Chapter 3

Richard lit a Cuban cigar—I had seen them online, each one worth over five hundred dollars. He didn't smoke it; he just watched the pale blue smoke rise, twist, and dissipate in the air. The rain outside the window had grown heavier, drumming against the glass, making a dense, rhythmic sound.

"Emily, since you are back, there are some responsibilities you should shoulder," he said slowly, his eyes not on me, but fixed on the wisp of smoke. "Next Wednesday, clear your schedule. Cancel all arrangements."

"Is it for a charity gala?" I asked tentatively, trying to look obedient. "I checked the schedule; there's a fundraising event at the MoMA on Wednesday night, Mom mentioned it before..."

Richard smiled.

It was a brief smile, like a blade flashing under the light, never reaching his eyes. The corners of his mouth twitched, the wrinkles around his eyes deepened, but those gray irises held no warmth.

"No," he said, his voice as calm as if discussing the weather. "It's to go to Mount Sinai Hospital. My kidney failure has reached the end stage. The doctor says if I don't get a transplant, I have six months at most."

A deathly silence filled the room.

I could only hear my own heartbeat—thump, thump, thump—like heavy drumbeats against my eardrums. The sound of the rain outside, the traffic on the street, even the sound of breathing, vanished in that moment.

I felt my blood instantly congeal, numbness starting from my fingertips and spreading all the way to the top of my head. My ears buzzed as if ten thousand bees were circling inside my skull. I looked at Anna; she lowered her head to sip her tea, her slender fingers gripping the cup handle tightly, knuckles white. She avoided my gaze, staring intently at the slice of lemon floating in her cup.

I looked at Alex. He looked at me as a matter of course, as if I were merely a walking warehouse of spare parts, a medical resource that just happened to appear at the right time and place. There was no apology in his expression, no guilt, only a kind of relief that they had "finally got to the point."

Finally, I looked at Isabella. She was still curled up on the sofa, but now her face wore a mixture of sympathy, sadness, and—I almost thought I was seeing things—a trace of immense relief. Her fingers unconsciously twisted the lace of her dress, her lips trembling slightly as if holding back tears.

I heard my own voice, dry as sandpaper, so unfamiliar it didn't sound like mine. "Is this the reason you found me and brought me back?"

Richard finally looked at me. He flicked the cigar ash; the gray-white flakes fell into the crystal ashtray.

"Don't put it so ugly," he said, a hint of impatience in his tone. "This is a transaction. A fair trade. After the surgery, you will receive a trust fund of five million dollars, plus a beachfront villa in Santa Barbara, California. You can leave New York, go somewhere with plenty of sunshine, and live the life you little commoners dream of—no need to work, lying on the beach drinking cocktails, buying whatever you like. It's far better than any future you could imagine in Queens."

What a generous offer.

"What about Isabella?" I asked suddenly, my voice sharp enough to surprise myself. "She is also your daughter—at least legally and in the eyes of society. Why not test her for a match? Maybe she matches too?"

"Isabella is weak!" Alex stood up abruptly, moving so fast he almost knocked over the side table. He blocked Isabella like he was protecting a calf, acting as if I had asked a truly vicious question. "How can you be so selfish? She's had a bad heart since she was little, and asthma too; she can't handle the risks of general anesthesia and major surgery! You're young and strong, tough and thick-skinned; losing a kidney won't kill you! Your body will compensate quickly; it won't affect your life at all!"

*Thick-skinned. Losing a kidney won't kill you.*

Every word was like an ice pick, stabbing into my chest.

Isabella chose that moment to let her eyes redden, large tears rolling down. She clutched her chest and began to pant softly, looking three times more fragile than a tragic heroine in a novel. Her lips lost their color, and her fingers trembled as she reached for Alex's hand.

"I'm sorry, sister... it's all because I'm useless..." she sobbed, her voice broken. "I really wish I could share the burden for Dad. If I could trade my life for Dad's health, I would, I really would... but this broken body of mine... the doctor said I have to be careful even donating blood... *sob*..."

She leaned on Alex's shoulder, shoulders heaving slightly, crying so realistically, so heartbreakingly. But in the moment she lowered her head, using the motion of wiping her tears, her peripheral vision darted toward me—there was a trace of undetectable smugness in that look, a victory that said, "See, everyone is on my side."

Alex hugged her painfully, patting her back gently. "Don't say that, Bella, it's not your fault. You've tried very hard, we all know."

Watching this scene, the impatience on Richard's face became more pronounced. He waved his hand as if to dispel some unpleasant smell.

"Enough," he interrupted. "This matter is settled. This is a notification, not a discussion." He turned to me, his eyes returning to that evaluating coldness. "Emily, you need to learn gratitude. If we hadn't found you, you'd still be in that moldy apartment in Queens gnawing on three-dollar burgers, worrying about next month's rent. We gave you the Grayson name, gave you a pass into high society, and now it's time for you to repay us."

I stood in the center of the luxurious living room, the crystal chandelier above refracting blinding light. That lamp was a custom Swarovski piece with over three hundred crystals, worth more than a Porsche. The light shattered into countless spots before my eyes, making me dizzy.

The Persian carpet beneath my feet was so soft it felt like it would swallow me whole. A genuine Rothko hung on the wall; those large blocks of oppressive color seemed to be spinning. The air was filled with the sickly sweetness of cigars, the scent of white flowers from Anna's perfume, and the specific, stale superiority of old money.

So that's it.

No affection, no guilt, they didn't even see me as a human being.

I was just a tool, a container, a carrier that happened to harbor matching genes. They dug me out of the slums, dressed me in fine clothes, and taught me etiquette, not to make up for twenty-four years of absence, but to fatten me up enough to be healthy so they could cut me open when needed and take what they wanted.

In their eyes, I was just a pig raised for slaughter, a sacrifice to extend Richard's life and ensure darling Isabella didn't have to suffer. And Isabella's little tricks—the skincare products, the gossip, the framing—were all just to ensure that I, this "pig," stayed obediently in the pen, didn't dream of getting things that didn't belong to me, and didn't cause trouble before the slaughter.

I took a deep breath, letting the cold air flood my lungs, suppressing the churning in my stomach. My fingers clenched at my sides, nails digging deep into my palms; the pain kept me lucid.

I looked at Richard, at Anna, at Alex, and finally at Isabella, who was still fake-crying.

Then, I pulled the corners of my mouth into a stiff, almost numb arc.

"Okay," I said, my voice so calm it surprised even me, no trembling, no choking, like reading a line of dialogue that didn't matter. "If it's for Dad, I'm willing."

Richard nodded with satisfaction, as if I had just passed a simple test. He leaned back into his chair and took another puff of his cigar; this time, he was truly enjoying it.

Anna let out a sigh of relief, her shoulders sinking slightly. She finally looked up at me and gave me a brief, almost motherly smile—if that completely emotionless expression could be called a smile.

Alex snorted contemptuously, as if to say, "At least you know your place." He continued to comfort Isabella, running his fingers through her long hair.

And Isabella, in the moment she lowered her head to wipe her tears, hooked the corner of her mouth into a fleeting smile of a victor. So fast, so secretive, that if I hadn't been staring right at her, I would have missed it.

But did she know I saw it?