chapter 2
Back at the house, my sister motioned for me to pick up her luggage and follow her.
I did as told.
When we reached her "princess room," she suddenly turned around and slapped me across the face.
"Lena Harvey, you are utterly pathetic."
"I was studying abroad, working on my career, and you were back here sleeping your way to the top. You, Lena, you're just as cheap as your mother."
Tiffany was my father's first wife's daughter.
A year after their divorce, my father met my mother through mutual friends.
They found each other suitable and started dating.
But Tiffany always believed my mother was a mistress.
Even though my mother tried to win her over, treating her better than she treated me, her own biological daughter.
But Tiffany was never satisfied.
She loved to humiliate me and my mother in front of others.
Calling my mother a mistress, and me, the mistress's daughter.
From a very young age, I suffered endless glares and humiliation because of these unfounded rumors.
All the bullying I endured at school came directly from Tiffany.
When Dad went to school to complain on my behalf, Tiffany would always retort:
"Dad, why does she get bullied while no one else does? Isn't it because there's something wrong with her?"
The stinging pain on my cheek pulled my thoughts back to the present.
"What, cat got your tongue?"
Tiffany looked down at me, condescendingly.
I still didn't say anything.
Over the years, I had long understood my situation.
I couldn't afford to upset Tiffany.
Otherwise, Andre would be displeased, and Dad's medical funds would disappear.
Tiffany wouldn't care whether Dad lived or died.
Seeing me still keeping my head down, she sneered.
She walked into her walk-in closet and began to rummage through her clothes.
"Here, iron this for me. Make sure it's perfectly pressed. I hate wrinkles."
I softly replied, "Okay," and exited the room.
In the hallway, I ran into the housekeeper.
Their gaze held a hint of sympathy and helplessness, but quickly shifted away.
After all, no one would look up to a materialistic "gold digger."
While ironing the dress, the steam accidentally burned my wrist.
A red blister immediately formed.
I stared at the red mark and suddenly remembered a time when Andre was drunk.
He had mistaken me for Tiffany.
He kept mumbling drunkenly, "Tiffany, don't leave."
His grip back then had also been painful, but I didn't push him away.
Sometimes, people are so greedy that they can't bear to expose even a fake affection.
Andre appeared then.
His gaze fell on my reddened wrist.
"What happened to your hand?"
"I accidentally burned it," I answered honestly.
He anxiously grabbed my wrist, carefully examining the red swollen area.
I was so startled I could barely breathe.
"Who told you to iron it?" His voice was suppressed, hiding something.
"Tiffany."
I still told the truth.
He smiled, letting go of my hand.
"She's still as bossy as ever."
I didn't reply.
He turned to leave but suddenly stopped.
"Hand over that project you're working on to your sister."
My eyes widened abruptly.
By the time I fully registered what he said, he was gone.
Why?
A project I had dedicated half a year to, working day and night, pouring countless efforts intojust like that, I was supposed to hand it over?
But I knew I had no right to refuse.
Tiffany and I, in Andre's eyes, were worlds apart.
Late that night, I lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep.
I got out of bed, wanting to go out for some fresh air.
But I saw Andre in the living room.
He was sitting on the sofa, smoking. The moonlight outlined his profile.
"You're still awake?" He saw me and instinctively put out his cigarette.
"I got up to get some water."
He nodded in silence.
Then, as I turned to leave, he suddenly murmured to himself.
"I've waited so long, but now that she's back, I feel it's just not the same."
My heart seemed to skip a beat.
I thought I had misheard him.
Andre looked up at me, his eyes filled with struggle.
"If if I said I couldn't bear to let you go, would you think that was strange?"