13
“Kneel down and apologize to them immediately!” the manager hissed.
I pulled off my rubber gloves and threw them to the ground. “I quit.”
The manager froze for a moment before sneering coldly. “Fine, quit if you want. But you won’t get a single penny of your wages.”
I nodded silently and turned to leave.
But Rianne’s soft voice stopped me. “Wait.”
The manager quickly stepped in front of me to block my way.
Rianne said, “Sis, you just insulted our parents. Shouldn’t you apologize before leaving?”
I let out a cold laugh and tried to walk away. But my mother turned to the manager and said, “I don’t want to dirty
my hands. Teach her a lesson for me–I’ll give you a thousand dollars for every slap.”
Without hesitation, the manager grabbed me by the neck and started slapping me hard across the face.
“One… two… three… four…” he counted excitedly, his voice full of glee.
The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.
For the past year, I had worked tirelessly, juggling three jobs every day. I lived on nothing but pickled vegetables and steamed buns, saving every penny to send to the so–called kidnappers. All I wanted was for them to treat my parents well and stop hurting them.
But now, seeing my parents, they casually threw away tens of thousands just to have someone slap me. The jewelry store was filled with people, all watching me with gloating expressions.
10:30 AM
A Fake Poverty that My Parent Build for Me
Ο
I could hear their whispers.
“Who is she? Why is she being beaten?”
“Apparently, she tried to scam Mr. and Mrs. Sanders, claiming to be their long–lost daughter. Pathetic, right? She must be desperate for money.”
“Look at her. She does have a conniving face. Serves her right.”
I closed my eyes in despair.
No wonder they never brought me to public events after they found me.
No wonder they restricted my movements, forbidding me from leaving the house.
It wasn’t to protect me. They didn’t want to acknowledge my existence. They didn’t want the public to know
about me.
They had already planned to cast me aside.
But why search for me in the first place?
Maybe they never truly wanted to find me. Maybe the missing daughter campaign was just a ploy to boost their
reputation, to paint themselves as a family who valued love and kinship.
With Aunt Zamara’s encouragement, I had spent ten years searching for my biological parents. When I finally found them, I thought they loved me, that they had been looking for me all along.
I was so naive. I threw myself into their cold, unfeeling home, only to be met with rejection and cruelty.
It took being battered and broken to realize that I was never meant to be a part of their world.
“Enough,” my father said coldly. “Let’s go. There’s no need to waste any more time here.”
The rich care deeply about appearances. I understood what he meant.
Before leaving, my mother scribbled out a check and casually tossed it on the ground.
The manager eagerly picked it up, thanking her profusely.
Then, as if to complete his task, he dragged me out of the store and delivered one final kick. “Get out of here! And
stay far away!”
My face was swollen, and as I stumbled down the street, people stared and pointed at me.
Some even raised their phones, shoving them in my face to record my humiliation.
Covering my face, I ran out of the building.
It was raining outside. Cold droplets struck my battered face, making the pain even worse.
Splash!
A luxury car sped past, drenching me in muddy water.
I didn’t move in time and fell to the side of the road.
As I lay there, I recognized the car–it belonged to my parents.
They drove off, heading back to their opulent mansion, glowing in the distance.
While I was like a drenched stray dog, trudging back to the slums–a filthy, broken–down rental in the poor
part of the city.
That was the cheapest place I could find to live.
