Why do I love them?