Chapter 4

"Aunt Clara," I poured her a cup of chamomile tea, my tone completely calm.

"If your daughter gave you everything she had, only to be told her hard work wasn't 'classy enough' to wear in public, would you have an appetite?"

Clara froze, rendered speechless.

I told her everything that had happened that night, detail by detail—the design philosophy behind the sapphire set, down to the exact words Chloe and Martha had used to mock it.

When I finished, Clara sat in long, heavy silence before sighing softly: "Your mother has always been vain. She cares way too much about appearances and blurts things out without thinking. Don't take it to heart. She still loves you deep down."

"Loves me?" I chuckled mirthlessly. "Does she love me, or does she love the money I bring in? Aunt Clara, you watched me grow up. Leo always got the designer clothes, the latest gaming consoles. What did I get? His oversized hand-me-downs.

When he barely scraped through a party school, Mom threw a massive barbecue to celebrate. When I won a national design award, all she asked was how much cash the prize check was."

"All these years, I convinced myself that if I just worked harder, achieved more, and earned more, I would finally earn a scrap of her validation. Now I realize I was never her daughter. I was just an ATM to finance her son, a shiny trophy she could brag about to her friends."

Seeing my red-rimmed eyes, Clara reached over and squeezed my shoulder gently: "My poor girl. You've carried so much."

"I'm not suffering," I said, shaking my head as my vision cleared.

"Aunt Clara, go back and tell Mom: from now on, don't ever ask me for money again.

As long as money isn't involved, I can still pretend to play the dutiful daughter for appearances."

Of course, I knew that without my money, genuine affection could never survive in that household.

Sure enough, shortly after Clara left, my phone rang from an unknown number.

It was Leo.

"Vivian, do you want me to get on my knees and beg?! Unblock Mom right now! She’s throwing a fit at home, threatening to swallow a whole bottle of pills to end her life! I’ll figure out the wedding balance myself, but if anything happens to Mom, you're the one who killed her!"

The same old manipulation.

Throwing a hysterical tantrum, threatening self-harm, using guilt and toxic duty to force my submission.

The old Vivian might have panicked and caved.

Now, I only felt deep disgust.

"Really?" I woke my laptop screen and pulled up the live feed from my security app.

Thirty minutes ago, Martha and my "dying" little brother were bustling around with full energy, directing movers as truckloads of high-end furniture were delivered into the condo I had funded.

I took a screenshot and texted it to his number.

"Nice acting. Don't quit your day job. And by the way—starting next month, you're making the mortgage payments on that condo yourself."