Chapter 1

Emily Moore, the daughter I'd adopted for eighteen years, called me right before her graduation ceremony and told me I absolutely had to be there. She said she had something really important to tell me.

So there I was, sitting in the front row and watching her shine under the spotlight, and I couldn't help it—tears started streaming down my face.

When the host asked her to thank the person she was most grateful to, her eyes swept across the crowd and landed right on me.

She smiled and said, "I want to thank my adoptive mother, Elizabeth Moore."

I started to stand up, ready to accept her hug.

But then everything changed. Her smile turned cold, and there was this cruel edge to it that made my blood run cold.

"She taught me that every gift fate gives you comes with a price tag attached," she said, and her voice carried across the entire auditorium.

"For eighteen years, she treated me like a dog she was training—constant control, constant criticism, crushing my spirit over and over again. And you know what I told myself through all of it? Don't give up. Just hang on a little longer, and you'll finally escape her."

She locked eyes with me, and I could see the satisfaction written all over her face. "Well, guess what? I finally made it."

*****

I didn't know how I made it out of that auditorium.

The stares cut into me like knives, and all those parents and professors who used to nod and smile at me now had nothing but contempt written across their faces.

They whispered, "That's her, right? She looks so put-together, but turns out she's a total control freak."

"Well, raised her own enemy. What a failure."

"That poor kid, stuck with a mom like that."

I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms, and I used that pain to hold onto whatever dignity I had left.

James Carter, my driver, was waiting by the entrance, and his eyes went wide when he saw me. "Ms. Moore, you look awful. Are you okay?"

I slid into the car. "Just drive."

The car glided smoothly down the road, but my mind was like a broken projector, replaying that snowy night eighteen years ago over and over again.

I'd just started my business back then, and I found her in an alley in the old part of town.

Someone had abandoned her next to a garbage bin that reeked of rot. She was wrapped in a tattered cotton coat, her little face burning with fever, and her forehead so hot it scared me.

And in her arms, she was clutching half a moldy piece of bread like her life depended on it.

I rushed her to the hospital, and they said it was acute pneumonia. The doctor told me that if I'd been half an hour later, she wouldn't have made it.

After that, I tracked down her biological parents.

The father was a degenerate gambler who'd lost everything they owned.

The mother needed money for her sick son's medical bills, so she sold her four-year-old daughter, Jane Lewis, to human traffickers.

Jane got a high fever while being transported, and the traffickers didn't want to deal with a sick kid. They dumped her on the side of the road like garbage.

I gave those people a substantial amount of money. In return, I had one condition—they could never contact the child again.

I changed her name to Emily Moore, hoping she'd live freely and without worry.

I kept her with me and gave her everything I had.

Her health was fragile, so I hired the best nutritionists.

School was hard for her, so I paid for private tutors.

I mapped out the perfect future for her and shielded her from every storm and every ugly truth in this world.

I thought I was the person closest to her.

But to her, my protection was "control." My carefully laid plans were holding her back." Keeping those toxic parents away from her was "selfish and cold-hearted."

Eighteen years of devotion, and it all became one massive joke.

I didn't raise a daughter. I raised an ungrateful wolf who'd never be satisfied, no matter what I gave her.

The car sat idling in front of the villa, but I couldn't bring myself to get out.

My phone chimed. It was a message from my assistant, Phoebe Collins.

Phoebe: [Ms. Moore, Emily's onboarding paperwork has been sent to your email and is waiting for your final approval. She starts on Monday.]

I stared at those words for what felt like forever.

The sharp pain in my chest slowly gave way to something worse—a bone-deep cold that settled into my core.

I picked up my phone and called Phoebe directly.

She answered, "Ms. Moore?"

Her voice came through carefully and concerned. She must have seen the livestream, too.

"I've approved the onboarding paperwork," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Tell HR to proceed as usual—no special treatment whatsoever."