Chapter 2

My father didn't read the declaration.

In his eyes, it was nothing but a jealous tantrum.

"Emma, are you done throwing your fit?"

He picked the paper up off the floor, didn't even glance at it, tore it in half, and dropped it in the trash.

"Mrs. Shen is hosting a dinner at the Prestige Club tonight. You're coming with me."

"Anya will be there too. It's a good chance to clear the air and put all this behind us."

I stared at him, disbelief written all over my face.

Put it behind us?

My right hand was shattered. I couldn't even lift a cup. The person who did it had just walked free.

And he wanted me to go celebrate with her?

"I'm not going."

Three words, flat and cold. I pushed the door open with my good hand.

Behind me, my father's voice followed — barely containing his fury.

"Emma! Why do you have to be so cruel?"

"Mrs. Shen raised Anya alone. It wasn't easy. She practically begged me to come to this dinner."

"If you don't show up, you're disrespecting me. You're as good as destroying that woman and her daughter."

I didn't look back. I walked fast, down the corridor and out into the open air, away from him.

Outside the police station, the night wind cut through me. My bones ached.

My mother's car was parked at the curb.

She saw me and rushed over, eyes red and swollen, wringing her hands.

"Sweetie, what happened? Did they open a case?"

Looking at this woman — who'd spent her whole life swallowing her pain inside that house — I felt something hollow open up in my chest.

"No case. They ruled it accidental."

My mother froze. Tears spilled down her face.

"How… your father said he'd make sure Anya faced consequences. How can they call it an accident?"

I let out a short, humorless laugh.

"Mom. Your husband is a top authority in his field."

"If he says it's an accident, then it's an accident."

"Even if the person just crushed his own daughter's hand."

My mother twisted her fingers together, visibly uncomfortable.

"I… I'm sure your father had his reasons."

"That woman — she did save his life once, all those years ago…"

"Stop."

I cut her off.

"Take me to the hospital. I need nerve repair surgery."

My mother hesitated, glancing at her phone.

"The thing is… your father just texted. He wants us both to go straight to the Prestige Club."

"He said if we don't show up tonight, he'll cut off my allowance."

I looked at her.

Forty-five years old. Living like a ghost wearing someone else's skin.

Every cent she had came from my father. She didn't even dare raise her voice at him.

"Then you can go."

I took out my phone and called a rideshare.

"I'll get there myself."

"Emma, please don't—"

She reached for me. I stepped back.

"Mom. If you still want to be my mother, don't go to that dinner."

"If you go, then as far as I'm concerned, you never had me."

The car arrived.

Through the window, I watched my mother standing on the curb, torn.

Then she sighed, turned around, and got in her own car.

Heading toward the Prestige Club.

I closed my eyes. The tears finally came.

This was my family.

A father drowning in a love that wasn't meant for us. A mother too weak to swim against the current.

And me — the unwanted sacrifice caught in the middle.

---

Back at the hospital, I'd barely lay down when my phone started buzzing nonstop.

On Instagram, Anya had posted a nine-photo spread.

She was in a designer gown, seated at a grand piano that probably cost more than most people's apartments.

My father stood behind her, smiling — warm, paternal, like something out of a catalog.

The caption read: "Grateful for Dr. Lin's integrity, and for my mom's love. Real talent doesn't bow to rumors. Cheers!"

Integrity? Real talent?

Go to hell.

I tapped the comments.

All her socialite friends, falling over themselves.

"Anya, you're amazing!"

"Dr. Lin truly put principle over family — respect!"

"Whatever happened to that girl who played piano like she was punching it? She couldn't even make it to toast her?"

Anya replied: "Probably home losing her mind, lol lol lol."

I stared at the screen. My good hand clenched into a fist.

Then a new notification popped up. A money transfer.

From my father.

Amount: $200.

Note: "Stop acting out. Get yourself some vitamins. I've already told Mrs. Shen she doesn't need to cover your rehab costs — they're preparing for an international tour and expenses are tight. Try to be understanding."

I read it twice. My stomach turned over.

I wanted to be sick.

I threw my phone at the wall.

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