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For as long as I can remember, I knew my dad didn’t like me.

Other kids had their parents dropping them off at school.

Me? It was always the housekeeper.

When I got home, I’d stand nervously in front of Dad, clutching my backpack.

“Dad… could you maybe… take me to school tomorrow?”

He brushed me off with a cold look.

“Be glad I haven’t abandoned you. That’s already more than you deserve.”

I was fifteen when he shoved me aside like that. I bit back my tears, never understanding why he hated me so much after Mom died.

Because once—he loved her more than anything.

My dad wasn’t rich when they met. He was just an ordinary guy, serving drinks at a fancy party. Mom was the daughter of a well-off family. She was supposed to marry someone of her own class, not fall for anybody. But she did.

Her family cut ties with her, furious that she’d throw everything away for him. And yet, behind their anger, they couldn’t stand to see her suffer. They secretly gave her most of her inheritance as a dowry, and with it, she helped Dad start his business.

He worked hard for her. Endured humiliation for her. Slowly, his company grew, and eventually, her family had no choice but to accept them. For a while, they were the perfect love story.

And then I was born.

For ten years, our family was whole. My dad and mom spoiled me endlessly. I was their “little princess.”

Until my tenth birthday.

On the way to bake my cake together, Mom and I were kidnapped by one of Dad’s business rivals. They were desperate, reckless, already ruined, and wanted to drag us down with them.

They beat us, tortured us, and sent recordings to Dad.

He nearly lost his mind. He sent in a rescue team, but it was too late. When the kidnappers realized there was no escape, they opened fire.

Mom threw herself over me. Bullets tore through her body.

At the hospital, even with the best doctors, she couldn’t survive. Her last words were:

“Take care of our daughter.”

And then she was gone.

From that day on, Dad hated me.

He wept for three days at her funeral, then collapsed into bitterness. Every time I came near, he looked at me like I was poison. Once, when I spoke to him, he nearly strangled me on the spot.

But Mom’s final words haunted him. So he made sure I had food, clothes, and a roof over my head—yet not an ounce of love.

I thought it was my fault. That if I just worked harder, if I was smarter, he’d love me again.

I studied like my life depended on it. But instead, a year later, he brought home another girl.

Her name was Rose. She looked so much like my mom it was eerie.

Dad introduced her as my new sister.

“Rose is sweet, clever, and everything you’re not. From now on, she’s your role model. She’s also my daughter—mine and your mother’s.”

I stared at him, furious.

“She’s not my mom’s daughter. She’s a fake! I’m Mom’s only child!”

Smack!

His hand cracked across my face, his eyes colder than I’d ever seen.