Chapter 2 Chapter 2 The Truth‌

‌That man was Henry Smith-my sister's college crush.‌

‌Maybe he just wanted to stir the pot that night when he "generously" brought me inside the Carter manor.‌

‌When Heather Carter saw me-her own daughter after ten years-there wasn't a flicker of recognition or joy. Just cold panic and undisguised irritation.‌

‌She presented me to her guests as some obscure relative's child, then pressed a wad of cash into my hand like paying off a beggar.‌

‌The truth slammed into me then: I wasn't merely abandoned. I'd been erased.‌

‌In her meticulously curated life of wealth, I was an inconvenient ghost-a smudge on her perfect portrait.‌

‌As I was shown the door, my flawless sister was still draped over Henry's arm on the dance floor, her laughter crystal clear, pretending I was invisible.‌

‌No money meant the hospital would discharge my father immediately.‌

‌And if he died? My grandmother's wrath would have consumed me-the useless burden.‌

‌Nineteen years old, utterly adrift in a city that felt like another planet.‌

‌I huddled like a stray animal on their imposing front steps, clinging to the pathetic hope she might relent.‌

‌I waited until hunger and the icy downpour finally dragged me under-not a single one of my blood came for me.‌

‌Henry was the one who picked me up. Like claiming a discarded pet.‌

‌For four years, he kept me.‌

‌He moved my father from that underfunded local hospital to a proper neurological unit in the city.‌

‌When he discovered I'd dropped out of my local college courses, he arranged-and funded-my return to full-time education.‌

‌His price? I would be his mistress.‌

‌Saying yes tasted like ash, but the alternatives were unthinkable.‌

‌Was it truly only for the money?‌

‌Or was it the dark thrill of taking something precious from the sister who discarded me?‌

‌Some answers are better left buried.‌

‌Digging too deep only unearths more pain.‌

‌...‌

‌I woke the next morning with a head full of fog and a throat scraped raw.‌

‌Caught a chill from last night's melodramatic vigil, no doubt.‌

‌I was fumbling for painkillers when the hospital rang.‌

‌My father-transferred to the city hospital after he stabilized years ago-had lain unresponsive for four years.‌

‌Now they said he'd woken up?‌

‌It sounded like a cruel joke.‌

‌Only after three separate assurances did I throw on clothes and race to the hospital.‌

‌The private suite corridor was hushed, smelling sharply of disinfectant and quiet wealth.‌

‌I was practically running towards his room when Lena's sickly-sweet voice drifted through the half-open door-‌

‌"Daddy! We're so relieved! Mom's too... overwhelmed to visit just yet, so she sent me with this."‌

‌My father's voice was a frail, unused thing, thick with effort but crackling with fury. I assumed he meant the divorce, the abandonment.‌

‌Then Lena dropped her poison:‌

‌"Mom knows she overreacted, but you understand her temper. Four years of this is punishment enough, surely? Just take the settlement. Retire somewhere peaceful. Forget all this."‌

‌Four years?‌

‌What twisted game was Heather playing now?‌

‌I edged closer and saw him-emaciated but vibrating with rage-pushing himself up in the bed.‌

‌The tendons in his neck stood out like cables.‌

‌"Keep her filthy money!"‌ ‌he rasped, the words slurred but venomous.‌ ‌"I want that woman arrested! It wasn't some hired thug-she swung that pipe herself!"‌

‌I'd always wondered why my father-who never carried more than loose change-was targeted in a "robbery."‌

‌Suddenly, the brutal sense of it crashed over me.‌‌

‌Not a random attack. An attempted killing.‌

‌It explained why she'd blocked every attempt to fund his care-she'd wanted himgone.‌

‌White-hot rage ignited in my chest, a primal scream trapped in my throat.‌

‌I kicked the door open so violently the heart monitor shrieked in protest.