Contos sobre Familial Bond e Romances com Bias e Countdown

My foster sister, Sylvia Blackwood, was so terrified of being bonded to the cold, merciless Alpha King that she rigged the lot the moment it was my turn to draw. I pulled out the Alpha King. The whole hall erupted. I looked toward my fated mate, Raymond Hale—but he wasn't looking at me. His eyes were locked on Sylvia, and only her. My brother, Carl Blackwood, didn't call out the switch either. He just let them whisper and laugh. I stood there frozen, eyes burning red. Everyone treated it like a joke. They never thought I'd actually go through with bonding with a wolf that dangerous. But staring at the same faces who once swore they'd love me forever—I finally knew. I was done. I was leaving.

My parents are music professors, and their university is always hosting these music salons and exchange events. But they never took me. After I graduated from college, I was desperate to see what it was like, so I begged my mother for a visitor's pass. She was busy helping my sister Ella fill out an application for one of those concerts, and she cut me off cold: "Everyone attending is a top-tier musician. You can't even read sheet music—walking in there, you'd just stick out like a sore thumb." A few days later, I stood in the freezing wind, listening to the applause rolling out from the auditorium. My sister stood at center stage, performing alongside a bunch of renowned musicians. That night, my mom posted a proud photo of Ella's performance on social media. Graceful. Composed. Radiant. The comments were all flattery—until one relative asked: [Why didn't you bring your Seraphina along to soak up some of the spotlight?] My mom replied: [She has zero musical talent. Too much of a philistine. Not her scene.] I stared at my phone, glancing at the six-figure offer from Wall Street, and let out a helpless laugh. My mom always favored the kid she thought was brilliant—never had a clue that I was shining somewhere else entirely. Three days left until I move out of Ohio for good. I'm taking everything she called "philistine" about me and walking out of her precious little music kingdom forever.

From the age of ten, every dollar my parents spent on me became a debt. Tuition. Clothes. Food. Even medical bills. By eighteen, I had signed one hundred and ninety-nine promissory notes. But Camilla—the daughter of the man who died protecting my parents—received everything for free. They gave her my bedroom, my inheritance bracelet, a Manhattan apartment, a Maserati, and eventually even the attention of my fiancé, Nick. My parents called it repaying her father’s sacrifice. They called my suffering “heir training.” On the eighteenth birthday Camilla and I shared, I was seriously injured in a car accident. While my family celebrated her aboard a Caribbean yacht, I begged them for three thousand dollars to pay for emergency surgery. They accused me of inventing the accident to ruin her party. Then Mom told me to sign another promissory note. That became number two hundred. I finally understood that no amount of obedience would make them choose me. So I gave myself seven days to repay every cent, surrender the DeLuca name, and end my engagement.

Mom wakes from a coma, but the nurse stops me at the ICU entrance because she has asked to see my younger sister. I think Mom has just woken up and doesn't understand what's going on, so I quickly explain that I'm her older daughter and have been taking care of her these past few days. The nurse tells me Mom already knows. Mom was in a car accident a week ago. The moment I got the call at work, I rushed to the hospital before I even had time to request leave. I sign the paperwork, pay the bills, call in every favor I can, and find the best surgeon available. For seven days, I don't go home once. I sleep on a folding cot in the hallway when I'm exhausted, barely manage to eat, and repeatedly ask the doctors for updates on Mom's condition. My younger sister only comes once, on the first day. She stays for less than ten minutes, then complains about the hospital smell and leaves. Yet after Mom is finally out of danger, the person she wants to see most is still my sister. I suppress my hurt and call her, but she impatiently tells me she's busy and will come another day. With no other choice, I ask the nurse to speak to Mom again. I explain that my sister can't come right now and ask if Mom will let me visit first. A few minutes later, the nurse returns. Mom says that if the visitor isn't her younger daughter, she doesn't want to see anyone else.

The ninety-ninth thing my adopted sister Isabella took from me was a grave in the sun. I had already paid the deposit, but the cemetery didn’t dare sell the plot to me. Because the Moretti family’s principessa wanted that plot for her dead dog. But I loved that spot. So I called my mother, the Donna of the Moretti family. Her voice cooled the moment I mentioned the grave： “Adriana, are you still pretending you have gastric cancer?” “Isabella just lost her dog. She’s suffered enough. Stop trying to take something else from her.” My father rejected my call. My brother, Luca, answered while helping Isabella choose the dog’s headstone. “Stop buying graves to frighten us. Why are you always so petty? Can't you stand to see your sister have anything good?” I looked at the oncologist’s report in my hand. Seven days. Maybe less. So even when I was truly dying, no one believed me. I chose the only plot left at the edge of the cemetery, where sunlight never reached, and signed the contract. Then I blocked my family one by one. They were right. I needed to stop begging them to care and remove myself from their lives for good. Seven days later, I died alone. That was when the Morettis finally believed me. And lost their minds with regret.

On our third wedding anniversary, Lorenzo Falcone came back from Sicily with a chest of jewels. Without thinking, he slid the chest toward my sister Vella and told her to pick first. I stared, eyes wide, and the disappointment slipped out before I could stop it: "Lorenzo. It's our anniversary. Don't I get to choose first?" He faltered for just a second. Then he said: "Lily, as a Donna, you should know how to be gracious. You can't always act like a little girl." I'd heard that for over twenty years. Since I was a child, the eldest daughter of the family, I'd long learned to step aside. Give up the horse I loved. Give up my grandfather's keepsake. Give up the chance to study abroad. Give up the voice that should've been mine. My father told me to be sensible. My mother told me to protect my little sister. When I met Lorenzo, I really thought—foolishly—that I was done giving things up. He'd pull me behind him when the gunshots rang out. He'd hold my hand when the nightmares jolted me awake. He'd say it in front of everyone, so sure of himself: "Lily is my only choice." But I was wrong. Not long after we got married, Vella moved in with us. She said she couldn't bear to be apart from me. Lorenzo promised he would treat her like his own flesh and blood, give her a little extra care. But somewhere along the way, extra attention turned into her first—without him even noticing. After she'd made her picks, she handed me the leftover brooch. Old. Tarnished. "This one suits you, sis." I looked at her. Forced a bitter smile. "Take it all. I don't want any of it." Quietly, I slipped my wedding ring off my finger and tucked it into my bag. Three days from now, I'll place it beside the divorce papers on his pillow. And then I'll walk away. From him. From this city that was never mine to begin with.

I was the biological daughter of the Moretti family, stolen and deliberately switched at birth. When they finally brought me home, everyone believed I had come for their money and power. No one said it more often than Bianca, the daughter they had raised in my place. She said poor people knew better than anyone how to look helpless, and how to trick the rich out of everything they owned. For three years, I tried to prove her wrong. I kept the surname Vale. I stayed away from Moretti Holdings. I refused every expensive gift they offered me. Then my father announced that the family was facing a liquidity crisis. Several core accounts had been frozen, and three of their transport routes had been shut down at once. I believed him. I signed an emergency cash-sale agreement for the house my adoptive mother had left me and rushed to the hotel with confirmation that eight hundred thousand dollars was waiting in escrow. Only then did I learn that there was no crisis. It had been a test. Bianca swirled the wine in her glass and smiled at the room. “She offered eight hundred thousand because she thinks she can use it to buy the entire Moretti family.” My parents did not contradict her. My father even asked whether I had known all along that the family could never truly fall. In that moment, I finally understood. No matter how much I gave, they would call it calculation. So I revoked the transfer authorization. I gave up the Moretti name, and then I gave up on them.

After my family deleted the only graduation photo I was in, I accepted a job three thousand miles away—and decided never to come home. That day, my parents, my brother, and my boyfriend took 380 photos. My twin sister, Emma, was in every one. She stood between our parents while they gazed at her proudly. I waited nearby in my cap and gown, but no one called me over. When Emma admitted she still hadn’t found a job, my boyfriend, Ethan, immediately turned to comfort her. “Apply to my company, so I can look out for you.” “Send me your résumé,” Dad said. “I’ll make a few calls and find you something. ” My brother, Ryan, handed Emma the only bottle of cold water he had brought. “My company’s hiring too. I’ll refer you.” Only then did they remember I was standing there. “You’ll find something,” Mom told me. “Your degree is pretty general, so don’t be too picky.” Later, Ethan frowned while scrolling through the photos. “Natalie’s blocking Emma in this one. I’ll delete it.” It was the only photo that proved I had been there. So they hadn’t forgotten me. They had seen me and decided I didn’t belong. Emma seemed like their only daughter. Even my boyfriend seemed to belong with her. I opened the offer I had kept hidden. It was one of the country’s leading aerospace research institutes—and nearly three thousand miles from home. I signed my name. Three days later, I would fly to Seattle and never come back.

My older sister Mia was sweet and affectionate, while I was the “smart, independent” one who supposedly needed no one. For my high school graduation, my parents promised me a trip to Hawaii. I packed a month early and planned everything. But the night before we left, Mia decided to bring Luke, my childhood sweetheart. There wasn’t room for both of us, so Mom canceled my ticket. “Mia and Luke had a fight a few days ago. They need this trip to work things out.” My brother pushed my packed suitcase toward Mia. “Take hers. It has everything you need.” Luke had once been the only person who never used my independence as a reason to leave me behind. But after he met Mia, he began making excuses for her too. Sure enough, he took my hand and spoke up for her. “Emma, you’re always more capable than Mia. She’s been a mess since our fight, and she needs me.” Mia’s eyes filled with tears. “I just want one trip where everyone I love is together.” I laughed bitterly. So they were only a complete family without me. Fine. I was done fighting for a place they had never made for me. In seven days, I would fly to Cambridge alone and start a new life.

When the wildfire reached our family’s vacation home, I dragged my younger sister, Chloe, out through the back door. By the time we circled around to the front, our parents were begging the firefighters to go inside. “We only have time to search one bedroom before the wind shifts,” a firefighter warned. “Which one?” “The upstairs bedroom!” Mom cried without hesitation. “Please save our younger daughter!” Dad gripped her shoulders. “She has asthma. She won’t survive the smoke.” Neither of them mentioned which room I had been sleeping in. My sister rushed past me. “Mom! Dad! I’m here!” Mom pulled her into her arms, sobbing, while Dad checked her for injuries and called for a paramedic. I stood only a few feet away, barefoot and bleeding. Neither of them looked at me. Finally, a firefighter noticed me. “Are you here with family?” I watched my parents cling to the daughter they had chosen. “No,” I said. “I came alone.” Then I opened the email offering me a year-long exchange at the University of Cambridge. I pressed Accept. My flight left in seventy-two hours. In three days, I would begin a new life in England. My family had no idea they were already losing their other daughter.

Bianca and I were switched before birth. She became the beloved daughter of both families. I became the girl neither one wanted. Every month, I carried a suitcase between two guest rooms while Bianca kept a bedroom, parents, and a place at the table in both estates. Then Bianca was diagnosed with a deadly blood disorder, and both families demanded that I become her stem cell donor. There was only one problem. My donor screening showed that I might be seriously ill too. They refused to read my medical report. They called my nosebleed an attention-seeking stunt. Then they forced me to voluntarily surrender every claim to both families before they would pay for my tests. The next day, I learned the truth. I had acute leukemia. Bianca had never completed the examination required to prove she was sick. I sent both families the evidence. They still didn't believe me. When they asked what I thought, I smiled and agreed to let them fly Bianca to Europe for treatment. They praised me for finally learning. While Bianca received treatment overseas, I suffered a fatal brain hemorrhage alone. As I took my final breath, I couldn't help wondering. Would they finally regret never thinking to spend more time with me?

Nine months ago, my younger sister Bianca and I were kidnapped at the Chicago docks. She saved me from an attacker. But when she woke in the hospital, she couldn't remember who she was. Instead, she believed my fiancé, Adrian De Luca, was the man she loved. My family begged me to play along until she recovered. “It's only an act,” Adrian promised. “Once she's better, everything goes back to normal.” Because Bianca had saved my life, I agreed. Then our engagement trip to Sicily became her recovery trip with Adrian. She moved into the lakefront safe house Adrian and I had chosen for our marriage. My fingerprint access was erased, our bedroom was redecorated for her, and my clothes disappeared from the closet. Everyone made the same promise: once Bianca’s memory returned, they would give back everything that belonged to me. Nine months later, she walked down the aisle at the Blackstone Hotel in the ivory wedding gown made for me. Adrian stood waiting at the altar, and the De Luca family crest bracelet he had given me was fastened around her wrist. My mother leaned close. “It’s only a wedding staged for her treatment. Don’t make a scene.” I looked at the bracelet. Someone had resized it to fit Bianca perfectly. That was when I understood. No one intended to give me my life back. I didn’t argue or cry. I opened the London partnership offer I had rejected nine times and accepted it. My flight left in four days. This time, they would learn how to live without me.