Chapter 2

The Stones first arrived in a sleek black Maybach.

The moment Mom heard the car horn, the bowl she was holding slipped, shattering on the kitchen floor.

I rushed to open the door.

Standing outside were two impeccably dressed people—

The man was in his early fifties, his face bearing a striking resemblance to mine.

The woman was incredibly well-preserved, with delicate features, dressed in a light camel trench coat. Her perfume was subtle but commanded attention.

When she saw me, her eyes immediately welled up. "Harper..."

I stood frozen.

They stared at me for a long time, as if seeing eighteen years of dreams finally come true.

Finally, she stepped forward and pulled me into a tight embrace.

"You looked exactly like this when you were little. Your eyebrows haven't changed a bit."

"Mom... Mom finally found you."

I stiffened for a few seconds, then slowly lifted my hand and lightly hugged her back.

My mom, Carol, stood in the doorway. She didn't come in, didn't say a word.

Camille Stone let go of me, glancing at her.

The glance was fleeting and subtle, but I understood it immediately—

It was an assessment, not gratitude.

It was scrutiny, not respect.

They didn't come inside.

Robert Stone said the family had arranged a welcome ceremony and wanted to take me there.

I looked at Carol. She was looking down, twisting her apron.

I quietly asked, "Mom, do you want to come with me?"

She looked up and forced a smile. "You go. I won't."

"I'm not dressed for a place like that."

That night, I was taken to the Stone family mansion.

The moment we stepped inside, housekeepers bowed, lights gleamed, and a long row of gift boxes sat on a table beneath a dazzling "Welcome Home, Harper!" banner.

It was the first time I'd seen so many unfamiliar relatives.

Aunts, cousins, the Stone family's financial partners, brand representatives...

They looked at me as if I were a newly launched product.

Someone laughed, "Oh, this girl truly takes after Robert, especially her nose. Flawless!"

"Such poise! Definitely a Stone."

"She'll probably be an Ivy League candidate too!"

Camille smiled, turning to me. "If you want to paint, Mom will hire the best art teachers in the country for you."

"But remember, studying art doesn't mean you can be too... wild."

"Your manners, your accent, and your clothes... they all need a little polishing."

I glanced down at my canvas sneakers, suddenly feeling every speck of dust on them. It felt glaring.

They said "polishing," but what I heard was—"You're not good enough."

At dinner, they seated me at the head of the table.

I was about to stand up and offer my seat, but Robert Stone chuckled, pressing my hand down. "Sit here. From now on, you're the true young mistress of this house."

"But there's one condition," he paused. "Since you're a Stone, you'll need to learn all the proper etiquette and rules."

"And as for... Ms. Miller, we'll handle her appropriately."

"She worked hard these years, but after all—"

He looked at me, and then he uttered the words that finally snapped something inside me:

"She was just a nanny.

My fork clattered against the plate. I almost choked on my food.

"What did you just say?"

He was still smiling. "It's a fact she raised you, and we're grateful."

"We'll compensate her with a sum of money, arrange a place for her to live. She won't lack for anything."

"She's done her part, and she can step aside. We won't make it difficult for her."

I spoke, each word sharp and distinct: "What did you call her?"

"A nanny?"

"Or 'done her part and can step aside'?"

Everyone at the table froze.

I lifted my head, my voice eerily steady, even to my own ears:

"You think, by giving her a sum of money, she should quietly disappear, is that right?"

"You think the daughter she raised with her very life, bearing so many scars, should suddenly take on the Stone name overnight, is that right?"

"She isn't my birth mother, but every meal she cooked, every time she rushed me to the emergency room, every month she skipped eating meat just to pay my tuition—was that fake?"

"She's not a nanny."

"She's my mom."

Camille's expression changed. "Harper, don't get upset. You've misunderstood us."

"We just... want to help you return to your rightful place."

I sneered. "My 'rightful place' is for you to decide?"

"Then all these years you searched for me, were you looking for a daughter, or just an accessory to fill a void?"

No one answered.

I put down my fork and stood up.

"You're bringing me home not out of love, but out of guilt."

"But she, with no obligation, willingly gave me everything."

"You call her a nanny."

"But I say—she, is my mom."

I walked out of the room, and Camille cried out, chasing after me: "Harper, don't be impulsive!"

"You're our only child! You're not hers!"

I turned back, my voice calm:

"Yes, she's not mine."

"But I am hers."

"She only has me in this life."

"I can't pretend I don't know that."

That night, I walked out of the mansion. I walked all the way back to our rented apartment and knocked on the door.

The moment the door opened, she was standing there in a faded cotton nightgown, hair disheveled, eyes wide:

"Harper... why are you back?"

I hugged her, my voice so hoarse it was barely a whisper:

"Mom, they tried to take me, but I came back."

"I was afraid you wouldn't wait for me."

She didn't say anything, just gently stroked my back with a trembling hand.

I said, "Mom, they called you a nanny."

"I didn't believe them."

"I told them you're my mom."

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