The Mistress's Daughter Claims Legitimacy

Vivian sent me the address for the recognition banquet almost immediately.

It was a very familiar place—The Hillside Estate—one of the gifts my mom gave me for my eighteenth birthday.

Just last month, my father, Desmond Spencer, had borrowed it.

If I'd only suspected earlier, now I was certain: Vivian was my father's illegitimate daughter.

Not long ago, Desmond had even texted me: [Alice darling, great news. Your mom said she'll remarry me tomorrow. We're going to be one happy family again.]

My parents divorced when I was in elementary school over some unresolved issues. For years, he never gave up chasing after my mom. He constantly bought me things, messaged me, and acted like he cared.

I truly believed he loved my mother—that the divorce had happened only because their relationship had fallen apart.

But now it was clear: he never cared about either of us.

Using things my mother gave me to boost his illegitimate daughter's status—pathetic.

I wrapped up my work and assigned the rest to my team before driving to the address.

The once-cream-colored exterior walls had been painted the same shade of pink I hated.

Walking through the gates, I saw Vivian wearing my favorite couture dress—the one I kept at the estate—standing in the center like a star surrounded by planets.

Beside her stood a well-maintained middle-aged woman and a handful of our former high school classmates.

"I always felt Vivian was different back in high school. Who knew she was a real heiress?"

"Right? I heard the estate was originally bought as a coming-of-age gift for the family's heiress. Your dad must've loved you so much, Vivian. Even before he found you, you were always on his mind."

"Vivian, you're a rich heiress now. We'll be counting on you in the future!"

Even the cold, aloof school heartthrob—who barely tolerated Vivian in high school—spoke to her with a soft tone, "Vivian, you've finally overcome the hard years. We all saw how much you endured.

"So when Alice shows up, we'll make sure you get justice. Back then, I was fooled by her looks—thought she was so innocent. Didn't expect her to be so vicious, forcing you to drop out."

Vivian lowered her head slightly, her expression perfectly wounded, pretending to defend me—though the malice and calculation in her eyes were impossible to miss.

"Back then… even the principal…"

She stopped herself, as if she'd said too much.

"Forget it," she muttered. "I'll just take the blame. We were all classmates, after all."

Her hesitation only fueled their imaginations, and soon their indignation poured out.

"Alice is shameless—using her family's power to bully our class beauty!"

"Power? Please. She wore nothing but knockoffs in high school."

"If she had no background, why did the principal help her bully Vivian? Unless…"

"So disgusting. Doing things like that in high school… no wonder she claims she's 'busy' today."

The moment they saw me enter, everyone fell silent. They exchanged looks, sneering, some even covering their noses as if I carried filth with me.

Carl Winfred looked me up and down, then curled his lip in disdain.

"Alice, even if you're broke, at least wear something decent."

The others burst into laughter.

"Unbelievable. Someone like you was actually in my class? Dressed in those bargain-bin rejects? If I were you, I'd rather die than wear those cheap clothes."

"Actually… doesn't her outfit look like the one my boss wears? I heard his was custom-made."

"Custom? Yeah right. Probably a cheap copy she bought online."

"Or maybe she stole her employer's clothes to show off—pathetic."

Their insults rolled off me as I calmly replied, "I don't wear clothes other people have worn. And this is custom-made—not some cheap knockoff."

The moment the words left my mouth, Vivian's mother stepped in front of me.

She grabbed the necklace around my neck and yanked.

A sharp pull tightened around my throat—the cold chain scraped against my skin, leaving a burning sting.

Then she slapped me, hard.

"Of course it's custom," she spat. "Because my husband paid for it.

"It's bad enough your mistress mother used my husband's money—but you, his bastard daughter, dare to bully my daughter?

"You filthy wretch. How dare you show up at my daughter's recognition banquet? Isn't stealing her identity for all those years enough? Now you want to provoke her in person? You're just like your mistress mother—cheap and shameless."