Chapter 3

I woke before dawn.

I dragged out my dusty suitcase and started packing.

The closet was full of designer clothes Mom had bought.

I didn't take a single piece.

Just packed a few pilled T-shirts and two pairs of faded jeans.

I smashed open my piggy bank—eighteen hundred dollars inside.

When I dragged the suitcase downstairs, the smell of food filled the dining room.

The table was set with pan-fried buns and millet porridge.

Mom was untying her apron, her brow furrowing.

"What are you doing dragging a suitcase around at the crack of dawn? All that noise—it's deafening."

Dad sat at the table reading the newspaper, not looking up.

"Put the suitcase back and come eat. Claire's coming over today. Don't you dare put on that dead-fish face."

Claire. How affectionate.

I left the suitcase by the entrance and stood at the door.

"I'm not eating. And I don't want to see her."

Mom slammed down her chopsticks.

"Lily! What tantrum are you throwing now? Didn't we settle everything yesterday?"

"Claire already apologized. You signed the understanding. It's over."

"How can you be so petty?"

"Petty?"

I pointed to my head.

"Ms. Rachel, I have a mild concussion."

"My photos are still on her phone, but you took her out for king crab."

"This is your perspective?"

Dad threw down his newspaper, his face dark.

"You're spying on us?"

"Posting on Instagram is meant to be seen, isn't it?"

"Enough!"

Dad stood up, pointing at the door.

"You want to leave? Fine! You've got spine!"

"Once you walk out that door, don't come back! I'll act like I never had a daughter!"

"Leave your cards, phone, keys—everything!"

I pulled the house key from my pocket and tossed it on the shoe cabinet.

It made a sharp clinking sound.

"You took my phone yesterday."

"I didn't bring my bank cards—they're all in the drawer."

"As for this house..."

I looked around at the lavishly decorated mansion.

"Keep it for Claire. After all, she's more your blood than I am."

"How dare you!"

Mom grabbed the teacup from the table and hurled it at me.

It smashed against the doorframe, shards flying, one grazing my cheek.

A line of blood seeped out.

"And one more thing—don't ever say you're doing this for my own good."

"You only love yourselves and that hypocritical facade."

I grabbed the suitcase handle and pushed open the security door.

Behind me, Dad roared.

"Get out! Let her go! She'll come crawling back crying in three days!"

I didn't look back.

Three days? I'll never beg you for anything again. Not in this lifetime.

The place I found was in an old tenement building in the city's rundown district.

I'd barely set my things down when the tablet buzzed.

An unknown FaceTime request.

I hesitated, then answered.

Claire's face filled the screen.

The background was our living room. She sat in my beanbag chair—the one I never let anyone touch.

She held my limited-edition figurine in her hands.

"Oh, Lily! Heard you ran away from home?"

Her voice was sickeningly sweet.

“Ms. Rachel said you have a temper, told me not to bother with you."

"But this figurine is really nice. Ms. Rachel said I could have it. You don't mind, right?"

*Snap.*

She snapped it with force. The figurine's head broke off.

She covered her mouth in mock surprise.

"Oops, my hand slipped. You're not mad, are you?"

Mom's voice came from the background:

"Claire, don't worry about that trash. If it's broken, throw it out. I'll buy you a new one."

My fingers gripping the tablet turned white.

That figurine—I'd saved for half a year to buy it.

It was my only comfort in that house.

I took a deep breath and smiled at the screen.

"I don't mind."

"Trash deserves trash. Pretty fitting."

"Oh, and that beanbag you're sitting on? I used to keep a dog. The dog peed on it."

Claire's face changed. She jumped up.

"You're lying! There was never a dog in the house!"

"Believe what you want."

I hung up the video.

Staring at the black screen, I slumped onto the dusty floor.

My stomach rumbled.

The real test was just beginning.