Chapter 3

"Rocco..." One of Rocco's men lowered the baton he had been holding, looking genuinely unsettled for the first time. "These people... they're seriously heartless. You sure this girl wasn't adopted or something?"

Rocco just stood there, staring at the dead phone screen with an expression that shifted through something unreadable.

Then, as if a thought had suddenly clicked into place, he snatched the phone from my hands, pulled up the browser, and typed in a name: Richard Grant.

The page loaded instantly, and at the top was a fresh financial headline: [Local Elusive Tycoon Richard Grant Spends Big on Rare Antique. Net Worth Revealed to Exceed Ten Billion.]

And there, in the accompanying photo, was the very same man from the video moments ago, the one in the suit, well-fed, and unmistakably wealthy.

"Son of a bitch!" Rocco let out a bitter, almost amused laugh before delivering a vicious slap across my face. "You've been jerking me around this whole time? Your old man's a billionaire? A hundred billion?"

The blow left my ears ringing, but I couldn't feel a thing.

I just stood there, staring blankly at the article, at the man I knew so well being called one of the richest people in the city.

He had billions to his name, yet I once walked six miles home through a blizzard just to save two dollars on bus fare. By the time I got back, my feet were covered in frostbite sores.

And my mother would still beam at me and say, "What a good girl, Emily. Always thinking of the family. Always trying to help when money's tight."

Back then, as miserable as I felt inside, there was still something sweet about that kind of pain because I believed we were in it together, that my parents and I were on the same team, fighting through some difficult chapter of our lives.

But there never was any difficult chapter.

I was the only one fighting. They just stood on dry ground and watched me sink in the mud, and when I struggled, they laughed at how pathetic I looked.

"So what now, Rocco?" one of his men asked. "If she's really a billionaire's daughter, doesn't that mean we can jack up the price?"

"Jack up what, you idiot?" Rocco spat on the ground. "Did you not see the way they acted? That girl's life isn't worth the tires on their goddamn car.

"Keep her around, and she's nothing but trouble. Let her go, and she'll go straight to the cops. Either way, we're screwed."

The air suddenly grew thick with violence. I knew my time had come.

And yet, strangely enough, I didn't feel afraid.

Compared to being thrown away like garbage by the very people who were supposed to love you, death didn't seem so bad. It almost felt like mercy.

Rocco walked toward me slowly, the knife in his hand catching the light with every step.

"Look, kid, don't take this personally," he said as he crouched down and pressed the cold blade against my throat. "You want someone to blame? Blame the parents you got stuck with."

"Wait." The word slipped out before I could stop it, and even I was surprised by how steady my voice sounded.

Rocco's hand froze. "Yeah? Something you want to say? Want to curse them out? Wish them a painful death?"

I shook my head and tried to smile, but the result was more like a grimace. "After you kill me," I managed, "could you just leave my parents alone?"

Rocco stared at me like I'd lost my mind. "What the hell is wrong with you? They already gave up on you, and you're still looking out for them?"

"That's not what this is." I dropped my gaze to my shoes, those beat-up sneakers caked in mud and bloodstains.

"It's just that... all I've ever known is them struggling to get by. Every cent they had went to my brother. I was never worth spending money on, not even money to save my own life.

"So if I die, don't let it cost them anything. Not because of me."

The quiet, almost suffocating humility of my words left the group of ruthless kidnappers in stunned silence.

What kind of mental hold could make a girl, facing death, still think of her parents who had abandoned her, still believe she wasn't worthy?

Rocco's hand shook slightly around the knife. In his eyes, I saw something complicated, more pity, honestly, than my own parents had ever shown me.

"Give me the phone," I said quietly. "I just want to send one last message."

Rocco hesitated for a moment. Then he handed it over.

With my fingers still smeared in blood, I typed out each word carefully on the screen.

[Mom, Dad, I really mean it this time. For 22 years, I've saved you a lot of money, but I've also caused you plenty of headaches. I'm not coming back as your daughter in my next life. I'm just too tired. Tell Adam happy birthday for me. Wish you all the best.]

After sending the message, I turned off the phone and set it aside by the dirty puddle.

Then I closed my eyes, tilted my head back, and laid my bare throat against the edge of the blade. "Do it. And... make it quick."

Rocco took a deep breath and clenched his jaw. "Kid, next time around... pray for a better family."

The cold sting lasted only a heartbeat.

Then came the rush of warm blood, pouring out and taking every last trace of heat from my body.

In the final moment before my consciousness slipped away, I thought I caught that familiar scent of wagyu beef, the one that was never really there, and heard the thunderous roar of Adam's sports car engine.

How wonderful. Finally, I didn't have to be the grown-up anymore.