My Parents Faked Their Deaths to Punish Me

"Think carefully. Once you sign the contract, we won't be responsible for anything that happens."

That was what the pharmaceutical company staff told me during the clinical trial. He had repeated it many times: the contract we signed was legally binding.

After drinking the medicine, I'd be observed for five hours. If nothing went wrong, even if I died afterward, I couldn't hold them accountable.

At the time, all I wanted was to celebrate the New Year with my brother, so I signed without hesitation.

But now… looking at the cash in my hand, a wave of irony hit me. I raised a hand and wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth with my sleeve, then pushed the door open and stepped inside.

My brother hurriedly ended his phone call. When he turned, his eyes immediately caught the blood on my clothes.

"What happened?"

His expression shifted, and in a few quick steps, he was by my side, pressing my shoulders to check for injuries.

I gently pushed his hands away, keeping my tone casual. "Props blood from the set."

"Good… I thought you were hurt."

He let out a sigh of relief. Then his eyes fell on the bag of cash on the floor, and they sharpened.

"Where did this come from? Lily… you didn't steal this, did you?"

My heart sank. Suddenly, I realized how little I truly knew him.

Steal money. Was that how he actually saw me?

I clenched my fingers and, after a long moment, said softly, "The director gave it. New Year bonus."

He frowned, still doubtful.

"A bonus in cash?"

"Just say whether you want it or not." I glanced at him, irritated. "Wasn't there only 13 thousand dollars left on the debt? This covers it exactly. If you don't want it, I can give it back."

He paused, then finally put the money away.

"I'll pay off the debt tomorrow," he said.

Then he changed the subject. "What do you want to eat today? I'll cook."

I looked around.

A thirty-square-meter room, everything visible at a glance. A wardrobe, a bed, and a tiny bathroom. No kitchen—cooking meant chopping vegetables on the coffee table. A ten-dollar electric skillet, used for five years, its wires burned out twice and patched up with black tape by my brother.

I asked suddenly, softly, "Shane… aren't you tired?"

He smiled and looked back.

"No, my work's actually easy. I just lie around. The main one who's tired is you. All these years… you must be exhausted."

What I really wanted to ask was: after pretending all this, aren't you tired? With billions in the family, you could live however you wanted. Yet you choose to live like this, punishing me… aren't you tired?

But he didn't understand.

Fine. I'd be blunt.

I looked him squarely in the eyes and asked, "Shane… do you think I like to spend money?"