Chapter 1

I was diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer, and the chemotherapy was making my life a living hell. To scrape together the money to save my life, I emptied all my savings.

But I never expected that my spoiled little sister, Emma, would shave her head, steal my medical records, medication boxes, and payment receipts, and start livestreaming online, pretending to have cancer to gain sympathy.

In just one month, she raked in hundreds of thousands in donations, buying designer goods and custom high-end wigs. Meanwhile, because of our "overlapping medical records," the charity organization suspended my life-saving aid.

My mother Rachel and my father David pointed at my face and cursed: "What's wrong with Emma borrowing your medical records? She can make money, while you only know how to spend it!"

Fine. Since you want to trade my life for cash, I'll tear off your masks in front of the entire internet.

I ended this week's chemotherapy early because I didn't have enough money left in my account to pay the deposit for the next session.

When I pushed open the door to my rental apartment, I didn't even have the strength to change my shoes. My stomach was churning, wave after wave of nausea washing over me.

But the scene inside the apartment stopped my nausea cold.

My bedroom door was wide open.

Half of the originally cramped room had been cleared out, with a single folding bed placed in the center, covered with pure white sheets.

Two enormous ring lights stood on either side of the bed, their harsh white light beating down on it.

My sister—the one who had cried for half a day over a simple blood draw since childhood—was now wearing the oversized hospital gown I'd worn during last week's hospital stay. A gray knit cap covered her head, with a completely bald scalp showing at the edges.

She had shaved her head.

She was holding up a document to the phone mounted on a stand, crying pitifully, her voice trembling just right:

"Thank you for your concern, everyone... Today's chemo was so painful. When the needle went into my vein, I thought about just giving up. But seeing your messages, I felt like I could hold on a little longer..."

Rachel—my own mother—was crouching in the camera's blind spot, holding a bottle of eye drops, ready to help Emma with her "makeup" at any moment.

And David, who normally couldn't be bothered to speak three words, was holding up a cardboard sign that read: "Thank the fans for their donations. Cry more pitifully."

I leaned against the doorframe, cold sweat dripping down my forehead.

I stared at the document in Emma's hand.

It was my pathology biopsy report.

On the small table beside her, neatly arranged, were my anti-nausea medication, targeted therapy drug boxes, and my worn plastic medical supply case that I'd used for two years.

"What are you doing?"

My voice wasn't loud—I simply didn't have the strength—but in this room where the only sound was Emma's sobbing, it was like thunder on flat ground.

Emma shuddered all over, and the report in her hand dropped straight to the floor.

She whipped her head around to look at me, the misery on her face instantly transforming into terror. She even forgot she was still livestreaming.

Rachel reacted extremely quickly, immediately turning off the phone screen and jumping to her feet. She positioned herself in front of Emma, her eyes flickering for a moment before she immediately put on a self-righteous expression.

"Stella? Aren't you supposed to be at the hospital? Who told you to come back?"

I ignored her, supporting myself against the wall and walking over step by step. I bent down and picked up the report.

The patient name field in the lower right corner had been covered with correction fluid, and three crooked letters in black pen spelled out: Emma.

But I was too familiar with this document. The crease in the upper left corner had formed when I received the diagnosis—my hands had been shaking so badly that I dropped it and stepped on it.

"My medical records, my medication—why are they here?" I looked up at Emma.

Emma shrank back toward the bed, her eyes reddening, tears coming on command: "Don't be so mean... I'm just borrowing them."

"Borrowing?" I laughed bitterly, the cramping in my stomach forcing me to bend over. "You took my cancer reports to livestream and scam people for money?"

"How dare you speak like that!" David walked over and snatched the document from my hand. "What do you mean 'scam'? Emma has followers now. People are willing to send her gifts—that's her talent! Your broken documents would just be sitting there anyway. Might as well use them to contribute to the family income!"

I looked at these three people in disbelief.

"Just sitting there? I need to verify my charity aid eligibility tomorrow. How am I supposed to pass the review without the originals? You stole my things—are you trying to kill me?"

Rachel rolled her eyes and walked over to push me.

I was already weak, and her push sent me falling straight to the floor.

"Die, die, die—all you do is talk about dying all day long. Isn't that unlucky?" Rachel pointed at my face and cursed. "Emma has been weak since childhood and can't do heavy work. Now she's finally found a way to make money—what's wrong with you supporting her? Besides, treating your illness is a bottomless pit—all spending, no earning. Emma makes thousands from livestreaming in a single day! Once she's made enough money, won't there be money for your nutrition supplements?"

I sat on the cold floor, looking at Rachel's harsh face, suddenly feeling utterly unfamiliar.

It had always been this way since childhood.

Whatever Emma wanted, I had to give up. When she couldn't get into college, the family made me quit school and work to support her attending a diploma mill. When she found work too tiring, the family made me subsidize her living expenses every month.

Now I had a terminal illness, and even my disease had to be taken from me and monetized.

I used the edge of the bed to pull myself up and reached for the medicine box on the table.

"Give me back my things. I need to go back to the hospital now."

Emma suddenly screamed and clutched the medicine box tightly, like a dog guarding its food.

"No! You can't take it! My fans want to see a video of me taking medicine tomorrow. How am I supposed to film if you take it away?"

"You're not sick—what medication would you take!" I roared, reaching out to grab it.

A loud slap echoed.

David slapped me across the face.

My ears rang, my vision went black, and I immediately tasted blood in my mouth.

"You've really crossed the line!" David pointed at me and cursed. "You don't get to make decisions for this family! Emma's account has over a hundred thousand followers now—she's about to land major sponsorship deals. If you take these things away now, you'll be cutting off the whole family's livelihood! I'm telling you, Stella, you're not going anywhere tomorrow. You're staying home!"

I covered my face, looking at David's features twisted with rage, then at Emma hiding behind Rachel with a hint of triumphant mockery at the corner of her mouth.

I didn't say anything more.

You can't reason with animals.

I turned around and dragged my heavy steps out of the apartment one by one.

Behind me, I heard Rachel's voice: "Lock the door tight! Don't let her come back and cause trouble! Emma, quick, start the livestream again. Say a hater just knocked on the door and scared you—the fans will donate even more!"