Chapter 2

I choked down the stale cake, the bitterness matching my own.

I knew he didn’t want to see me, so I wisely pushed myself up, my leg throbbing, desperate to get out of his sight.

But the cancer in my brain had spread to my eyes, and I could barely see the path ahead.

I hunched over, my hands reaching out, fumbling my way forward, slowly.

Then I heard it—a few harsh laughs. It was Albert’s friends.

“Oh, look at her, playing the crippled beggar card to make Albert pity her and take her home early.”

“She’s really going all out, isn’t she? No shame, especially in public like this!”

“Seriously, Albert’s a billionaire. She’s totally embarrassing him.”

Albert’s face went dark with anger, his pride clearly wounded. He growled, barely suppressing his fury.

“Stella, when I say one month, I mean one month. Not a day sooner will I take you back.”

“Besides, I specifically told them to be decent to you. You were only supposed to face some hardships, not end up like *this*! This act is sickening.”

I froze. *Be decent to me?*

Past pains flooded my mind, a tide of memories. In the end, I just shook my head with a faint smile and kept moving.

But before I’d walked two steps, someone stopped me.

“Stella, wait!”

That familiar voice. Even without seeing her face, I knew it was Isabella.

She pressed a perfectly intact slice of cake into my hand.

As her hands clasped mine, her nails dug in, sharp and malicious, almost breaking the skin.

“It’s my birthday today, so I’m not mad about the past, okay? I just hope we can get along when you come home.”

The sweeter her smile, the deeper her nails dug in.

Until blood welled up.

But even with the searing pain, I didn’t cry out. Because no one would care, and no one would ever believe me.

I took the cake, my only wish to escape them quickly. Maybe then I could live a little longer.

Back in my makeshift bed under the bridge, I frantically rummaged for expired painkillers. I swallowed handfuls, just barely easing the pounding in my head.

The cold wind howled through the bridge tunnel, and I pulled my thin clothes tighter.

A moment later, a charity outreach van pulled up to the bridge entrance, a loudspeaker blaring.

“Temperatures are plummeting! Mr. Albert is here with warm clothes and blankets! Come and get them!”

The eyes of dozens of beggars under the bridge lit up, and they scrambled to form a line.

I struggled with my throbbing head, joining the very end of the queue.

When it was finally my turn, the volunteer looked at me, then at a photo on his phone.

He waved me away.

“Go back. Mr. Albert personally said not to give you anything.”

He sneered, a look of contempt on his face.

“Mr. Albert is a renowned philanthropist, known for helping any beggar he can. Honestly, what kind of person do you have to be for Mr. Albert to personally tell us to cut you off?”

I pressed my lips together. It was expected, yet still absurd.

Albert, the celebrated global philanthropist.

The man who, out of the goodness of his heart, decided to keep Isabella even after discovering she wasn’t his blood sister, continuing to give her a life of luxury.

The man who donated globally, praised by everyone for his good deeds.

Yet, he wouldn't even spare his own flesh and blood sister a warm coat to survive the night.