Chapter 7

As her parents walked toward her, Jessica took out the medical report and handed it to them.

"I hadn't planned on telling you," she said. "But now that you've seen it, there's no point in hiding it. I have late-stage stomach cancer."

Until this moment, she had believed—no, hoped—that she was still their daughter, that the news of her illness would stir some kind of sorrow in them. That was how it should be, wasn't it? A parent's heart aching for their child.

But the next second, all of that shattered.

A sharp, brutal kick landed squarely on her stomach, sending her staggering backward. She crashed against the corner of the table, pain shooting up her spine.

She gasped, gripping the edge for support, her eyes widening in disbelief at her father. "You… you…"

Before she could finish, her father slapped her.

"Jessica! Have you become the kind of person who lies through her teeth?" he shouted. "If Abby hadn't warned us beforehand that you bought blood bags to fake your illness, we might have actually believed you! You're nothing but trouble!"

Jessica took a slow, shaky breath.

She pointed at the report, her fingers trembling. She wanted to stay calm, to speak logically, but the pain, the humiliation, and the utter disappointment all crashed over her at once. When she spoke again, her voice broke, raw with emotion.

"You think I'm lying? You think a hospital report can be forged?"

Her father sneered. "Of course it can. These days, anything can be faked."

Something inside her went still.

In that moment, she realized there was no point in arguing. They would never believe her. It was a waste of breath.

So she let out a hollow chuckle. "You're right. I made it all up. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…"

Her mother cut her off. "Enough. Abby's wedding is the day after tomorrow. As her younger sister, you should be helping her, not causing unnecessary drama to steal attention. It's ridiculous."

With a faint smile, she nodded. "Of course. I'll make sure to prepare everything well. And I'll have a very special gift ready for them."

Back in her room, she opened her laptop and checked her sales orders. Another batch had just been purchased. It was enough—enough for a ticket to Paris.

Then she reached out to the wedding emcee.

She would need his cooperation.

But as soon as he heard her request, his answer was swift. "No way. I'm not getting involved in something like this. My job is to host the wedding, not meddle in who the bride is."

"What if I pay you seven thousand?" she asked. "That's more than you'd make hosting multiple weddings, isn't it?"

A long silence followed.

In the end, money won.

"…Fine," the emcee sighed. "I'll do it."

She sent him the files—every piece of evidence she had gathered. Photos, recordings, videos, everything.

'Abby, just wait. Your gift is on its way.'