Chapter 2

"What do I mean? Your parents told everyone in our social circle! You're an imposter who wormed your way into their family for cash! And now that your brother is dead, you're trying to blackmail them! You make me sick!"

The line went dead with a harsh click.

It was then I finally realized Eleanor’s threat to "ruin me completely" hadn't been an empty temper tantrum.

They had deliberately scorched the earth behind me, cutting off every single bridge I had left.

The entire world had abandoned me.

At night, the sharp pain from my surgical scar kept me wide awake. I would lie there staring blankly at the water damage and mold creeping across the ceiling.

I couldn't fathom it. How could twenty-two years of love and bonding evaporate in a single second?

I remembered when I was a little girl, burning up with a terrifying fever, and Arthur carried me into three different emergency rooms in the middle of the night.

I remembered winning my first art competition, and Eleanor wrapped me in a tight embrace, proudly announcing to every guest in the gallery: "This is my brilliant daughter, Chloe."

I remembered Leo trailing behind me on his little legs, sweetly calling out, "Chloe, wait for me!"

Those once-warm memories now felt like serrated blades, slicing my heart to ribbons over and over.

It was all fake.

Their affection had solely been contingent on me being a convenient, primed spare tire.

Now that Leo was dead, this backup organ carrier had completely outlived her usefulness.

The bitter irony was that I had willingly sacrificed a piece of my own flesh for a monstrous lie.

Two weeks later, I managed to secure a janitorial job in a quiet apartment complex.

I woke before dawn every day, scrubbing stairwells, hauling out trash bins, and wiping down hallways until twilight.

The pay was barely minimum wage, but it kept a roof over my head and food in my stomach.

I thought my life would just fade into this quiet, gray routine.

Until one afternoon, while cleaning an elevator lobby in an upscale high-rise, I spotted Eleanor.

She was draped in the latest Chanel tweed suit, arm-in-arm with a wealthy socialite, laughing radiantly.

"Oh, please don't bring up that jinx. Just mentioning her brings bad luck. I recently acquired a rare oil painting, though—you simply must come over this weekend to see it."

The socialite patted Eleanor's arm softly. "You have to stay strong. Poor Leo just wasn't destined for this world. Thankfully, your family has plenty of resources. You could always look into surrogacy or adoption again."

Eleanor sighed gracefully, arranging an elegant touch of melancholy on her face. "It's not that simple, darling. Not at my age."

The elevator doors slowly slid shut, muffling their laughter.

I stood frozen in the corridor, the mop in my blistered hands suddenly feeling as heavy as lead.

So, in her eyes, a dead son could simply be replaced by having another child.

And as for me, that "jinx," even speaking my name was considered bad luck.

The last trace of warmth in my heart froze solid.

The next day, I quit my janitorial job.

I couldn't keep rotting away at rock bottom.

I had to survive, and I had to thrive.

I was going to prove to them that this discarded "impostor" could build a flourishing life completely independent of their wealth.

Taking the modest savings I had left, I enrolled in a professional patient-care certification program.

Because I had spent years tending to Leo during his chronic illnesses, the coursework came naturally to me. I earned my private caregiver and nursing assistant credentials in record time.

I began taking shifts in hospital intensive care units, specializing in critical, bedridden patients.

It was grueling, thankless work. Every shift meant handling bodily fluids, heavy lifting, and navigating the volatile breakdowns of stressed-out families.

I gritted my teeth and endured every second of it.

Compared to the agony of being betrayed by the only family I had ever known, physical exhaustion was nothing.

One evening, I was changing the linens for an elderly, paralyzed stroke patient.

The heavy door to the private suite pushed open, and a familiar figure strode in.

It was Arthur Vance.