The Billionaire's Secret Daughter 18 Years of Lies

Yeah. If I insisted on treatment, my parents would probably have no choice but to borrow from loan sharks and sell their blood. But for a family like mine, even if we sold our bones clean, we still couldn't scrape together $500,000. I was only eighteen. I hadn't gone to college yet, hadn't dated, hadn't properly experienced this world. I didn't want to die. But to keep from crushing my parents, I could only choose death. Two: After making the decision, I actually felt lighter. I forced myself to be optimistic, taking big bites of the steamed egg custard Dad made, hoping only to leave them good memories. When we parted, Dad pulled a crumpled fifteen dollars from the sole of his shoe. "Lily, this is what's left from your mom's medicine money. Take it for pocket change." Tears welling, I waved my hand, turned, and walked out the door. The instant I stepped outside, it hit me in a daze—this would be the last time I'd ever see my parents. My composure shattered. Tears poured out. Back still turned to them, I choked down my sobs and asked, "Dad, Mom, if I weren't here, would you two have it easier?" Mom's voice was doting, with a hint of reproach. "Silly girl, what parent would ever think their child is a burden?" "As long as you amount to something, your dad and I—forget suffering; even if we worked ourselves to death, we'd do it willingly." A mother's love pressed down on my heart like a weight, so heavy I couldn't breathe. Maybe… I should have died a long time ago. Or maybe my birth itself was the original sin. Because she gave birth to me, Mom was left with a bad back. When it flared up, the pain was so severe she'd lose control of her bladder and bowels, her whole body paralyzed in bed. Treating Mom's illness drained every cent the family had, and still it was never cured. To care for her while she was bedridden, Dad quit his decent job and hauled cement at a construction site near the hospital. For as long as I could remember, I'd known the taste of poverty. Because food at home was so scarce, I was seriously malnourished—skinny and small, living like a mouse. Everything I wore was hand-me-downs from relatives and friends. Oversized clothes, ill-fitting shoes, and inferiority carved into my bones—that was my entire childhood. By middle school, my body started developing. The first time I got my period, I went to Mom, anxious, to ask for money for pads. Mom was groaning in pain in bed, but she still insisted on giving me her medicine money. Drenched in sweat, panting, she said, "Even if Mom hurts to death, I won't let my child suffer any grievance." I cried guilty tears, covered my blood-stained pants, and ran back to school. From twelve until now, during my period I used tissues stuffed with scraps of cloth. Those few days every month, I endured the wet, sticky blood clinging to my pants, endured my deskmate covering their nose in disgust, endured the boys' jeering laughter… In high school, the school stopped providing meals. The food money my family gave wasn't even enough for bread. But I never asked them for money again. Because I knew every dollar I spent was hauled in by Dad carrying cement, saved by Mom from between her teeth. Already owing so much, I wasn't qualified to talk about dignity. I survived by picking up plastic bottles on the field and eating leftovers others abandoned in the cafeteria. In winter, to save twenty cents on hot water, I drank from the tap. Day after day I pushed through, and finally made it to the eve of the college entrance exam. My mock exam score of over seven hundred was enough for a full scholarship to a top medical university. By then, I could make Dad straighten the back that rebar and concrete had bent, and let Mom finally see a doctor at a real hospital.

And I could finally repay that debt—the one that had weighed on me for eighteen long years. But I was about to die. That debt would never be settled now. Having decided to die, I returned to the hospital. The doctor said without surgery, I had one month left. As my condition worsened, my body would swell, I'd stop urinating, until my heart simply gave out. After a brief struggle, I decided to donate my organs. Better to help others than die in a hospital bed with no dignity. And I could leave my parents some money for food. The doctor couldn't talk me out of it. He agreed to my request. I signed papers to donate my corneas and part of my liver. While they drew blood and searched for matches, the doctor handed me a meal voucher. Starving, I traded it for a palm-sized cake. Because tomorrow was my eighteenth birthday. The cake bristling with eighteen candles looked like a torture device. I closed my eyes for a long time, but couldn't think of a single wish. Maybe someone about to die shouldn't have hopes anymore. I took tiny bites of the sweet cream, scraped the plate clean, and still wanted more. My first cake ever. It was delicious. Back in my room, the doctor told me they'd found matches. Surgery tonight. I asked awkwardly, "How much will they pay?" "I explained your family's situation to both recipients," he said. "They're willing to give you twenty-four thousand dollars total, including follow-up costs." The number loosened something in my chest. Soon, the recipients' families delivered a heavy bag of cash. Surgery was imminent. I had almost no time left. I tore a page from the visitor log, scrawled my last words with a ballpoint pen, and stuffed it into the bag. As they wheeled me toward the operating room, I pressed the bag into the doctor's hands. I fought back tears. "Please—give this to my mom and dad." He nodded solemnly. "I'll hold onto it. When your parents visit, I'll make sure they get it." The anesthesia hit. My mind went fuzzy. When I woke, I was in a pristine white room, tubes snaking across my body. Painfully, I lifted my arm, grabbed the breathing mask strapped to my face, and ripped it off. Finally. It was ending. The heart monitor screamed. Staff rushed in, hands pressing, machines whirring. Their movements were frantic, but I felt nothing. My body grew impossibly light, drifting up from the bed, pulled toward somewhere unknown. Old people say the dead return home. But my soul didn't go home. It drifted to an unfamiliar villa in a wealthy part of the city. A luxury van idled at the entrance. The driver opened the passenger door. A painfully familiar figure stepped out. Dad. Dad—who always wore threadbare work clothes—was dressed in an expensive suit. The villa door opened. A girl in her twenties walked out, looking exactly like me. She hooked her arm through his. "Daddy, everyone's ready. We're just waiting for you!" Daddy? Did Dad have another daughter? My soul followed them inside. Pristine white carpet. Blinding luxury. And... Mom.

My mother—who had been "bedridden" year-round—was draped in glittering jewelry. She uncorked a bottle of wine with practiced ease, poured it into an exquisite decanter, then divided it among four stemmed glasses. On the table sat a massive cake. The words on top read: Happy 18th Birthday to Lily Gilbert. The woman who looked exactly like me raised her glass with a smile. "Daddy, Mommy—let's wish my little sister I've never met a happy birthday!" The three of them clinked glasses and drank it all in one go. The remaining glass was probably meant for me. Lily Gilbert was my name. The ones celebrating my birthday were my parents and my older sister—the one I'd never seen. But I had never truly known any of them. All at once, confusion and panic swallowed me whole. Mom sighed. "If only Lily could be here." Dad's expression hardened. "One month left. She'll take the college entrance exam and complete the task. We can't give up halfway now!" I froze. A task? What task? Mom dabbed at the corner of her eye. "It's all thanks to your 'raise her poor' plan. That's how we trained Lily to excel in both character and academics—to endure hardship and work hard." "Raising her has worried me half to death." "Pretending to be bedridden all day. The figure I worked so hard to maintain with yoga is going to ruin." Dad drained his glass. "These years haven't been easy for me either." "When Lily was home, I didn't even dare smoke a cigar. Held it in until my whole body ached." Serena cut cake for them, her tone soothing. "Once my sister gets into college, we can come clean." "The mansion, the luxury cars, the family business—it'll more than make up for what she's suffered." "And you two can finally rest. No more pretending to be poor in that rundown dump." Dad smirked. "Lily really didn't disappoint our careful training." "Only a senior in high school, and she already earned twenty-four thousand dollars. She's got my style from back in the day." Serena lifted her glass, smiling. "I used that money to buy a bottle of '82 Lafite. Not a cent more, not a cent less. Consider it my sister showing filial respect ahead of time." "On her behalf—thank you both for your hard work." Mom looked indulgent, her tone gently reproachful. "Serena, you've got nerve." "If you hadn't spent all your time playing around, would your dad and I have had to go to such lengths with Lily?" Serena stuck out her tongue, stood, and clinked glasses with her parents. "To the complete success of Lily's 'raise her poor' plan!" The three of them raised their crimson wine and drank deeply, the atmosphere light and celebratory. And I finally understood the full truth. The illness was fake. The poverty was fake. But in these eighteen years, my fear, my unease, my inferiority, my cowardice—and that suffocating guilt more unbearable than death itself—those were real. They had conspired in a vile game. And the price was my life. The last bit of money I'd traded my half-dead body for was sliding down their throats, mouthful by mouthful. The pain nearly devoured my soul. I wanted to scream at them—why did you do this to me? But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't make a single sound. At that moment, a servant rushed to the table clutching a paper bag. His face was deathly pale. "Sir, I found a strange letter in the money bag the second young lady sent." Dad took the letter casually. The moment he saw what was inside, his face went white…