Following the bankruptcy of the James Corporation, my brother was diagnosed with ALS.

I dropped out of university, shouldering astronomical debt and the crushing weight of my brother's survival.

For five years, debt collectors beat me until I coughed up blood, yet I couldn't justify the cost of painkillers. I worked five shifts a day, collapsing from exhaustion, yet I refused to take a single day off.

Every cent I earned went to keeping Jonathan alive.

That changed the night I delivered wine to the Starlight Club.

The door to the VIP room stood ajar. Inside, I saw Jonathan James—the man who should have been wheelchair-bound, waiting for me at home—lounging in a bespoke suit. Legs crossed, swirling amber liquid, laughing with his friends.

"Jonathan, you've kept this charade up for five years," someone said. "Hazel is bleeding herself dry to pay for your 'treatment.' Isn't this punishment enough?"

Jonathan scoffed.

"Almost. If she hadn't been so selfish—if she hadn't scolded Valerie and upset her—I wouldn't have needed to stage this bankruptcy and illness to teach her a lesson."

He sipped his drink, expression casual. "Valerie has spent the last five years traveling abroad. Her mood has finally stabilized, and she's agreed to forgive Hazel. Once the timing is right, I'll have the doctor fake a 'miraculous recovery.' Hazel can resume her life as the James heiress. Consider it atonement for her willfulness."

One friend hesitated. "ALS is terminal. Will she actually believe a recovery is possible?"

A smirk played on Jonathan's lips.

"That idiot girl? She believes every word I say."

He set his glass down. "She needed to learn her place. Valerie is adopted and lacks security; as the older sister, Hazel should have yielded. I'm doing this for her own good. I'll compensate her properly later."

I stood in the hallway, head bowed, tears sliding silently down my cheeks.

But Jonathan, there is no later.

Your terminal illness is a lie.

Mine is real.

——

The corridor's draft cut through my uniform, chilling the sweat on my skin. I stood frozen, a puppet with severed strings. The revelation didn't hit all at once—it felt like a serrated blade slowly slicing through five years of faith.

Every cut drew blood.

Inside the room, Vincent Hughes sighed. "You're ruthless, Jonathan. She's your blood. A top student at Jiangcheng University, reduced to a husk of a woman. Last week, she was short three hundred dollars for your medicine. She came to me, begging."

Jonathan's expression darkened. "Did you give it to her?"

Vincent shook his head. "You gave a direct order. Did I have a choice?"

"That girl knelt at my doorstep for an entire afternoon," he continued, voice heavy. "She collapsed from starvation right there on the concrete. I was too afraid of you to even call an ambulance. When she finally woke up, she crawled away."

Vincent left out the ugly details.

That day, I had cast aside my last shred of dignity. I had practically thrown myself at him, clothes half-undone, offering my body for the cash. Jonathan's imported medication had been cut off for a week; I was terrified his condition would worsen.

But I had tapped out every resource.

Vincent had looked at me like I was a ghost and kicked me out in a panic.

So that's why, I realized, a bitter taste rising in my throat. It wasn't that he didn't want to lend me the money. He couldn't.

Jonathan sneered, his voice dropping to a dangerous octave.

"Listen to me, all of you. Until I bring Valerie back, no one helps Hazel. She can kneel, beg, or die right in front of your eyes—you do not engage. Valerie is sensitive. If Hazel's punishment is shortened by a single day, Valerie might relapse. Anyone who upsets my precious sister will answer to me."

The room fell silent. The men exchanged uneasy glances.

Even Jonathan's friends found the logic twisted. The silence in the private room was heavy until someone awkwardly broke it.

"Jonathan, aren't you afraid Hazel will find out the truth and leave you?"

Jonathan scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous. We share the same blood. No matter the conflict, it's just an internal family matter. Hazel worships me. Even if someone held a knife to her throat, she wouldn't leave. This is just a small lesson." His tone shifted to protective tenderness. "Valerie is different. She's adopted, already at a disadvantage. It's only natural I compensate her."

His voice turned icy. "But remember: what happens here stays here. If word gets back to Hazel, don't blame me when our friendship ends."

I leaned against the cold corridor wall, the chill seeping into my bones. My limbs felt heavy, detached.

So that's it. Five years of bleeding myself dry—all a joke to him.

My health, my dignity, my life—sacrificed because Valerie felt insecure. In Jonathan's eyes, my living hell was just an "insignificant family matter."

A hysterical laugh choked in my throat. Hot tears blurred my vision.

Inside the room, a phone rang. Heavy footsteps approached the door. Panic spiked. I spun to flee, but my coordination failed.

I slammed into Miranda Cole, the club manager.

Crash.

Two bottles of vintage wine—tens of thousands each—shattered on the floor.

Miranda's face twisted. Her hand cracked across my face before I could speak, knocking me to the ground.

The private room door swung open. Jonathan strode out, ignoring the commotion completely, eyes fixed on Valerie fluttering toward him.

"Why did you travel alone?" he scolded gently, pulling her into his arms. "I told you I'd pick you up. I've arranged a medical team at home—full body care, everything."

"I missed you, big brother!" Valerie giggled into his chest. "I wanted to surprise you!"

I knelt less than a meter away, face hidden behind a cheap mask. My gaze locked on her shoes—encrusted with diamonds, glittering cruelly under the lights.

One stone could pay for a year of Jonathan's imported medicine.

"Mr. James, I'm so sorry," Miranda hissed, bowing low. "This clumsy idiot destroyed your wine."

Polished black shoes stopped inches from my nose.

Miranda grabbed my arm, twisting viciously. "Forgive the interruption. This fool can't even hold a tray. I'll have fresh bottles brought immediately."

The pain was sharp, but it paled against the time creditors snapped my ribs. Still, nausea churned in my stomach.

"Enough." Jonathan sounded bored.

He gestured at the mess of glass and wine. "Since you broke it, clean it up. Pick every shard from the carpet. With your hands." His eyes were ice. "If my sister steps on a single piece, I'll make you swallow it."

The carpet was thick and plush. Jagged glass had buried itself deep in the fibers, invisible.

I had no choice. I crawled forward, pressing my palms into the wool, finding razor-sharp edges by feel.

Valerie studied my hunched form, then hooked her arm through Jonathan's. "Brother, I'm tired."

"You delicate thing." He lifted her. "I'll carry you out. Too dangerous to walk here."

As he pivoted, his heavy shoe came down on my hand—grinding the leather sole and the glass beneath it into my skin.

He didn't notice. He just walked away.

I knelt there, staring at shards embedded in my bleeding palm.

A strange sound escaped my lips—half sob, half laugh.

Miranda recoiled. "What's wrong with you? Why are you bleeding?"

Warm liquid dripped from my nose onto the ruined carpet. I staggered up, wiping my face with my sleeve.

"Maybe he's dying."

I didn't wait for his reaction. I turned my back on his shock and staggered out of the club, blood dripping from my fingertips.

By the time I pushed open the front door, I was numb.

A crash echoed from the kitchen.

Jonathan was on the floor, struggling to hoist himself from his overturned wheelchair. He looked up, eyes rimmed red, like a guilty child caught in the act.

"Hazel... I just wanted to make you something to eat..." He slurred his words, saliva and tears running down his chin. "I'm useless. I'm just trash!"

He looked the part perfectly—a man paralyzed for years, helpless and broken.

But as I watched him, a memory surfaced through the haze.

Before his "diagnosis," Jonathan had severe mysophobia. He used to scrub his hands raw twenty times a day. Wouldn't tolerate a speck of dust on his designer suits. Yet for Valerie, he had endured this squalor for five years.

Five years.

I had been played like a fiddle, dancing to his tune while he perfected his performance.

I wanted to cut his chest open just to see if his heart was flesh or stone.

When I didn't answer, he hung his head.

"Hazel, do you hate me now?" He gripped the armrest, veins bulging from the feigned effort. "You should go. A burden like me... I'm just dragging you down. Leave me here to rot."

I didn't speak. I righted the wheelchair and hoisted him into it, then turned to the sink, wrung out a warm towel, and wiped his face and hands. The movements were mechanical—a routine etched into my bones over five agonizing years.

Suddenly, he caught my wrist. His eyes fixed on the fresh cut on my palm.

"How did this happen? Who hurt you?"

The concern looked so real. Bile rose in my throat.

"Someone who looks exactly like you," I whispered, staring straight into his eyes. "At the Starlight Club."

Jonathan's jaw tightened.

I let out a dry laugh. "But I know it wasn't you. My brother would never lie to me, right?"

Guilt flickered in his gaze before he looked away. "Of course not. You're my only family, Hazel. I would never deceive you."

I swallowed the burning lump in my throat, forcing back the tears. Without another word, I wheeled him to his room.

Later, while I was cooking, I heard his hushed voice drifting from the bedroom.

"Just listen to me. Be a good girl. I've prepared the biggest birthday gala for you. Tomorrow, I'll celebrate with you personally."

Valerie's voice crackled through the speaker, feigning concern. "But isn't tomorrow Hazel's birthday too? Won't she be upset if you're with me?"

"Silly girl, you are the only sister I treasure. Your happiness is all that matters. Hazel hasn't celebrated a birthday in five years. She's used to it. One more missed year won't kill her."

"I knew you loved me best!"

I stood frozen in the hallway. Finally, I untied my apron, dropped it on the counter, and walked out.

When Jonathan emerged, I was gone.

On the table sat a bowl of noodles, boiled to mush for easy swallowing, and a single expensive imported pill.

He knew I had the night shift.

As he looked at the food, my pale face flickered through his mind. The cut on my hand. My back at the stove—so thin I looked like I might snap in a strong wind.