At the scene of the car crash, the so-called daughter, Delilah Wren, crawled out of the wreckage, her face streaked with blood. She collapsed to her knees before me, kneeling like a madwoman.

“Please, I know I was wrong! I’ll never fight for their love again! Don’t kill me—I'll do whatever you say. I’ll leave the house.”

My parents stood frozen, eyes blazing with fury. My brother clenched his fists. My fiancé, Daniel Thorne, stared at me with bloodshot eyes.

Then, without hesitation, they turned on me.

They sent me to prison—"for discipline," they said.

---

Two years later.

I stepped out of the prison gates, my legs trembling, my clothes hanging off my emaciated frame. Even the smallest size felt too large now.

Dazed, I looked up—and a pair of polished black leather shoes entered my vision.

Daniel stood there, his slender hand reaching toward me, as if to help me into the Bugatti parked nearby.

I dodged him and got in on my own.

He let out a deep sigh, staring at me for a moment. “Don’t blame your parents and brother for not picking you up,” he said softly. “Today’s the premiere of Delilah’s short film. They went to support her.”

He added, “Try to be better this time. Don’t bully Delilah anymore. She’s suffered enough these past few years.”

My chest tightened. I bit back the sting of tears. “And what about me?”

He paused, fingers tightening on the wheel. “What?”

When he looked at my hollowed face, something flickered across his features—regret? But it vanished as quickly as it came.

“If you hadn’t done what you did to Delilah, we wouldn’t have had to send you to prison.”

I turned to the window, watching the scenery blur past. A bitter laugh scratched at my throat.

You all chose her. Then fine. I’ll disappear.

---

Just the memory of those two years in prison made my body shake with silent sobs. I tried to hold myself together.

Sensing my pain, Daniel opened his mouth to speak—when his phone rang.

Delilah’s syrupy voice spilled out from the speakers: “Daniel, the premiere’s about to start. Where are you?”

His eyes softened instantly. “Silly girl,” he said with a chuckle. “Didn’t I say I’d pick Ava up today?”

“Then bring her with you,” she said gently. “I’ll be waiting.”

He gripped the wheel harder, saying nothing.

A pause.

Then her voice again, soft and noble: “I know you’re worried she’ll hurt me again, but I believe she’s changed. She’s spent two years in prison. Besides… don’t you have me to protect me?”

His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, landing on me.

He smiled faintly. “Alright. I can’t say no to you.”

The call ended.

He made a sharp turn, then said coldly, “I know you resent Delilah for taking your place. But she’s kind. Her whole family is gone. She deserves compassion. I won’t let anyone hurt her.”

“Ava, as long as you learn your lesson, we’ll still care for you.”

I said nothing.

In their eyes, Delilah was the fragile flower I tormented. I was the villain, through and through.

---

We arrived at the theater.

Daniel went to park, and I was told to head in first.

The cinema was drenched in gold and crimson. Posters of Delilah’s face lined every wall. Her smile glowed from the giant screen above, ethereal and untouched. Towering bouquets and lavish gifts surrounded the entrance.

She was the beloved little princess.

I glanced down at my worn-out clothes, tugging at the frayed hem.

Just as I was about to step inside, a horde of reporters rushed toward me, cameras flashing like lightning.

“Ava! Is it true you tried to murder your own sister and nearly killed your parents in the process?”

“Do you feel any remorse now that you’ve been released?”

“Ms. Wren, tell us—what was prison like for someone so vicious?”

I panicked, trying to push through them.

“No—I didn’t! Get away from me!”

But they latched onto me like leeches, relentless.

Tears spilled down my face. I couldn’t hold them back.

---

Delilah and I had been born in the same hospital, just two hours apart.

Her mother was a poor nanny. To give her daughter a better life, she switched us.

From then on, she was raised in luxury by the Wren family.

I was raised by the bitter, abusive woman who should’ve been her mother.

Four years ago, before my adoptive mother died, she was consumed by guilt and brought me to the Wren family, revealing the truth.

At first, they accepted me.

But then, Delilah began to act.

Slapping herself and blaming me. Throwing herself down stairs. Whispering, “Please don’t blame my sister.”

She broke Dad’s priceless vase, shredded my brother’s blueprints—then cried that it was all my fault.

No one ever questioned her. No one ever listened.

The car crash was the final nail in the coffin.

I remembered the moment my father dragged my mother out of the smoking car.

“Ava,” he said with disgust, “I never thought you could be this heartless. Trying to kill your own sister?”

My brother’s fists trembled. “I won’t let you hurt Delilah again.”

I could barely breathe. “Why don’t you believe me? I’m your daughter!”

“We don’t have a daughter like you!” my father roared.

Even Daniel stood silently, holding the sobbing Delilah in his arms.

She choked out, “Don’t blame her… I forgive her…”

And they praised her for her kindness—while I was dragged to the police car, sirens wailing.

---

The reporters’ shouts faded as my breath caught in my throat. Cold sweat trickled down my spine.

Then—through the crowd—I saw a familiar face.

My brother.

Julian Wren.

He stood just meters away, watching me.

###2

I looked desperately toward my brother.

Julian stood just a few meters away. I thought—hoped—he’d rush over and protect me.

But when our eyes met, he remained motionless.

Unmoved.

Indifferent.

He watched as reporters spat cruel words in my face, their microphones nearly pressed to my skin.

Suddenly, one of them tugged open the collar of my clothes, revealing a patchwork of scars—faded, fresh, brutal.

Gasps rang out.

“Oh god. That’s disgusting.”

“She must’ve been disobedient in prison. Looks like the guards gave her a lesson. Get some close-ups!”

Their jeers sliced through me like knives. I couldn’t even lift my arms to cover myself. I stood paralyzed, every breath a fresh stab of shame. Their contempt rained down on me like acid.

“Miss Wren, are you refusing to answer because everything we’re saying is true? Is this sociopathy just in your blood?”

Flashes from their cameras blinded me. One of them shouted, “We’re live, folks! This is Ava, the infamous daughter of the Wren family—once a socialite, now a convicted criminal. Look at her now!”

I felt like a stripped puppet under the spotlight, paraded in front of the world at my lowest.

“Enough!” someone finally barked. “Stop filming! This is my sister’s premiere, not a circus!”

When most of the footage was already taken and the damage done, Julian finally strode forward. He shoved the reporters aside and crouched down next to me—but not to comfort me.

I collapsed to the floor, clinging to the rags that covered my mutilated body, sobbing uncontrollably.

Just then, Daniel stormed in. He pulled me into his arms with a jolt of panic.

“Where the hell are the bodyguards? Are they all dead? How did reporters even get in here?!”

He was furious—on the surface. As if this were all a tragic accident.

But to me, their concern felt revoltingly performative.

So kind. So gentle.

So hollow it made me want to vomit.

The reporters scattered like flies. Julian stood tall again, voice cool.

“You’ve suffered enough. You’ve learned your lesson. Now leave. Delilah’s been waiting.”

So that was it.

He let me be humiliated like an animal—torn apart, exposed, ruined—just to discipline me. For her.

I curled up on the floor, shaking violently.

I remembered the first day I was brought to the Wren family—how my brother cupped my face and said with guilt in his eyes, “Ava, as long as I’m here, no one will ever hurt you again.”

But today, that same brother handed me over to a public stoning.

All for Delilah.

My sobs were raw and ugly. Still, he sneered and snapped, “Stop pretending. Don’t ruin Delilah’s moment.”

---

Half an hour later, the microfilm ended.

Delilah took the stage, bathed in golden light, the epitome of grace. The audience applauded wildly as she gave her speech, radiant and confident, thanking her “family” with watery eyes.

They stood behind her—my family. Protecting her.

Once, being an actress was my greatest dream.

Now, stripped and shamed, I could barely stand under the weight of that dream’s corpse.

My parents soon took the stage with smiles and applause, handing Delilah the keys to a limited-edition supercar. My father’s voice trembled with pride as he kissed her forehead.

My brother followed, taking the mic. “I’ll be investing hundreds of millions to produce a film just for Delilah,” he announced. “And rumor has it that renowned international director, Jake Monroe Easton, is attending today’s festival. If he sees Delilah’s talent, we might be sending her to Hollywood.”

Delilah blushed and looked bashfully at the crowd. “But I can’t bear to leave Mom, Dad, Brother, and Daniel...”

Daniel strode toward her, chuckling. He affectionately ruffled her hair.

“Don’t worry, little idiot. If Director Jake takes you to Hollywood, we’ll all fly over to visit you.”

Then his eyes sparkled. “And I have a gift for you too. Tonight’s celebration dinner is already set—at the Skyline Hotel. Seven stars, just like you like it.”

They laughed. They praised her. They adored her.

And I stood at the edge of it all, invisible. A stain they’d rather scrub out of Wren family photo.

She took his hand, smiling sweetly. Then, as if noticing me for the first time, she ran over in her flowing gown.

“Ava,” she said with mock concern. “It’s been so long. You’ve lost so much weight.”

I jerked my hand away, the only thing I could still control. “Hmm,” I muttered coldly.

My parents followed her gaze. Instead of tenderness, my father scowled. “Behave yourself at home. And don’t you dare lay a finger on Delilah again.”

They swept her away, holding her like she was something precious.

And I—just a ghost.

---

At the banquet, dishes were laid out in extravagant rows. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday. My hand trembled as I reached for my fork, only to drop it with a clang.

I bent to pick it up—and my collar slipped.

In the harsh lighting, the jagged scars on my shoulders and neck were stark and undeniable.

Daniel's gaze snapped to me. His pupils contracted sharply.

“Ava,” he said, voice low and tight. “Who did that to you?”

###3

My brother and parents turned as well, surprise flickering across their faces.

Who could it be?

Weren’t they the ones who told the prison guards to "keep an eye on" me?

I said nothing, forcing down the bitterness rising in my throat. Daniel reached for my collar, clearly trying to confirm something for himself.

Before he could, Delilah suddenly shrieked from across the table.

"My hand! It’s burning!"

She held up her finger, a faint red mark where the edge of the hotpot had touched her. Tears welled in her eyes.

The entire family sprang into action.

Her mother rushed to her side, cradling her hand like porcelain. Without hesitation, Daniel scooped her up into his arms.

“I’ll take her to the hospital,” he barked, already halfway out the door.

I turned my head away, expressionless. I’d seen enough. I was just about to leave when a voice called out behind me.

"Are you Ava?"

I turned.

A bearded, middle-aged man approached with familiarity in his eyes.

"Director Jake? You... know me?"

It was Jake Easton—the internationally acclaimed director. He laughed, stroking his beard. "Of course I do. I saw a short film you directed and starred in. You left a lasting impression. I thought—here’s someone with real talent. Real presence. I had to find you."

My breath caught. Joy surged through me, but I looked down, voice hoarse with shame.

"But... I don’t think you know—I just got out of prison..."

He looked me in the eye, calm and assured. "I know. That’s why I came today. Ava, how would you like to come to Hollywood and become a star? You’ve got what it takes."

I stared at him, stunned. For the first time in years, I felt my heart flutter back to life.

"I—I’d love to, Director Jake."

"Good!" he beamed. "We’ll leave in a week. Rest up."

A week. Just seven days until I start over.

With that faint spark of hope, I returned to what used to be home. I punched in the passcode I’d memorized long ago, but the cold, mechanical voice repeated:

“Incorrect password.”

Again and again. Still wrong.

I waited in the blistering heat, sweat soaking my back, my head swimming as the sun began to set. Just as I was starting to feel faint, they returned—carrying Delilah.

I watched as my brother stepped forward and entered a new code.

The door clicked open.

He’d changed it... to Delilah’s birthday. My birthday, too—but no one seemed to remember that.

I bit down the sting in my nose and quietly followed him inside, heading straight for my old room.

"Wait," he called after me.

"Delilah’s dog really likes your room. We’ve turned it into a pet space now. But don’t worry—Delilah picked out a new room just for you."

I stopped in my tracks.

"She decorated it herself to welcome you back. She’s even forgiven us all. You should learn from her—try being more kind."

He said it without turning around, as if even facing me for another second was too much.

He led me down the hall to the far end of the house.

The “new room” was the old utility closet. Tiny, with barely a window—more like a vent. The walls reeked of mold, and the air was damp and stale.

So this... this was what they called kindness?

Never mind. I just have to survive seven more days.

I took a deep breath and pushed open the door—only to be greeted by a room full of flowers.

My throat closed up.

Pollen.

I was severely allergic.

Within seconds, I was on the floor, struggling to breathe, my skin prickling, my vision blurring. I crawled, trembling, searching desperately for my bag.

That’s when I saw a pair of designer heels stop in front of me.

"Sister, oh my—what are you doing on the floor?"

Delilah’s sweet, mocking voice rang out.

"Please... allergy medicine..." I gasped.

She followed my desperate gaze to the bag.

Then she smiled.

With a kick, she sent it skidding across the room.

She squatted beside me, leaning in close. Her breath was sugary sweet and venomous.

"Bitch, you dare come back? After everything? If I were you, I’d have smashed my head into a wall from the shame."

I tried to shove her away, wanting to scream, to ask why she’d done this.

But the moment my hand brushed her leg, she shrieked and collapsed to the ground.

Holding her leg, she burst into tears.

"Hey, why would you hit me? I tried so hard to make you feel welcome—why are you so cruel?"

That was the moment my parents arrived in the doorway.