"Haha! How does it feel to watch your precious fiancé stop defending you?"
I didn't reply. I just screenshotted the conversation. My phone was already filled with our chat history. I hoped that one day, everyone would see the truth.
…
I composed myself and went to my other home—the sanctuary I always retreated to when the world became too much. My six-year-old adopted sister, Layla Rossi, lived there.
She was the daughter of one of my father's most loyal, deceased men, and I saw a reflection of my younger self in her. So I adopted her and made her my sister.
"Margaret, you're here! I won first place in the school art competition!" She threw herself into my arms the moment I opened the door.
I ruffled her hair.
"You're so clever. How about I take you out for a celebratory treat?"
She didn't know I was terminally ill. And I didn't want her to. Telling her would only bring more pain.
"Yay! Let's go get tiramisu!"
"Okay."
We always went to that dessert shop whenever I rewarded her. But I would never take her to the restaurant my father had loved most. I wouldn't go there. Not ever again.
After we arrived, I placed our order. Before long, Yzail and Gloria suddenly strode in. When Gloria saw me, her hand flew to her mouth in a theatrical gasp.
"Oh, my God! Margaret, is that your child?"
I wanted to stitch her poisonous mouth shut.
Yzail strode over, his voice sharp. "Whose child is this?"
"Hello, I'm Layla Rossi, Margaret's adopted sister," Layla replied politely.
They fell silent. But Yzail quickly found a new angle for his mockery. "You claimed you were sick at the gala, and yet here you are, eating dessert."
"Margaret, you don't even blink when you lie anymore."
With that, he and Gloria left.
Halfway through my dessert, a sharp pain shot through my chest, and I coughed up a mouthful of blood.
"Margaret! What's wrong?" Layla cried out, grabbing onto me.
The pain made my head spin.
"I... I'm fine," I stammered, trying to hold myself together.
Just then, I saw Yzail, who had already left, rushing back toward our table.
How ridiculous. Didn't he think I was faking it? Why the sudden concern?
When I woke up again, I was in the family's private hospital. The moment I opened my eyes, another stinging slap cracked across my face.
I blinked, my focus landing on Yzail glaring down at me.
"Are you done with your act? You knew Gloria and I were going to that dessert shop, so you coughed up blood and fainted in front of us on purpose, didn't you?"
"Don't hit Margaret!" Layla rushed over and pushed him away.
"Layla, come here," I called out softly.
Layla obediently took my hand. Then, I looked up at this brother who shared my blood. The place he had hit stung, and my heart shattered.
He was the family's Underboss, for God's sake. If he had bothered to do a shred of real investigation, or even just looked—truly looked—at my face, he would have seen the deathly pallor clinging to my skin. But he didn't.
