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Her adoptive parents used her design talent to make a fortune for twenty years. But once their biological daughter was found, she was framed and expelled from home. Unexpectedly, her supposedly poor biological parents turned out to be the richest people in the city. She became the daughter of a top wealthy family and was spoiled by them! ===== "Brenna, why must it come to this? Yes, we've found our biological daughter, but that doesn't mean you have to leave. You know our family's wealth--taking care of one more person isn't a burden. If you ask me, you should stay. Your mom and I will treat you no differently than before." At the Barrett family's residence in Shirie, in the cramped, airless attic on the third floor, Brenna Barrett was packing her belongings. Meanwhile, the grand living room on the first floor buzzed with conversation, guests swirling glasses of champagne as they exchanged pleasantries. A towering banner with the words "Welcome Home, Beloved Daughter" stretched across the entrance. "But if you're determined to leave, I won't stop you. Still, your family is barely scraping by. I doubt they can even send a car to pick you up. Take this money--at least let it cover your travel expenses." Alec Barrett, Brenna's adoptive father, stood before her, an envelope in his hand. He set it down gently before Brenna, his face lined with feigned reluctance. Brenna's eyes flicked to the slim envelope. She was already certain it held no more than a thousand dollars. Without a hint of hesitation, she pushed it back toward Alec, her expression cold. "I don't need it. My parents have already sent a car for me." She scoffed inwardly. What a laughable attempt to make her stay. Persuading her to stay while already offering her travel money? The Barrett family had taken her in when she was barely past her second birthday, a replacement for the daughter Ruby Barrett had lost--a child stolen from the hospital the day she was born. Drowning in grief, Ruby had grasped at the idea of adoption, convincing herself it would ease the ache of her loss. But Brenna had never been a daughter for the Barrett family in anything more than name. She had spent her childhood in hand-me-downs from discount racks, scraping by on leftovers while serving as a servant in the Barrett household. When she had gotten older, Alec had stumbled upon her natural flair for design. Even her casual sketches outshone those of seasoned professionals, their market value undeniable. That was when everything changed. The Barrett family had stopped her from going to school. She had become their hidden asset, locked away to draft blueprints for car parts and even entire vehicles. They knew exactly how much of their wealth was earned by her. Without Brenna, they would have never broken into Shirie's elite circles, never had the means to throw this lavish welcome party for their biological daughter, with influential figures from all walks of life attending. And now that their fortune had just begun to flourish, they didn't want to keep Brenna anymore. The Barretts were eager to kick her out of the family, their selfishness laid bare. Alec sighed and shoved the envelope into Brenna's bag. He said, "They've sent a car to pick you up? I find that hard to believe. I looked into your biological family. Your parents have two sons, and your only uncle is bedridden, unable to care for himself. They live in a struggling village--barely making ends meet. They don't have the luxury to come pick you up. You've been living in comfort here, spending freely. Are you sure you're ready for that kind of hardship? Just take the money..." Brenna pulled the envelope out of her bag and placed it on the table with quiet finality. "Goodbye." She didn't notice Isabella Barrett, Alec and Ruby's biological daughter, slipping something into the side pocket of her backpack. Without another glance, Brenna hoisted her black backpack over one shoulder and strode downstairs, leaving the Barretts behind. Ruby, watching Brenna disappear down the stairs, clenched her jaw. "Look at that! She showed me no gratitude at all. I housed and fed her for twenty years, and she didn't have a single word of thanks before leaving me? Someone like that is bound to end up begging in the streets!" Isabella looped her arm through Ruby's, her voice soft, almost soothing. "Mom, don't let her get to you. She never even finished school and was thrown into social circles at ten. How could she possibly have proper manners? She's walking away from a privileged life now--she'll be lucky if she doesn't starve. It's understandable if she's in a foul mood. Let me go see her off." Ruby frowned, grabbing Isabella's wrist to stop her. "Why bother? She's ungrateful. She doesn't deserve it." "Mom," Isabella said, her smile sweet, "since I came back, Brenna has treated me well. This might be the last time we ever see each other. It's only right that I say goodbye to her properly." She gave the jewelry box in her hand a little shake, her eyes twinkling. "Besides, I have a parting gift for her." With that, she hurried after Brenna, Alec and Ruby following behind. "Brenna!" Isabella called out, her voice warm and sweet as she lightly jogged forward. "You're leaving so quickly? I haven't given you the gift I got for you." She extended her palm, revealing a square red box. Inside lay a white jade bracelet, its surface smooth and luminous. It was undoubtedly of high quality. Brenna gave it a brief glance. She recognized the bracelet's good quality--it was probably worth a decent sum. Her voice was cold as she said, "No, thanks. You keep it." Isabella's expression didn't falter as she nudged the box into Brenna's hand. "You should take it. I spent over a hundred thousand on this bracelet. If things ever get tough, you can sell it for emergencies. It could come in handy someday." Before Brenna could refuse again, Isabella snapped the box shut and tucked it into Brenna's backpack herself. Just then, a flustered maid rushed over and exclaimed, "Miss Barrett, terrible news! The engagement necklace Mr. Barton gifted you is missing!" Chapter 2 Accused Of Stealing Isabella froze mid-motion upon hearing that, the jewelry box still clutched in her fingers as she slipped it into Brenna's backpack. Her eyes widened in disbelief. "What did you just say? That gemstone necklace is a gift from Jordy. It costs one million and eight hundred thousand! It has ten top-tier gems, each hand-selected. I left it on the table. How could it just vanish? Are you sure you checked properly?" Brenna observed the unfolding scene intently, her expression impassive. She could already see the setup, the neatly arranged trap. The servant's name was Sadie Brown. Her face went ghostly white, her hands visibly trembling. "Miss Barrett, I searched everywhere--every corner, every drawer--but it's gone. Could someone have taken it?" With that, Sadie's eyes landed on Brenna, suspicion darkening her expression. She didn't need to say it outright--her eyes did the accusing for her. Isabella shot her a sharp look. "What are you staring at? Just because Brenna's real family is poor doesn't mean she'd resort to stealing. Anyway, is anything else missing from my room?" Sadie hesitated, then swallowed hard. "Yes... The design plans you drew a few days ago. They're gone too." A strange glint flickered in Sadie's eyes. Without warning, she strode toward Brenna and yanked at a thin chain peeking out from her backpack. Isabella gasped, her shock perfectly timed as she took the necklace from Sadie's hand. "Brenna," she murmured, feigning hurt, "how did the engagement necklace Jordy gave me end up in your bag?" She clutched the piece, looking disappointed. "If you needed money, why not just ask Dad? He has supported you all these years--he wouldn't mind giving you more money. But stealing? This would break Mom's and Dad's hearts." At that moment, Alec and Ruby walked over. Alec scowled, disappointment carving deep lines into his face. He exhaled sharply, his tone laced with disapproval as he said, "I offered you money, and you turned it down--only to do this? If you needed help, you could have said something instead of resorting to this disgraceful behavior. This is really shameful! Why did you do this?" Ruby's temper flared instantly. "She must have thought the money was too little! What else could it be? A thousand for travel expenses wasn't enough for her, so she helped herself to something more valuable. One million and eight hundred thousand--her real parents' entire family couldn't make that much in a lifetime!" Isabella reached for Ruby's hand, a pained expression settling on her face. "Mom, please stop. If you keep saying such things, how will Brenna ever face anyone again? I don't think she did it on purpose--maybe she took it by mistake." Alec and Ruby remained silent, though the disdain in their eyes was clear. Inwardly, they had already written Brenna off as a thief. Isabella managed a gentle smile, but a flicker of triumph danced in her eyes as she glanced at the gathering guests around them. This was perfect. With Brenna marked as a thief, she would never find help from Shirie's upper circles. The Barrett family's influence would be forever out of her reach. Isabella turned to Brenna. "Brenna, I'd give you anything, but not this necklace. It's Jordy's engagement gift to me. I know it must be hard--watching him choose me when you were supposed to be engaged to him. But feelings can't be forced, right? Jordy and I love each other deeply. Please, don't come between us. If you need money, I'll give you all my jewelry, okay? Just not this one." As Isabella spoke, tears welled in her eyes, slipping down her cheeks like she had just suffered a great injustice. Seeing this, Brenna let out a short, cold laugh. What a waste of talent. Isabella should have been an actress with her acting skills. She believed since they had already staged this drama, it would be impolite not to play along. Brenna flung a glance at the necklace, unimpressed. The chain was thick, the gemstones sizable, but the craftsmanship left much to be desired. The color, cut, and overall design... They were far from top-tier. "I wouldn't be caught dead wearing something this poorly made," Brenna remarked coolly. "There must be some mistake. When I packed my things in the attic, that necklace wasn't in my bag. But I do recall you holding it in your hand earlier, dear sister. Could it be that you accidentally dropped it into my backpack?" She scoffed, refusing to shoulder the blame. With deliberate calm, she set her backpack on the floor and tipped it over, spilling its contents onto the cold surface. "Go ahead. See if there's anything else from the Barrett family in my backpack. If there is, take it. I'd rather not carry the label of a thief." Among the scattered items, a blue folder slid into view. Isabella's eyes widened in feigned shock. "Aren't these my design drafts for new energy auto parts? Brenna, how did they end up in your bag?" She crouched, picking up the folder and flipping through its pages with practiced disbelief. Inside were intricate sketches of mechanical components. She looked at Brenna, shaking her head, disappointment etched across her features. "I never imagined you'd stoop this low. You didn't even finish grade school--what could you possibly want with my design drafts? Planning to sell them?" Brenna rolled her eyes. She didn't need to check--she already knew what those papers were. The nuclear-powered cargo ship component blueprints she had spent an entire night perfecting. How had they become Isabella's? Brenna blinked, suddenly realizing something. Yesterday, Isabella had spent the day seated at the grand dining table, sketching exaggerated designs in an attempt to flaunt her mechanical expertise. The entire household had seen it. That gave Isabella the chance to frame her now. Isabella continued, pointing at the drafts, "You stole them. Just admit it. Since we're family, I'll let it slide." Ruby stepped closer, snatching the folder and scanning its contents. The moment she saw the sketches, her face twisted with fury. "How could I have raised someone like you?" she said to Brenna. "You are such a disgrace!" Brenna remained silent. Her blueprints had clear, unmistakable markings. The title, written in a foreign language, identified them as designs for nuclear-powered cargo ship components. Didn't any of them notice that? Right there in the lower right corner, her personal anti-counterfeit signature gleamed--proof that no one could claim her work as their own. Brenna faced Alec and Ruby. "You both know what I'm capable of," she stated, her voice steady. "A decade ago, you were running a small auto parts factory, barely making about five hundred thousand a year, living in a modest duplex. At that time, you saw my potential. That's why you kept me from school and forced me to stay home and design advanced components for you." Chapter 3 I Thought Your Design Drafts Were Trash Brenna looked at the Barrett family with clear contempt, her expression calm as she revealed the truth to the surrounding guests. "For over a decade, this family has capitalized on my designs--transforming a modest auto parts business into a full-fledged car-manufacturing empire, even securing a public listing. But now that they've outgrown their need for me, they're framing me for theft, all to protect their real daughter. How touching," she said with a snort. Alec's face darkened with fury, his voice rising. "What kind of nonsense is this? You barely made it through grade school. How could you possibly understand mechanical design?" Brenna held her designs up for the gathering guests to see. "Take a good look. This isn't a blueprint for new energy auto parts. It's an advanced cargo ship design. I have no reason to steal from anyone, least of all Isabella." Now, the regret hit her hard. In the past, she had been too young to see through Alec's schemes. She had been too trusting to realize why he had insisted on putting his name on her designs. It was painfully clear now--Alec had been setting this up from the very beginning. Brenna tapped a line of component names on the blueprint. "Read this carefully. It's in Amland's language, and it translates to 'nuclear-powered cargo ship propulsion system'." Tilting the paper slightly, she pointed to the faint watermark in the lower right corner, which shimmered under the shifting light. "This is my personal mark. You can compare it to Isabella's so-called 'designs'. Her designs are garbage," she said. Just as she finished speaking, Sarah Moss, one of the servants, hesitantly stepped forward, holding an identical folder. "Miss Barrett... I thought these were trash, so I threw them in the trash can. These are your design drafts..." Brenna let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Did you hear that? Even Sarah recognized them as trash." Isabella's face burned with humiliation. She shot Sarah a murderous glare before yanking the folder from her hands and flipping through it in a panic. Then, with a furious growl, she slammed it down. "These designs aren't mine!" she exclaimed. Sarah paled, stammering, "I-I didn't mean to say they were trash! I just... mistakenly thought they were and threw them away..." She trailed off, glancing around awkwardly and realizing there was no way to clarify this without making things worse. Ruby, unwilling to let Isabella be humiliated any further, immediately shifted the attack back onto Brenna. "Oh, please! Look at yourself. Do you really expect us to believe that someone who never even finished grade school designed a nuclear-powered cargo ship propulsion system? You must have stolen this! People like you bring nothing but disgrace. Don't you dare associate yourself with the Barrett family again from now on!" Brenna didn't spare Ruby a glance. She simply flipped open both her own design drafts and Isabella's, setting them side by side for the crowd to compare. Alec's and Ruby's faces immediately turned dark. Alec clenched his fists, his entire body tense with barely restrained anger. Then, he barked, "Enough with this nonsense! Do you really think you made our family rich? The Barrett family's success is built on my and your brother's hard work. You had nothing to do with it! We clothed and fed you for years, and this is how you repay us? You ungrateful brat--get out now!" Ruby, feeding off his rage, didn't hesitate to pile on the lies. "We took you in, gave you everything, spent millions raising you--and you dare act like you're the victim here? Do you think the scraps of talent you brought to this family mean anything compared to what we gave you?" Brenna's eyes turned ice-cold. She believed there was no point in arguing with them. She was leaving, and once she walked out that door, the Barrett family's problems would no longer be hers. "Fine. We will have nothing to do with each other from now on," she said. She bent down to grab her laptop from the floor. However, Isabella was faster. She snatched the sleek black device before Brenna could reach it, holding it tightly in her grasp. "You're so stubborn, Brenna. I was kind enough to offer you a way out earlier, but in return, you throw dirt on me and my family? You make mistakes, refuse to apologize, then try to turn it around on us? This computer must contain confidential information about the Barrett family. You can't take it with you!" Before anyone could react, Isabella grabbed a glass of water from a nearby guest's hand and poured it directly over the keyboard of the laptop. Without warning, Brenna sl**ped Isabella across the face. Then she grabbed the drenched laptop and immediately began drying it off. "How dare you hit me?" Isabella gasped, her face twisted with fury. She raised a trembling hand to strike back--only to be sl**ped again by Brenna. Ruby, a second too late, lunged forward, incensed. "The Barrett family raised you, and this is how you repay us now? By attacking our real daughter?" For years, Ruby had treated Brenna as a convenient target for her frustration, an outlet for her anger. But never--not once--had Brenna retaliated. Ruby wanted to hit Brenna. But something in Brenna's eyes made Ruby falter, her raised hand hanging mid-air. "Mom, she hit me!" Isabella exclaimed, clutching her stinging cheek, her eyes burning with resentment. Ruby grasped Isabella's hand, her breath catching at the sight of the glaring red imprint on her precious daughter's face. "Does it hurt, Isabella?" she asked. Isabella shot Brenna a venomous glare, her fury boiling over as she lifted her leg, aiming a kick at Brenna while she gathered her belongings. Brenna dodged instinctively, smoothly. Securing the last of her things, she turned to face them, her voice icy. "Oh? So it hurts? Mom, when you used me as a punching bag all these years, did you ever ask if I felt hurt? You had no problem beating me senseless, but the second I lay a single hand on your precious daughter, you act like you are heartbroken?" Ruby's eyes flickered with unease for a moment. Then, she recovered quickly, her lips curling in disdain. "And what do you think we took you in for? To pamper you?" "So you're finally admitting what you did to me." Brenna swept a frosty look over the Barrett family, then swung her backpack over her shoulder. Without a word, she turned to leave. Chapter 4 What Do You Think? The July sun blazed mercilessly. Brenna stood beneath the shade of a tree, waiting for her real family, the Harpers' car to arrive. Half an hour had passed, but no one had come. Just then, Brenna's phone suddenly vibrated with a friend request. A note accompanied it. "Hello, I'm Rosie Harper, your sister." Brenna accepted the request without hesitation, and within seconds, she received a message from Rosie. "Hello, I'm Rosie, your sister. Mom, Dad, and our elder brothers are tied up with work today, so they want you to go to Flavor Restaurant first. They've arranged lunch for you there." Doubt crept into Brenna's mind. Was this some kind of scam? Why send her to a restaurant instead of simply giving her the Harper family's address? But not many people knew she was heading to the Harper residence today. Whoever this was had to be a member of the Harper family. A weight settled in Brenna's chest. Her first day home, and they couldn't even bother to pick her up? That said enough about how little they valued her. She doubted this family would be any better than the Barrett family. Another message from Rosie popped up. "Brenna, I'll be waiting for you." Brenna responded with a single word, "Okay." It was nearly impossible to get a taxi at this hour. With no other choice, Brenna took the bus, getting off at Flavor Restaurant. The establishment was the pinnacle of luxury in Shirie, a favorite haunt of the city's elite. Dining here meant dropping at least ten thousand dollars. The moment Brenna pushed the door open and entered the restaurant, a blast of crisp, cool air wrapped around her, shielding her from the suffocating summer heat. Her lungs felt lighter instantly. The restaurant was quiet, nearly empty. No one paid her any attention--except for a waitress who approached her with a polite smile. The waitress was a young woman, pretty and probably in her early twenties. She wore a tailored red uniform, exuding professionalism. "Welcome, Miss. Are you Brenna Harper?" "Yes. The Harpers asked me to meet them here. Could you tell me which room they're in?" Brenna's eyes scanned the space. No one seemed to be waiting for her, which meant the Harper family was likely in a private room. The waitress kept her polished smile intact, subtly studying Brenna's casual outfit--a plain white T-shirt featuring a video game character, layered under an oversized striped shirt that draped past her frayed denim shorts. A worn baseball cap sat atop her head, partially hiding wavy hair streaked with deep blue. Brenna's skin was smooth, her facial features delicate yet striking. The bold blue lipstick added an edge to her look. Her voice was crisp, clear, effortlessly drawing attention from nearby tables. "Miss, please follow me." The waitress gestured toward a table before continuing, "A woman from the Harper family waited for you here for over an hour but had to leave for something urgent. She'll be back shortly. She ordered for you, so please sit down. The dishes will arrive soon." The table was set for six. Brenna chose the chair facing the door, tossing her backpack onto the seat beside her. Moments later, the waitress returned with a glass of fresh orange juice. "Please enjoy. The food will be out shortly," she said politely. Brenna nodded and thanked the waitress, though confusion lingered in her mind. Wasn't the Harper family supposed to be struggling financially? Why invite her to a restaurant this extravagant? She couldn't make sense of what the Harper family was up to. Pulling out her phone, she sent Rosie a message. "I'm here already. When will you join me?" Rosie responded soon, "I'm in a meeting right now. Might take a while. Go ahead and eat--no need to wait for me." A meeting? Brenna furrowed her brows upon seeing the message. Weren't the Harpers supposed to live in a poor, remote village? If that were true, how was Rosie in a meeting? Could the information she had gotten about the Harper family be false? She glanced around, noting the semi-private booths by the windows. The occupants were hidden from view, but the soft murmur of conversation trickled through the air. Soon, the waitress wheeled over a cart, and in moments, the table was filled with beautifully plated dishes--small portions, but meticulously crafted. Meanwhile, in one of the semi-private booths, three women sat around a table, their table adorned with steak and orange juice. A woman in a white dress set her phone down, a faint smile curving her lips. "So? What do you think?" This was Rosie Harper. She was actually Brenna's cousin. But she was raised by Brenna's parents after her own parents had passed away. Brenna's parents treated her like she was their daughter. Sitting across from her were her friends, Sylvie Higgins and Vivian Morrison, both from prominent families. Their outfits were impeccable, their makeup flawless, their table manners practiced to perfection. The three had been inseparable since childhood, sharing everything. Sylvie tilted her head. "Her face is decent, but her fashion sense is a disaster," she remarked, snapping a few photos. She then arranged them into a collage. The centerpiece of the collage was a photo of Brenna eating, her face blurred out. Sylvie soon posted the photos. The caption read, "Flavor Restaurant, spotted a beauty." Vivian casually liked the post before saying, "She's got a bit of a wild look." Then, with a teasing smirk, she cast a sideways glance at Rosie and added, "Ethan might find that appealing." Rosie's smile faltered. The last thing she wanted was for her fiancé to take an interest in Brenna. The marriage agreement between the Mitchell and Harper families required a Harper member to marry the son of the Mitchell family--but it had never specified who. She shot Vivian a warning look. "Don't say things like that." Sylvie leaned in, amusement flickering in her eyes. "Vivian's got a point. Brenna's got the kind of figure men tend to notice. Imagine Ethan's reaction if he saw her like this." Rosie scowled as she responded, "It doesn't matter how pretty she is or what kind of figure she has. After today's events, Ethan won't spare her a second glance." The three shared a quiet laugh. Sylvie's eyes flicked toward Brenna's table, where most of the food had already been eaten. "She's got quite the appetite," she remarked. "Maybe the Barretts didn't feed her well? Just look at the way she's devouring everything--it's obvious she has never had gourmet dining before." Chapter 5 You Really Shouldn't Have Come Here In The First Place Sylvie set her phone on the table, tilting the screen toward her two friends as she shook her head in mock disbelief. Clicking her tongue, she smirked. "Who would've guessed? The Barretts' adopted daughter didn't even finish grade school and started mingling in social circles at ten. Hey, how many boyfriends do you think she's had?" Rosie picked up the phone, her eyes narrowing as she read the information about Brenna. There were also photos of Brenna from different periods, her rebellious fashion sense on full display. Some shots showed her in bold, dramatic makeup, and some showed her surrounded by men--none of the men looked ordinary, and a few were noticeably older than her. "Where did you get this from?" Rosie asked, intrigued. "I tried digging into her background before but came up with nothing." Sylvie leaned back with a proud smile. "I had my brother ask his friend to investigate. Turns out, Brenna has been skipping school and picking fights since she was a kid. At one point, she even had to leave the country because she couldn't stay here anymore." Rosie was stunned, her brows raised. "If she becomes a member of my family, won't that be a disaster?" Sylvie's grin widened. "Isn't that the best part?" After a while, Rosie chuckled. "I suppose it is." Brenna ate without pretense, not because she had poor manners but because of sheer hunger. By the time she had cleared half the dishes, she finally felt a lot better. Yet, the Harper family was still nowhere to be seen. She glanced at her phone--it was two in the afternoon. No word from them. She sent a message to Rosie. "When are you coming?" Rosie's reply came almost instantly. "Sorry, I might not make it today. Just leave when you're done eating. I'll cover the bill." A slow, knowing smirk crept onto Rosie's lips as she sent the message. She then swiftly typed another to the waitress. As if on cue, the waitress who had been attending to Brenna approached her again, moving at a leisurely pace. By now, Brenna had pulled out her bulky black laptop and opened a stock trading page, the screen glowing faintly. The waitress, noticing the outdated model of Brenna's laptop, barely concealed her disdain but tried hard to keep her tone polished. "Miss, could you please settle the bill?" Brenna blinked, caught off guard. She hadn't even indicated she was ready to leave, yet the waitress was already rushing her to pay? When had the Flavor Restaurant's customer service become so terrible? She turned the screen of her phone toward the waitress, showing her Rosie's message, her voice calm. "My friend said she'd handle the bill. Her name is Rosie Harper." The waitress didn't drop her professional smile. "I'm sorry, Miss, but I don't know your friend. The total is one hundred and nine thousand eight hundred dollars. If you're unable to pay, I'll have no choice but to call the police." From the booth, Rosie watched the scene with delight. She was curious to see what Brenna would do. Would she grovel to the Barretts for help? Or would she work off the debt scrubbing dishes for a year? Or perhaps she would resort to a classic dine-and-dash, flexing the street smarts she was rumored to have? Her fingers tightened around her phone as she silently recorded the scene. Just then, Vivian and Sylvie sauntered toward Brenna's table. The commotion had also drawn the attention of nearby diners, who discreetly raised their phones, capturing the scene. Vivian's eyes swept over Brenna with thinly veiled contempt. "Miss, if you can't afford to eat here, you really shouldn't have come here in the first place. This place is for the elite. You'd be better off at a restaurant more suited to your status." Sylvie smirked and folded her arms. "The minimum spend here is ten grand. I doubt you make that in a month. Tell you what, my family's looking for someone to clean the toilets. Work for my family for a month, and I'll cover your bill. What do you say?" Vivian let out a soft chuckle. "That's generous, Sylvie. If you'd rather not scrub toilets, Miss, I can pay for you instead. No cleaning necessary--just get on your knees and polish my shoes. Then I'll settle the bill for you." Clicks echoed through the room as more people snapped photos, some already posting the drama online. Seeing this, Rosie was very pleased. The people she had hired were doing their job perfectly, each capturing the scene and sharing it on social media. She believed that soon enough, Brenna's name would be dragged through the mud, and neither the Harper family nor Ethan would want anything to do with her. In an attempt to portray herself as the kind person who cleaned up the mess for Brenna later, Rosie sneaked out into the scorching heat, closely monitoring the chaos within. Vivian turned to the waitress, reaching into her designer bag. "How much is her bill?" she asked, pulling out a thick stack of cash and dropping it onto the table. She looked at Brenna. "Do as we say, and we'll cover your bill." The waitress answered promptly, "One hundred and nine thousand eight hundred dollars." Brenna leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, her eyes shifting between the two women before her. Judging by their outfits and attitudes, they were definitely from wealthy families--spoiled, entitled, and clearly here to target her. She hadn't offended them before, yet here they were, going out of their way to humiliate her. Someone was obviously pulling the strings behind the scenes. "Who do you think you are, barking in front of me? I don't even know you," she said. Before either Sylvie or Vivian could respond, Brenna glanced toward the staircase. A tall man had just arrived, his presence instantly commanding the room. His eyes gleamed like polished obsidian beneath perfectly arched brows. He had a chiseled nose, thin yet defined lips, and a jawline so precise that it looked sculpted by a master artisan. The man frowned as he surveyed the scene, his handsome face darkened by unmistakable displeasure. It was clear he had already pieced together what was happening. And yet, even with such a stunning man in the room, Brenna remained unaffected. A handsome face wouldn't distract her from the fools still yapping in front of her. Sylvie and Vivian, not seeing the man behind them, were fuming. Vivian, seething from Brenna's insult, raised her hand, ready to sl*p Brenna across the face. But the next second, a firm hand gripped her wrist, stopping her. Vivian's breath caught as she turned sharply, ready to lash out--until her eyes locked onto the man holding her back. Her heart sank. Why was Ethan Mitchell here? "E-Ethan?" she stammered. ...... What happens next? Available chapters here are limited, click the button below to install the App and enjoy more exciting chapters (Automatically jump to this novel when you open the app) &3&

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InactiveJun 29, 26
Four doctors told my mother her joint pain was "just her age."

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Four doctors told my mother her joint pain was "just her age."

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My mother used to sing in the garden every morning. I want you to hold onto that, because by the end of this you're going to understand exactly what it costs a woman to lose it — and you're going to recognise it, because it's happening to someone you love right now. My name is Claire. My mother is Pat. She is sixty-three years old and two years ago she disappeared in front of me, one small piece at a time, and not one doctor could tell me why. She didn't get sick. There was no diagnosis, no scan, no terrible phone call. It was quieter and crueller than that. She just stopped. Stopped singing. Stopped gardening. Stopped getting down on the floor with my daughter. Stopped sleeping. Stopped being the woman who raised me. And the whole time she smiled and said she was fine, because that is what women of her generation do — they suffer in silence and they call it coping. I am writing this because I almost lost her to that silence. And I am not going to let it take your mother too. — Let me tell you who my mother was, so you understand what was stolen. Pat raised three of us more or less alone after my father's heart gave out. She nursed him through his last two years without a single complaint. She hosts every Christmas, twelve of us round a table built for eight, and she does it on her feet for three days. She is the one the entire family rings when something has gone wrong and nobody knows what to do. And every single morning of my entire childhood, she was out in that garden by eight o'clock, on her knees in the beds, singing. Half the time the radio, half the time nothing at all, just the sound of a woman who was happy in her own skin. I grew up hearing it through the kitchen window. My own daughter grew up hearing it. That sound was my mother. Two years ago it stopped. — It started so small I told myself I was imagining it. A stiffness in her hip in the mornings. "Bit creaky today," she'd laugh. She was sixty-one. Everyone's creaky at sixty-one. That's what I told myself. Then the few minutes of creaky became twenty minutes of not being able to walk straight. Then her hip became both hips. Then her knees, on the stairs. Then her hands — my mother, who could fillet a fish and ice a wedding cake, couldn't open a jar of jam. She'd hand it to me across the kitchen without a word and something in my chest would crack, because she wouldn't ask. She'd just quietly hand me the jar. Then came the night I'll never get out of my head. We were staying over. I got up at four for a glass of water and the landing light was on. I found my mother sitting on the edge of her bed in the dark, both hands gripping the mattress, just sitting there. She'd been awake since two. She couldn't lie on her side anymore — thirty years of sleeping curled on her side and now it sent a bolt of pain through her hip that woke her gasping — so she slept flat on her back, when she slept at all, staring at the ceiling. She looked up at me and she was embarrassed. My mother, embarrassed, in front of her own daughter, at four in the morning, for the crime of being in pain. "Go back to bed, love," she said. "I'm fine." She was not fine. — And then the worst one. The one I have to make myself remember. My daughter — Pat's only granddaughter — had built something out of blocks and she ran to show her nana, the way she'd done a hundred times, expecting Nana to get down on the floor with her the way Nana always had. And my mother didn't. She stayed in her chair. And she said, "Bring it over here, darling, let Nana see it from here." My daughter's face did something small and confused, and then she carried her little tower over to the chair, and I stood in the doorway and watched my mother choose her chair over the floor because the floor had become a place she could no longer get up from. That was the day I understood my daughter was going to grow up with a different grandmother than the one she'd started with. A grandmother in a chair. And I went into the kitchen and I ran the tap so no one would hear me. — So I did what you do. I tried to help her fix it. We tried turmeric — everyone says turmeric. A bottle from the chemist, two a day, three months. Nothing. Collagen. Glucosamine. The big yellow bottle. Nothing. I took her to her GP myself. He pressed her hip, glanced at an X-ray, and gave us the sentence I have come to hate more than any words in the English language: "It's just wear and tear. It's her age. Take some ibuprofen." Her age. As if my mother was a worn-out kitchen appliance you keep until it dies. Physio. Twice a week, four months. Cortisone — two injections, eleven good days the first time, barely a week the second, then the pain came back worse, like it was angry it had been interrupted. Over a thousand pounds. Two years. And my mother got smaller, and quieter, and further away, and the worst part — the part that still makes me furious — is that she started to believe them. "Maybe this is just how I am now," she said to me one afternoon. My mother. Who nursed my dying father. Who feeds twelve at Christmas. Giving up. I wanted to scream at every doctor who'd shrugged at her. Because not one of them — not one — ever told us what was actually wrong. — It took a stranger at my sister's wedding to do that. Seated next to my mother at the rehearsal dinner was the groom's mother, Sheila — early seventies, sharp as a tack, walked to the pub from the next village and didn't mention it. I watched the two of them talk for half an hour, and I watched my mother's face change in a way I hadn't seen in two years. On the walk back, Mum told me what Sheila had said. Sheila had been exactly where my mother was. Stiff, shrinking, told it was her age. Until she found out it wasn't her age at all. It had a name. And once she knew the name, everything changed. The name is hormonal inflammation. When a woman goes through the change, her whole inflammatory system shifts — and in so many women it floods the joints and never switches off. That's the deep ache. That's why it starts in one place and spreads everywhere. That's why it's worst in the morning, because it builds overnight while she sleeps. That's why turmeric and collagen and cortisone and ibuprofen did nothing — because every single one of them was aimed at the wrong thing. None of them touched the actual fire. My mother had been suffering for two years from something with a name, and four medical professionals had handed her ibuprofen and called it old age. — But here is the part that nearly didn't happen, and it's the part I most need you to hear. When Sheila mentioned turmeric, my mother almost laughed in her face. "Tried it. Did nothing." And Sheila said: you tried the wrong one. The turmeric my mother had bought from the chemist — the one nearly every woman buys — is around three percent curcumin. Curcumin is the only part that actually fights inflammation. Three percent. The rest is filler. My mother had spent three months swallowing a capsule that was ninety-seven percent nothing and then concluded turmeric was useless. The version that actually works — the version in the real studies — is ninety-five percent curcumin, with black pepper extract so the body can absorb it instead of flushing it straight out. Not three percent. Ninety-five. My mother hadn't failed turmeric. The chemist had sold her a watered-down imitation of it and let her believe she'd given it a fair go. The brand Sheila used was called She Again — the concentrated version, ninety-five percent, with the black pepper, made specifically for the hormonal inflammation that was eating my mother's joints alive. Two capsules in the morning. That was the whole thing. — I'm going to tell you what happened, because I was the one watching, and I watched my mother come back to life. The first fortnight, nothing. We'd braced for that. Week four, I heard it. She was at the kitchen sink washing up and she was singing. Under her breath, something I didn't even recognise. She didn't notice she was doing it. I had to leave the room. Week six, my daughter ran to show her a drawing, and my mother got down on the floor. She just lowered herself down onto the rug and sat there with my little girl, and got back up afterwards, and nobody made a thing of it except me, standing in the kitchen with my hand over my mouth. By high summer she was back in the garden. On her knees in the beds at eight in the morning, secateurs in hand, doing the roses she'd let go wild for two years. She came in for lunch with soil on her forearms and I realised I'd been grieving that exact sight without knowing it. And then one morning she rang me from her car after a check-up, the bloods all fine, told to carry on exactly as she was. And underneath her voice, on the radio, I could hear her singing along. My mother was back. The chair didn't get her. My daughter has her grandmother — the real one, the one on the floor, the one in the garden, the one who sings. — So now I'm the stranger at the rehearsal dinner. I'm your Sheila. If you are watching your mother go quiet — if she's handing you the jar instead of asking, if she's choosing the chair over the floor, if she's awake at four in the morning telling you she's fine — she is not fine, and it is not her age, and she does not have to vanish into that chair. It has a name. It's hormonal inflammation. And the reason her turmeric did nothing is almost certainly that she was sold the three-percent version, like my mother was, like nearly every woman is. The strong one — ninety-five percent, built for exactly this — is called She Again. It's a smaller company and it sells out, so if it's gone when you look, get on the restock list, because it's worth the wait. Don't let her disappear an inch at a time the way I almost let my mother. Don't wait until your child is carrying a drawing over to a chair. She's still in there. Go and get her back.

InactiveJun 28, 26
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