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.

Panic seized him. In that moment, Jonathan realized he couldn't recall what I used to look like—the vibrancy, the fire I once held.

A sharp pain struck his chest. An indescribable unease and guilt rose like bile in his throat.

His hands trembling, he grabbed his phone and dialed.

The next day, I took Jonathan to the hospital for his follow-up.

Dr. Jordan Armstrong, his attending physician, practically vibrated with excitement. "Miss James, incredible news. A private research institute abroad has developed an experimental ALS treatment. Clinical trials are showing remarkable results—only two spots left, and I secured one for your brother."

He was selling it hard. I simply nodded. "What are the odds of recovery?"

"Eighty percent."

Jonathan played his part perfectly, tears welling in his eyes. "Hazel, did you hear that? I can get better. I can stay with you forever."

I forced the corners of my mouth up. "That's good. If only one of us can survive, I want it to be you."

Jonathan froze.

Perhaps the gravity in my voice startled him. For a split second, he forgot to slur his speech or feign weakness.

His frown deepened, voice sharp and clear. "Don't talk nonsense. We'll both live long lives. When I recover, I'll rebuild the James Corporation. You'll be the princess of the James family again."

But I don't want to be a princess anymore.

I don't want the title, and I don't want you, Jonathan.

I'm giving it all to Valerie.

"We need to run pre-admission tests," Dr. Armstrong interrupted. "It'll take some time, Miss James. Why don't you wait outside?"

In the past, I would have believed him. I would have left Jonathan in their care and sprinted to my part-time jobs, racing against the clock to earn pennies for his "treatment."

Now, I knew better. It was just a pretext to get rid of me.

I stood at the corner of the deserted corridor, hidden in shadow. I watched my brother—the man who supposedly couldn't walk without support—change his clothes with fluid ease. He strode toward the elevator, impatience evident in his gait.

Downstairs, a sleek luxury car waited. He slid into the backseat and sped away.

I stared at the empty space where the car had been, then walked into a different doctor's office.

"Miss James," the oncologist said, voice heavy. "The tumor has grown too large. Inoperable. If you'd come two weeks ago, maybe... but now..."

He sighed, removing his glasses. "It's a matter of days. You should say your goodbyes."

I sat in silence for a long time, numbness spreading through my limbs. Finally, I nodded.

"After I die, cremate me immediately," I said, voice steady. "Send my ashes to the James Estate. Deliver them personally to Jonathan James."

I left the hospital with the last of my money. Just as I stepped onto the sidewalk, my phone buzzed.

A message from Valerie.

Come to the estate. There's something you need to see.

I hailed a taxi to the most exclusive villa district in the city.

For five years, I believed our family home had been seized by the court, auctioned off to pay debts. But as I stood before the carved iron gates, the mansion blazed with light—more lively and opulent than I'd ever seen it.

Guests swarmed the lawn, a sea of designer gowns and tailored suits. Luxury dazzled at every turn.

Standing outside the gate in my worn, cheap clothes, I felt like a ghost from another world.

Valerie stood in the center of it all. She wore a sparkling tiara and haute couture, looking every bit the heiress, her arm linked possessively through Jonathan's.

They stood before a six-tier cake, surrounded by a wall of wrapped gifts. Valerie's face glowed with triumph.

She clasped her hands together, closing her eyes to make a wish loud enough for the crowd. "I hope to be Jonathan's only sister in this life, and to remain his little princess forever."

Jonathan smiled warmly and pulled a velvet box from his pocket.

The moment the lid snapped open, the blood in my veins turned to ice.

The Jade Pendant.

When Jonathan and I were born, our parents commissioned an eminent monk to consecrate two matching jade pendants. They were chanted over for a full year, carved with our names, and placed around our necks as infants. A blessing from Mom and Dad. A symbol of our lineage. The only tangible connection I had left to them after they died.

Even in my darkest, most desperate moments, I had refused to sell mine.

But now, Jonathan held the matching piece—the one that belonged to the James bloodline.

He had erased the original engraving.

It now bore the name Valerie James.

In front of the cheering crowd, he solemnly fastened the clasp around her neck—stripping me of my history and handing my birthright to the woman who destroyed me.