Their Fake Death Was The Start Of My Revenge

"Think this through carefully. Once the contract is signed, we aren't responsible for any complications that might arise."

That was the heads-up the pharmaceutical company gave me before the clinical trial.

The representative stressed it again and again. The contract we signed was legally binding.

After taking the dose, I'd be observed for five hours. If I walked out fine, they were clear of any liability for whatever happened to me afterward—even death.

At the time, all I could think about was giving my older sister, Priscilla Lennox, a decent New Year, so I signed my name without a second thought.

But now…

I looked down at the wad of cash in my hand, a wave of bitter irony washing over me.

I raised my hand and wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth with my sleeve, then pushed the door open and stepped inside.

As soon as Priscilla realized I was back, she hurriedly ended the call. When she turned around, her eyes immediately landed on the blood staining my shirt.

"What happened?" she gasped.

Her expression shifted instantly. She rushed over in a few quick strides and grabbed my shoulders, frantically checking me for injuries.

I brushed her hands away, keeping my tone casual. "It's nothing. Just fake blood from the film set."

"Oh, thank God. I thought you were actually hurt."

She let out a sigh of relief.

Then, her gaze sharpened as she noticed the money in my hand.

"Where did this come from?" she asked, her voice dropping. "Perry, you didn't steal this, did you?"

My heart sank. Suddenly, it felt like I didn't know her at all.

Stealing? Was that really what she thought of me?

I clenched my fists, letting a long silence hang between us before I replied softly, "The director handed out New Year's bonuses to the crew."

She frowned, her suspicion lingering. "A bonus in straight cash?"

"Just tell me—do you want it or not?" I snapped, shooting her an irritated look. "You said we only had 130 grand left on the debt. This covers it. If you don't want it, fine. I'll give it back."

She fell silent for a moment before finally reaching out and putting it away. "I'll go pay off the debt tomorrow," she murmured.

Then, she forced a change of subject. "What do you want for dinner? I'll make something."

I looked around the room. It was a tiny studio apartment, barely 320 square feet—small enough to take in at a single glance.

It was sparse, furnished only with a wardrobe, a bed, and a cramped bathroom.

There was no kitchen, and we had to prepare our meals on the coffee table.

The ten-buck electric skillet had been going strong for five years. Its cord had shorted out twice, but Priscilla had simply patched it up with black electrical tape.

Out of nowhere, I asked, "Priscilla, aren't you tired of this?"

She looked back at me with a smile. "Not at all. My job is actually pretty easy. I just have to lie there."

Then her smile faltered. "But Perry… all these years… you must be exhausted, right?"

What I really wanted to ask was whether she was tired of the act. With a family fortune worth billions, we could have been living like royalty. Yet she chose to scrape by like this just to punish me.

Wasn't she exhausted by the charade?

But she clearly didn't catch my drift.

Fine. I'd be more blunt.

I looked her straight in the eye. "Priscilla, do you really think I'm a big spender?"