Chapter 2

"Sign it! Sign it right now!"

My mother's voice was raw and cracking as she pointed at the disownment notice on the floor.

I stood there frozen, tears streaming down my face, but I couldn't force myself to move an inch.

"Enough!"

A low, stern voice cut through the chaos.

My father, George Ballmer, hurried over. He glanced at my mother, who looked half out of her mind, then shot a quick look at me. He gripped her trembling shoulders, his voice laced with a weariness he could barely hide.

"Cassandra, calm down! We're at a hospital. If you want her to sign and fingerprint it, we can do that at home with an ink pad. How is she supposed to do it here?"

At that, my mother stopped. Her bloodshot eyes locked onto him with a deadly stare.

The next second, she tore herself out of his grasp.

She rushed to the trash can in the corner and—to my horror—fished out a used single-use lancet from the blood donation kit!

"Need an ink pad? Use this!"

She lunged at me, cackling, and grabbed my left arm—the one I'd just donated blood from—with terrifying strength.

"Mom, no!"

I tried to pull away in terror, but my body was too weak from blood loss to fight back.

"Cassandra! Have you lost your mind?!"

My father tried to stop her, but she shoved him aside.

Before I could even struggle, she drove the lancet straight into my hand.

The pain was searing—like a knife through bone. I screamed.

Bright red blood welled up instantly.

She gripped my finger tightly, her eyes wild, and pressed it hard against the signature line on the disownment notice.

A blurred, distorted blood fingerprint stained the paper—and it burned like fire right through my chest.

Staring at that print, my mother let out a raw, hysterical laugh and finally let go of me.

Then, overwhelmed by the outburst, her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed.

"Cassandra!"

"Mom!"

Chaos erupted around me.

My father and sister rushed to her side in a panic.

But I was dizzy, my vision swimming. I collapsed to the floor and blacked out.

When I opened my eyes again, I was lying in that familiar, cramped storage room.

From outside the door came my mother's sharp, anguished sobbing, mingled with my father's helpless attempts to soothe her.

"George! I can't take it anymore! Every time I see her eyes, I want to die! Look at my arms—just look!"

I cracked the door open just a sliver.

Through the gap, I saw my mother's pale arms—crisscrossed with knife scars, old and new, a horrifying sight.

My father held her, his voice heavy with pain. "I know. I know how much you've suffered..."

Everyone crowded around her, hearts aching for her pain, doing everything they could to comfort her.

But not a single person thought of me.

I looked down at the back of my hand. It was swollen into a huge, angry bump, bruised purple and blue, so painful I could barely bend my fingers. The puncture wound on my arm was ringed in black-and-blue too, and every tiny movement sent a shooting pain through me.

I quietly closed the door and buried my face in my knees.

I knew, deep down, that my suffering meant nothing compared to hers.

…

Late at night, the villa finally fell into dead silence.

My mother had been sedated and was asleep. My father and sister had retreated to their rooms.

I carefully pushed open the storage room door and crept into the kitchen, like a cockroach afraid of the light.

My arm was still throbbing with a dull, burning ache. I thought maybe some ice would help—take the edge off.

Tiptoeing to the fridge, I stretched up on my toes, trying to reach the ice tray.

Then, out of nowhere, a cold voice cut through the dark behind me.

"Thief."

I flinched so hard my whole body jerked. I spun around.

Alice was leaning against the kitchen doorway, a sneer plastered across her face.

"I—I just wanted some ice..." I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper.

She walked toward me slowly, step by step, her eyes dripping with pure malice.