Evan’s World: Episode 14 – A Madison’s World Side Story

Charity lay curled in Evan’s lap, her limbs tucked close as she felt the rhythmic rise and fall of the thigh beneath her. The soft stroking of Evan’s fingers along her back and through her short, uneven hair brought an involuntary warmth to her cheeks. She was mortified to admit, even to herself, that it comforted her. That her body relaxed under the weight of Evan’s gentle touch. That some primal instinct responded to being cared for like this. Like a pet. 

The jingling collar around her neck, cool against her skin, was a constant reminder of her status. Of her powerlessness. And yet… even as she tried to keep her thoughts her own, she wasn’t sure her body agreed. 

Then, Evan clicked her laptop open. 

The moment Charity heard the voice, that voice, she stiffened. 

Sara Reeves. 

Charity’s breath caught as Sarandipity’s stream lit up the screen. The too bright smile, the peppy cadence, the crowd of adoring fans lighting up the chat. The charismatic, glitter drenched persona of Sara filled the room like a punch to the gut. 

Charity’s stomach twisted. Her eyes snapped to the small logo etched onto the metal of her habitat nearby, the Sarandipity insignia. 

The same hands that helped design the very structure she now slept in. The brand name bedding. The arrangement of amenities sized just for her. All chosen or endorsed by Sara. 

The humiliation burned deep. 

It wasn’t just a fleeting embarrassment. It was suffocating, like a fog of shame wrapping around her tiny frame and refusing to let go. Charity felt the heat rise into her cheeks, not just from Evan’s lap, but from something buried far deeper: the sting of having been right about herself in the worst possible way. 

She remembered Sara’s words, back when Sara was just Sara Reeves, a wallflower nobody who somehow managed to dig her heels in and grow a spine. Charity could still hear her, quiet but firm, like the crack of a branch under tension. 

“You think you’ll always be on top. But you’re just one fall away from being collared.” 

At the time, Charity had scoffed. Called her delusional. Mocked her with that smug smile she was so good at. And yet, Sara hadn’t said it with cruelty. She had said it like she knew. 

And now, the grotesque prophecy had unfolded just as Sara predicted: Charity was owned. Her meals were pellets, measured and selected by someone else. Her water was poured into a shallow ceramic dish like she was a hamster. Her clothes came from Little Mart instead of designer boutiques. 

Existence itself wasn’t something she had a say in anymore. It was granted by Evan. At her whim. A privilege. A gift. 

And now, from Evan’s laptop, that same voice, Sara’s, filled the room. 

Charity tensed in Evan’s lap. Her whole body drew tight like a spring. Her stomach churned, the sound of Sara’s voice seeping into her ears like syrupy poison. The chirp of her speech, the bright cadence she used with her chat, the casual affection in how she greeted her fans, it was too much. 

Charity could feel the pixels on screen bearing down on her, each frame of Sara’s smiling face reminding her that she had won. Not just survived, but thrived. Sara wasn’t just a guardian. She wasn’t just dating someone gorgeous and powerful. She was the face of LittleMart. The number one guardian in the world. A celebrity. A queen. 

And she had designed the habitat Charity lived in. 

Charity’s eyes flicked to the cage in the corner. The sleek, polished acrylic. The branded bedding. That insipid little Sarandipity logo etched into the base, like a stamp of ownership. Her entire existence, her bed, her food, her status, was built and endorsed by the girl she used to torment. 

A sickening sense of vertigo rolled over her. 

Her lips trembled. “No, please…” she whispered, barely audible, like a wind brushing dead leaves. 

But Evan didn’t hear. 

She was too busy leaning forward on the bed, eyes wide with glee, her fingers typing quickly across the keyboard. She shifted slightly, causing the soft pajama fabric beneath Charity to rise and fall like a warm, swaying tide. To Evan, it was nothing. A minor movement. But for Charity, it was everything, another reminder of just how small and helpless she was. A passenger on a giant’s body. 

Charity’s eyes darted back to the screen just in time to see the message go through: 

“Oh my gosh, Sarandipity huge fan. I just wanted to let you know I have your friend Charity Stevens. She’s my little now.” 

Her world cracked. 

Charity’s body seized up. Her hands, smaller than a thimble, balled into tiny fists against Evan’s thigh. She wanted to scream. To leap up and slap the keyboard away. To stop this before it reached Sara. Before it reached the thousands watching. Before her last shred of dignity was peeled away. 

But she couldn’t. She didn’t. 

The stream rolled on with casual energy for a moment, music, fan banter, a bright comment about someone’s fan art. Charity held her breath. 

Then Sara paused. 

Her brows pulled slightly together. Her perfectly framed face leaned toward the screen. She was scrolling, eyes narrowing just a touch, like a radar locking on. 

“Oh no…” Charity breathed again, her whisper laced with dread. 

Sara’s eyes flickered with recognition. 

Then she smiled. 

Sara’s smile hadn’t even fully faded from the screen before Evan squealed. “Oh my god, Charity, she’s inviting us into the Discord chat!” 

Charity’s stomach dropped. It was the kind of sensation that seemed too big for her small frame, like she could feel her heart thudding in her chest and in her ears and behind her eyes all at once. 

Evan’s hand, massive and warm, instinctively reached up to smooth Charity’s hair. A gesture meant to be affectionate, but to Charity it felt like being groomed. Her head was gently tilted without consent, fingers flattening a tuft of her cropped hair. 

“Does my hair look okay? Ugh, I shouldn’t have worn sweats, this is literally royalty. Charity, sit up straight, look presentable. Don’t embarrass me.” 

The absurdity of it cut like a blade. Sit up straight. Look presentable. As if she were a living accessory. A decorative creature perched in the lap of a teenage girl trying to impress a celebrity. 

Evan clicked the invite. 

The Discord interface opened with a cheerful bloop, and a moment later, their webcam lit up. Charity flinched as the little green light glowed beside the lens, confirming what she dreaded, they were live. 

Then she saw it. The screen. The window. The full body shot of Evan, sitting on her bed, wide-eyed and glowing. And there, nestled in her lap, was Charity. Barely visible.  Five and a half inches tall, dwarfed by the sweep of Evan’s pajama leg, barely more than a twitch of movement to most viewers. 

Charity’s breath hitched. 

The sheer scale of it, the exposure, was paralyzing. 

She didn’t have a voice here. Not one that could compete with what was about to happen. 

Then came the story. 

Evan launched into it with bright, sugary enthusiasm. Her voice was animated, bouncy, full of affection and subtle self-congratulation. She talked about how she first saw Charity. How sad she looked. How they stepped in to help Alejandra, how their family had sponsored her and was building them a home. How they took Charity in when she had nowhere else to go. 

It was a fairytale. 

And in a sick way, it worked. The chat exploded in hearts and emojis. Viewers commented things like “You’re such a good guardian 🥺” and “This is what Littles need, real homes, real love!!” 

Charity’s jaw clenched. 

She opened her mouth, tried to speak, to interrupt. But even if her voice hadn’t been weakened from weeks of little use, even if her vocal cords weren’t barely functional after being malformed, it wouldn’t have mattered. Evan’s voice filled the stream, Sara was nodding along, and the stream delay swallowed her protests. 

Her own story. Her own trauma. Her fall from daughter of privilege to collared pet. 

All being rebranded as inspiration porn for a crowd of strangers. 

Charity’s hands gripped the fabric of Evan’s pants, but not even Evan noticed. 

She couldn’t even shift. Couldn’t stand. Couldn’t walk off-screen. 

All she could do was sit. Perched and silent. Displayed like a relic. 

Then the stream transitioned. 

The music changed, the screen faded, and the stream’s logo appeared in the corner. It was over. 

But Sara lingered. 

“Evan,” she said gently, still on camera. “Could you give us a moment?” 

Evan blinked, surprised. “Uh, yeah, of course!” She smiled quickly at Charity, and stepped away, her towering frame moving out of frame, leaving Charity suddenly center screen, alone, vulnerable. 

Sara leaned in. 

The bubbly energy was gone. Her streamer voice had faded. What replaced it was something measured, calm, deliberate. But her eyes… her eyes were harder to read. 

“Charity,” she said quietly. “It’s good to see you.” 

The words struck like a needle. Not hostile. Not mocking. Just… level. Like a truth acknowledged without emotion. A fact. 

Charity sat frozen, her muscles tight. Her breath shallow. 

“When you disappeared,” Sara continued, “a lot of us feared the worst. It looks like you have quite the guardian. I didn’t think I’d ever get to tell you this.” 

She paused. 

Not dramatically. Not performatively. 

Just long enough. 

Sara’s gaze flicked, subtly, off camera. Like she was weighing something. Searching. Her jaw tightened, just a fraction. Barely perceptible. 

And Charity’s heart clenched. 

What was that? 
Was she going to say something else? 
Was this the moment she’d unload everything, tear into her, drag her into the dirt for what she did? 

The silence stretched half a second too long. 

And then Sara looked back into the camera. 

“I forgive you, Charity.” 

The words landed like a guillotine. 

But the blade never dropped. 

Instead, the weight settled in Charity’s chest. Heavy. Unmoving. 

Sara’s eyes lingered on the screen, soft but unreadable. Her streamer voice was gone, no hint of performance now. Just stillness. Just her. 

“Forgiveness isn’t always for the forgiven,” she said finally, her tone low, resolute. “It’s how we close a chapter without letting it rot the rest of the story. I’ve moved on, with Chloe, with Jordy, with a life that’s full. But I’m not erasing what happened. I remember all of it.” 

She paused. 

Charity’s breath hitched. The silence stretched just long enough for panic to curl in her chest. 

Was she reconsidering? 

Then Sara’s expression softened, not into pity, not into fondness, but something quieter. Wiser. 

“I hope someday you find something that lets you breathe again. Even if it’s not absolution. Even if it’s just… surrender.” 

She looked slightly off camera then, as if speaking to something larger than either of them. 

“And if you can’t forgive yourself, Charity, I pray you meet a grace bigger than your guilt.” 

Sara smiled. Gently. Not smug. Not gloating. Not victorious. 

Just… done. 

And then she ended the call. 

The screen went dark. 

Charity sat, trembling, staring at the empty black rectangle like it might still echo. Like it might flicker back on with a proper punishment. A scream. A reckoning. 

But no. 

She got grace. 

Cold, clinical, surgical grace. 

And it undid her more completely than hate ever could. 

Charity sat in stunned silence. Her breath was shallow. Her limbs wouldn’t move. 

Forgiveness. 

That was the final blow. Sara hadn’t gloated. Hadn’t exposed her. Hadn’t used the stream to humiliate her in front of Evan’s friends, or her viewers, or the world. 

No. Instead, she’d offered peace. Closure. 

Charity wanted to scream. 

Because it meant that Sara won. She got the final word. The dignity. The grace. The world. 

And all Charity had left was the jingling of her collar, the echo of the stream’s outro music, and the slow return of Evan’s footsteps. 

The bed shifted again. Evan sat down, her phone already in hand. 

“What was that about?” she asked casually, scrolling without looking up. “Did you guys have some big fight or something before you caught smallara?” 

Charity forced herself to speak. “You could say that.” 

And that was it. 

Sara had moved on. 

And Charity, Charity had to live with it. Collared. Displayed. Caged in a habitat designed by the girl she once tried to destroy. 

She curled tighter into Evan’s lap. 

Because there was nowhere else to go. 

Evan sat cross legged on her bed, fingers flying over her phone’s keyboard with bursts of emoji laced commentary. The screen’s glow reflected in her eyes, her face flushed with post-stream excitement. Charity curled in her lap, still recovering from the digital guillotine of Sara’s grace. 

“I hope I don’t look like I’m flexing too hard,” Evan mumbled, mostly to herself as she scrolled. “I want people to like Charity because she’s sweet, not just because I scored a famous one.” 

Charity’s jaw tightened. 

Sweet. 

That’s what she was now. 

A flavor. A scent. A tone Evan had chosen and now wanted everyone to admire her for perfecting. 

She wasn’t being remembered. She was being rebranded. 

Evan paused mid text and giggled softly. “Oh my god, someone just said I’m ‘setting the bar for new guardians.’ That’s kind of amazing, right?” Her fingers tapped again. “Gonna say it was mostly Sara’s advice though. Keep it humble.” 

Charity stared ahead, eyes glassy. 

Even Evan’s modesty was performative. A virtue repackaged for likes and clout. She wasn’t trying to dominate Charity. She didn’t need to. 

She believed she was saving her. 

The worst part? Evan believed all of this was good. 

That the new haircut, the bath scent, the collar, the cage, were gifts. That this was a memory being built. A friendship, even. 

“I think we’re a good match,” Evan had said earlier. 

Charity wanted to scream. 

Because she understood now, the horror wasn’t Evan’s malice. 

It was her affection. 

Evan continued idly scrolling through her phone again, the glow of the screen casting soft flickers of light across her face. Her free hand rested loosely around Charity’s curled frame, occasionally stroking the top of her short-cropped hair with distracted affection. Charity curled tighter into Evan’s lap, pressing her face into the soft fabric of her pajama pants, wishing the folds would swallow her whole. 

She felt so small. And not just in stature. 

She was tired, emotionally, physically, existentially. She felt like a specter in someone else’s story. Powerless. Reduced. Forgotten by the world she once controlled. There was no home she could return to, no school, no title, no father’s name to shield her. No future plan. No next step. Just the rhythmic rise and fall of Evan’s leg beneath her like a living cushion. Just her. A pet. 

There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. 

Only the muffled thrum of Evan’s heartbeat beneath her, the faint scent of her lavender body lotion, and the harsh reality that this, this, was her life now. 

The sting of that realization sat heavy in her chest: Evan Kingsley, once a background character in her social periphery, was now the main character of her life. Her guardian. Her future. 

And Sarandipity, the pig she had once belittled in hallways, whose flaws she had cataloged and weaponized, was now a global icon. A queen on a digital throne, adored by millions. A girl who had outgrown her. Outshined her. Outlived her reputation and bloomed in its ashes. 

Well after the stream ended, Evan was still glowing, her excitement undampened by the gravity of what had happened earlier. 

“Can you believe that?” she gushed, grinning down at her phone as she swiped through a growing wall of heart emojis, replies, and screen captures from the stream. “I was on Sarandipity’s stream. With you! You’re, like, famous now. Retroactively famous. That was so epic.” 

Charity didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Her tiny hands gripped the hem of Evan’s shirt like it was a lifeline, her fingers trembling. She couldn’t look at the screen. She couldn’t look at Evan. Her cheeks still burned from the exposure, the unwanted limelight. The sound of Sara’s voice, so calm, so self-assured, so kind, still echoed like a dull ache inside her. 

Sara had won. 

Even in forgiveness, she had won. 

Charity had wanted to shrink herself in the moment, and not just physically. She wanted to disappear, to not exist in the story Evan had painted, or in the version of her life that was now part of Sara’s brand. She was a footnote in someone else’s rise. A discarded antagonist, brushed aside by the heroine’s magnanimity. 

“Did you hear her voice?” Evan cooed, her tone giddy and breathless. “So elegant. And she said your name like you were someone. She totally remembered you. Ugh, I hope I didn’t sound like a dork. I should’ve worn a nicer hoodie…” 

Charity closed her eyes. 

She didn’t want to admit it, but there had been a moment during the stream, just a flicker, where she saw Evan as something more than a brat with a leash. Where she saw the reverence in her eyes. The childlike awe as she looked up at the screen and talked to Sara with starstruck joy. Evan hadn’t just been proud to own her; she had wanted her to be part of something bigger. Something validated. 

And that was almost worse. 

Because for the briefest moment… Charity had wanted it too. 

The dopamine hit of recognition. The thrill of being known, even in this new context. It had pierced through her shame and lit up something inside her. Something she didn’t want to admit she felt. Not to Evan. Not even to herself. 

But it faded quickly, replaced by the cold reality of her place. Of what she’d become. 

Evan tossed her phone aside with a satisfied little sigh and leaned back into her pillows, her other arm tightening slightly around Charity like she was settling in with a favorite plushie. 

“You were great,” she murmured lazily. “Like, so great. I bet everyone’s going to be asking about you on her next stream. I’ll have to post some updates, ‘Little Life with Charity Kingsley,’ or something. Ooh, maybe I’ll start an Insta.” 

Charity said nothing. She just let the sound of Evan’s heartbeat beneath her lull her into numbness. She hated that she couldn’t escape it. That her tiny body fit so perfectly into Evan’s lap. That the steady rhythm of her guardian’s voice was starting to feel familiar. Reassuring. That her body no longer recoiled from Evan’s touch. 

“You’re being really quiet,” Evan said, her voice slicing gently through the silence. She glanced down at her lap, where Charity lay curled like a sleeping kitten, her cheek pressed into the soft cotton of Evan’s hoodie. 

“You okay?” 

Charity didn’t answer. Her lips parted as if to speak, but the breath caught in her throat and stayed there, trapped. She stared straight ahead, past the glowing laptop, past the discarded phone buzzing with fresh notifications, her eyes unfocused. 

“I mean,” Evan continued, her tone light, oblivious to the emotional wreckage smoldering just inches beneath her palm, “I thought you’d be happy. You and her were friends, right?” 

That word, friends, landed like a slap. 

Charity’s fingers dug deeper into the folds of Evan’s hoodie fabric, tiny fists clenching, unclenching. She didn’t look up. Couldn’t. 

“You should be flattered,” Evan said, with the clueless ease of someone who had never had to survive another person’s popularity. “She remembered you.” 

Charity’s shoulders stiffened. Of course Sara had remembered her. She had every right to. Charity hadn’t just mocked her, she had erased her, tried to grind down every ounce of her identity until she was a ghost. And now that ghost had risen, smiling, powerful, dressed in gloss and glitter, wielding forgiveness like a weapon. 

Evan sighed, gently petting down the length of Charity’s back. “Okay. Look. I don’t know what all happened between you two, but I just want you to know I’m proud of you, okay? And I don’t mean, like, because you’re famous or whatever. I mean because you’re mine now. And I think we’re a good match.” 

The words settled over Charity like a weighted blanket. She couldn’t breathe. Evan said it like it was a comfort. Like possession was a gift. 

I think we’re a good match. 

Charity swallowed hard. Her mouth was so dry it felt like dust on her tongue. She wanted to scream. To sob. To leap from Evan’s lap and hurl herself at the laptop, tearing down every pixel of the image that had just broadcast her humiliation to the world. 

But she had nowhere to go. 

The moment Sara forgave her, on stream, in front of tens of thousands, something fundamental had been taken from her. That sliver of moral high ground she had clung to like a splinter of driftwood? Gone. Sara had removed it with surgical precision, smiling gently as she did it. Charity could no longer say you don’t know what she did to me, because Sara had known. Had acknowledged it. And then forgiven her. 

That was the final blow. Not cruelty. Not vengeance. Kindness. 

She was cornered now. A pet without a leash tugged taut but with nowhere to run. 

“You want your pellets now?” Evan asked softly, as if offering a warm drink to a child. 

Charity didn’t speak. She just nodded, small and hollow. 

“Okay,” Evan said, carefully slipping her fingers beneath Charity’s curled body. Her touch was gentle, but it didn’t have to be. She could’ve gripped her like a doll and nothing would’ve stopped her. The size difference made every action feel like a reminder. 

Charity was lifted up, her whole world shifting around her. Evan’s hand curled protectively, cupping her close to her chest. The thrum of the girl’s heart was steady beneath the fabric, and Charity could feel the warmth of her skin radiating in waves. It should’ve comforted her. And in some twisted way, it did. But she hated it. 

As Evan walked toward the far side of the room, they passed the mirror. 

Charity’s eyes, drawn as if by gravity, flicked to their reflection. 

What she saw stopped her breath. 

There she was. Cradled in Evan’s hand like a fragile creature. Five inches tall. A tiny head poking from between the folds of fingers, her bare legs dangling against the soft webbing of Evan’s palm. Her eyes, once sharp, cold, commanding, looked lost. She could hardly recognize herself. 

And then she looked up. At Evan. 

The towering  girl who owned her. Who streamed her. Who introduced her to the world with pride. 

Sara had forgiven her. 

Evan had showcased her. 

And the world had accepted it. 

Charity Kingsley, formerly Stevens. Once an heiress, now a house pet. A segment on a livestream. A bullet point on someone else’s highlight reel. 

Evan reached the desk and lowered her gently into her habitat, Sara’s habitat. The branded enclosure loomed around her, decorated in soft colors and insufferably cheerful decals. She hated it. She hated how well-made it was. How safe it felt. How the mattress was soft and the corners were padded. How her little food dish had a faint scent of honey oat. How the water glimmered in its miniature reservoir like it was filtered just for her. 

Evan sprinkled a handful of the dinner blend into her bowl with the same attention someone might show when feeding a hamster. 

“There you go,” she said warmly. “Dinner time, Charizard.” 

Charity flinched at the nickname. It was silly. Infantile. But it felt final. Like Evan had already started writing new chapters of her story, and this was just how things were now. 

As Evan retreated back to her desk, humming softly, the sounds of tapping resumed, another message to Brooklyn or Madison, no doubt. Another update. Another version of events. 

Charity stared down at the flavored pellets in her bowl. 

She didn’t cry. 

But she felt something deeper. A sense of sinking. Like she was being slowly submerged in a world she couldn’t escape from. Where every gesture, every touch, every glance from her guardian rewrote who she was. 

And as the room dimmed and Evan flicked off the overhead light, the glow of the laptop still illuminated her face, smiling, proud, distracted. 

Charity turned back toward the habitat wall and lay down on the soft bed. 

She curled in on herself, the scent of lavender and vanilla rising from her skin thanks to that humiliating little fragrance bath. Potpourri for a teenage girl’s room. 

She tried to close her eyes. 

But all she could see was the mirror. 

And the girl holding her. 

There were no more stories to tell for Charity. Only the one she was now living, page by page, breath by breath, beneath the thumb of Evan Kingsley. 

Related Images: