Chapter 2
Eric tore his shirt open in a dramatic move. There it was, a jagged scar stretched across his exposed belly.
But that mark wasn't from any construction accident. He got it years ago in a street fight over territory, took a nasty hit, and the wound got infected, leaving that ugly reminder.
To the clueless onlookers, though, it looked like a hero's medal, proof that he'd sacrificed his own future so his ungrateful cousin could make it big.
Martha wailed, throwing herself at him the moment she saw the scar. Her acting was Oscar-worthy.
"Eric, my poor boy," she cried. "You've suffered so much. All for that heartless brat. Now you're stuck with all these health problems. No girl wants you. That 2 million should've been yours for all this."
Frank cried in front of the camera. "Kind folks, please hear our story. Eric's my only son. But he's destroyed because of our niece. And now that she's got money, she's out to ruin us all."
Public opinion had totally turned against me.
In the livestream, people were calling me the number one heartless brat.
Some even dug up my address and threatened to come vandalize my place.
Watching the three of them put on their well-rehearsed performance, my stomach churned with disgust.
"Eric, you say you were hauling bricks at a construction site?" I sneered, staring at his hands. Those hands had never done a real day of work. "Care to tell us which site? Who was the foreman? Any coworkers you can name?"
Eric's eyes darted around. He shouted, acting tough, "It was a shady site. The boss ran off ages ago. How can I find anyone to vouch for me? Claire, don't try to dodge the question. Are you saying this scar isn't real?"
"The scar is real." I nodded, my voice icy calm. "But you got that in 2018, at the Golden Bar.
"You got into a jealous fight and got shanked with a wine bottle by some thug at the next table. Frank had to pawn the diamond bracelet Grandma left me to get you out of that mess."
Eric's face changed in an instant, like he'd been caught red-handed. "Y-You're slandering me. Where's your proof?"
"Proof?" I echoed, letting out a cold laugh. "The incident report from back then is still on file at the police station. Want me to call the cops right now and have them help refresh your memory?"
At the word "police," Eric's swagger vanished in a flash.
Seeing things weren't going her way, Martha instantly changed her tune. "Oh, so now you've got connections everywhere. Even the cops are in your pocket, huh? You think you can stomp all over us ordinary folks because we don't have any power?"
She threw herself onto the floor, wailing and rolling, "God, is there any justice left in this world? So the rich can smear honest people however they want? That 2 million belongs to us. It's our blood and sweat, and it's the money for everything Eric had suffered."
The fake neighbors jumped in, piling on.
"Yeah, Claire, you can't be this ruthless."
"Hand over the money already. Don't disgrace your late parents."
"She should go to jail. Lock her up."
As the crowd kept piling on, Frank, who'd been quiet all this time, finally stepped up. He jabbed a finger at me with those rough, work-worn hands, his eyes wild with hopelessness and resolve.
He said, "Claire, if you're really going to be this cold, then what's the point of me living? If you don't cough up the money today, I'll bash my head right here and end it all."
He actually looked ready to throw himself at the pillar, making a big dramatic scene.
"Dad," Eric yelled, panicking as he lunged forward to grab him.
"Frank. You can't die. If you go, how are Eric and I supposed to survive?" Martha shrieked, rushing over too. The three of them clung together, bawling their eyes out.
The livestream shot up to millions of viewers in an instant.
The screen was flooded with comments like "Claire, go to hell" and "Murderer, pay for what you've done."
With this drama, any last shred of feeling I had for them turned to ice. Fine, they wanted drama? I'd give them drama. We'd see who could out-act whom.
"You want to die?" I said, staring them down coldly. "Not so fast. Before you go off and make a scene, let's settle the accounts. Martha, you said you paid 60 grand for my transfer fee to some fancy private school?"
"Exactly. It was Saint Mary's International School downtown," Martha snapped, digging in her heels. "It's the best in town. If it wasn't for you, would we have sold our old house to get you in?"
"Saint Mary's International School?" I raised an eyebrow. "Alright, since you're so confident, let's verify it right now."