The Charity Billionaires Let Me Die My Sister’s Secret

Mom and Dad's first instinct was to point at me. The moment the bomb went off, they threw themselves over Adela to shield her. Meanwhile, I was caught in that man's grip when the blast tore through my legs. That year, my grades had been good enough to earn me a guaranteed spot at a top university. While I lay unconscious, my parents pulled strings to transfer that spot to Adela. When I woke up, I begged them through tears to explain why they'd done this to me. Their answer: "Back then, we swore to the media we'd never let her suffer for being a murderer's daughter... it was just instinct..." "You're disabled now. We can't let you go off to school alone. We've decided to keep you here so we can take care of you properly." "As for the spot... it would've been such a waste. We figured Adela could use it. Besides, it shows people that even a suspect's daughter can have a bright future under our guidance..." I endured over a dozen surgeries in that hospital. Alone. My parents threw Adela a lavish graduation party, bragging to everyone about the prestigious school she'd gotten into. They even took her around to meet university administrators, asking them to look after her. All I wanted was for them to arrange one of the top blast-trauma specialists from their sponsored programs to operate on me. They called me ungrateful. "Absolutely not! If the media finds out, they'll say we're abusing public resources for personal gain!" "Your father and I are at a critical point in our careers. Are you trying to get us reported and ruin everything? Would that make you happy?" Without proper surgery, my legs never healed right. The disability became permanent. ... Their silence gave me a sliver of hope. But before I could say anything, Adela's choked voice came through the phone. "Mom, Dad, don't come! She's right—I'm the one who wronged her back then. I'm the one who should've lost her legs!" "If that killer really comes for me tonight, I deserve it... Consider it my life for hers!" She hung up. My parents' hesitation vanished. Their expressions twisted. "Gertrude! Look what you've done to your sister!" "You'd better pray nothing happens to her before we get there! Or we will never forgive you!" I felt nothing anymore. "And if something happens to me? Will you refuse to forgive her too?" Dad's face went red with rage. He kicked my wheelchair over, sending me sprawling. "How did I end up with such a selfish, ungrateful daughter?" "If I had a choice," I said from the floor, "I wouldn't be your daughter either." My words only earned me the slam of the door as they stormed out. Not long after they left, Adela posted a photo on social media—nestled between Mom and Dad, all three of them smiling. The caption read: "Just because I said I was scared, Mom and Dad brought everyone to protect me. I'm so blessed." Messages started flooding in from family friends: "Gertrude, how can you be so inconsiderate? Getting jealous of your sister at a time like this? You're putting people in danger, you know that?" "Your identity has always been kept secret. The killer would never come looking for you. Meanwhile, Adela's been attending events with the Foxes on your behalf this whole time, taking on all that risk for you. How can you be so ungrateful?" But my parents didn't keep me hidden because they worried about my safety.

It was because they were afraid others would find out I was the daughter of the famous philanthropist couple and treat me too well. They always lectured me: "We work ourselves to the bone to help people, not so you can enjoy special privileges." To make sure no one discovered our relationship, they registered my household under my grandmother's name out in the countryside. They never attended a single parent event for me. Growing up, I was constantly mocked as an orphan. But Adela was different. By adopting the daughter of a murderer and refusing to let the sins of the previous generation affect an innocent child, my parents became nationally celebrated philanthropists. So they poured all their love and attention into Adela. They lifted her up, accompanied her to performances and events. They even let her open social media accounts under the name "Daughter of the Fox Philanthropists," turning her into an influencer. When I confronted my parents about their favoritism, their only explanation was: "The whole country knows she's our daughter now. Of course we have to take good care of her. Otherwise people will criticize your father and me!" "You're our daughter—you'll be fine no matter what. But Adela came from such a pitiful background. Naturally we have to favor her a little more..." ... If my father hadn't kicked me over, maybe I could have wheeled myself somewhere to hide. But now I could only lie helpless on the floor as the killer climbed through the broken window and dragged me away. My broken nails clawed grooves into the floorboards. He tied me to the back of his car like a dead dog and dragged me to an abandoned warehouse in Southside. Ten kilometers of dirt road. Half my body was ground raw. One arm snapped. When the pain peaked, I nearly blacked out, but I still forced myself to keep dialing for help. Call after call to emergency services. Disconnected, every single time. The moment the car stopped, I sent one last text. "Killer is in Southside. Save me." This time, someone finally answered. Hearing my garbled screams through the phone, my mother went silent. Then she snapped: "Gertrude! Do you have any idea that tonight, every emergency line in the city is waiting for tips about the killer?" "You've been jealous of your sister and clogging the hotlines with prank calls! Do you realize that if a real victim tried to call during that time, you could have gotten them killed? How are you any different from that murderer?" Her voice turned cold: "Don't bother calling anymore. We've had every hotline block your number." Then her tone shifted to bitter resentment: "Do you have any idea? Now everyone knows that our biological daughter was so jealous she abused the emergency system and interfered with the operation. You've completely humiliated your father and me! How did I give birth to such a vicious, selfish daughter? If only you could take Adela's place in being scared for her life! Or better yet—die in place of those innocent victims!" Before she finished, the killer crushed my phone under his boot. I stared at the scarred, hideous man in front of me, my whole body shaking uncontrollably. He bared his yellow teeth and ground his heel down on my fingers, snapping all ten. My screams were swallowed by the storm. He strung me up from the rafters and recited every grievance he'd nursed against my parents over the years. With each one, he carved another cut into my body. When he got to his biological daughter—Adela—a gleam flickered in his eyes, and he looked at me with satisfaction.

"My daughter's become somebody important now." "And you, you little bastard—pretty soon you'll be nothing but a pile of rotting meat, dumped in a septic tank." His excitement was building: "I never expected it! Your parents treat my daughter so well! Just because my girl said she was scared, they packed everyone up and left in the middle of the night! That's what gave me my chance!" "You're their flesh and blood, but they couldn't care less whether you live or die!" I struggled to speak: "So you and Adela... you planned this together..." He sneered: "So what if we did? Blame your parents. If they'd given a damn about you, you never would've ended up in my hands." Blood soaked through everything. The pain had drained me of the strength to fight back. All I could manage were faint whimpers, begging him to let me go. He tossed a phone in front of me, grinning: "Tell you what—I'll help you call your parents. Get them to come rescue you." "If they actually believe you, I'll let you live." The phone rang once. Twice. It kept ringing until it was about to go to voicemail—then someone picked up. My voice came out raw and broken: "Dad..." What answered me was the sound of celebration, and Luke Lawrence's voice. "Gertrude? Looking for your father? He's busy right now! The killer didn't show up tonight—your sister's safe. The poor thing got so excited she twisted her ankle, and your parents are worried sick over her." Numb with despair, I forced the words out: "Help me... the killer took me to Southside..." Luke hesitated. "But your father said you've been making false reports all day. Lying for attention." "He told us not to put through any of your calls, no matter what you say. We're not supposed to help you." "Although... your voice sounds awful. Did something actually happen to you?" Before I could say more, Dad snatched the phone away. His voice was cold: "Gertrude, it's almost dawn. Haven't you caused enough trouble?" "Your sister's fine, thankfully. She says she forgives you and won't hold it against you. Now apologize to her properly." Luke chimed in: "Gertrude, you kept calling the hotline yesterday and got your parents in trouble with their superiors. You need to grow up. Just apologize and stop making scenes, okay?" I laughed bitterly through my tears: "Just believe me this once..." "Mom, Dad, please come to Southside?" "I've really been kidnapped. If you don't believe me, at least go home and check..." "Go home?! Go HOME?! Your sister sprained her ankle! She can barely walk, and you still want us to drop everything for YOU!" Mom exploded, grabbing the phone and screaming at me: "Southside is miles away! You're a cripple with no money, and we're not looking after you—how could you possibly get that far!" "Even now you're lying, trying to trick us into dragging everyone to Southside for your little attention-seeking games!" "Do you want to humiliate your father and me completely?! Is that what makes you happy?!" Adela's voice came through, dripping with concern as she played peacemaker: "That's enough, Gertrude. Please stop talking. Don't you know reporters are livestreaming this right now? Everything you're saying is being broadcast!" "All this drama, wasting police resources—you're going to ruin Mom and Dad's reputation!" "Just apologize to everyone!" "Adela! Don't waste your breath on her!" Dad's voice returned, heavy with finality:

"I failed as a father. I can't believe I raised a daughter like this." "From today on, I'm cutting all ties with her." "From now on, I only have one daughter—Adela." He shouted into the phone: "Gertrude! Did you hear me?!" He seemed to be waiting for me to say something. But I couldn't say anything anymore. The killer had slit my throat. My body wouldn't stop convulsing. After a long silence, my father let out a heavy sigh. "Gertrude, you've really disappointed us..." A rusted blade hacked into my limbs. I had no strength left to fight back. Warm tears mixed with blood ran down my face. In the final moments of my life, there was only one thing I could still do— I swallowed the wristband that had been recording everything. Let me do this one last thing. Let my death help catch this serial killer who'd evaded justice for over a decade. Let it bring some measure of peace to all his innocent victims. One month later. To celebrate Adela's safety, Mom and Dad held a press conference to thank everyone who had protected her. Adela stood between them in an ivory gown, her makeup flawless, her smile perfectly calibrated. When the cameras swept toward her, she lifted her chin just slightly. Online, everyone was praising my parents. "I heard their daughter was adopted from that murderer. The moment they heard she might be in danger, they hired a whole security team to guard her around the clock. What amazing parental love!" "They really are philanthropists through and through! They took in a killer's daughter and raised her into an elite student. I have so much respect for them!" Comments like these made my parents' smiles grow even brighter. The way they looked at Adela grew even softer. After all, this kind of praise was exactly what they'd always wanted. During a break between interviews, Mom kept checking her phone. Her brow furrowed. She muttered under her breath, irritated: "That girl Gertrude, honestly. We barely said a few words to her and she throws this big tantrum." "Blocking our calls, ignoring us for days—what kind of behavior is that?" Dad's voice was cold: "We spoiled her too much." "Especially after she broke her leg. We always felt guilty, so we let her have her way with everything. And look what happened—she just got worse." "She knows we're soft. She thinks we'll keep bending over backward for her, so she feels safe giving us the silent treatment." His tone hardened: "Fine. If she wants to play this game, let her. I want to see how a cripple survives without us taking care of her." Mom nodded, a note of agreement in her voice: "Exactly. Once she's hungry enough, thirsty enough, sitting in her own mess with no one to help—she'll realize she was wrong." I hovered there as a ghost, listening to every word. The bitterness in my heart had long since run dry. Adela came running over, lifting the hem of her skirt, her voice sweet and soft: "Mom, Dad, I'm about to start my livestream." "I want to tell everyone what wonderful parents you are." Mom's face lit up immediately. She reached out to smooth a strand of Adela's hair. Dad patted her shoulder. Together, they walked Adela back onto the stage. The livestream began. Comments flooded the screen. Adela gushed about how her parents had stayed by her side all night, never leaving for even a moment. Then one comment rose to the top: "Wait—don't they have a biological daughter too?" "If they were all busy protecting Adela, what happened to their real daughter?" The atmosphere in the room went still.

Dad's expression turned cold. He faced the camera, his tone measured but severe: "She's perfectly fine." "Not only is she fine, but during the entire operation, she repeatedly interfered with police work." "Flooding the emergency hotline. Feeding them false information." "She nearly caused a serious incident." Mom added, disappointment barely contained in her voice: "That kind of behavior is utterly irresponsible." "Even though she's our daughter, we won't shield her. We intend to pursue legal action." "If she deserves a sentence, she'll get one. If she belongs in prison, that's where she'll go." The moment she finished, the comment section exploded. Emotions caught fire instantly. Some praised my parents for their integrity—putting justice above family. Others called me subhuman. Within minutes, my name, photos, and personal details were dug up and spread everywhere. Someone photoshopped an old picture of me into a black-and-white memorial portrait, streaked with fake blood. Curses flooded in. Countless people vowed to hunt down this "waste of oxygen" and teach me a lesson. "Someone like Gertrude Fox deserves to die. What a shame—if only she'd been the one the killer got." Adela waved her hands frantically at the camera: "Everyone, please don't do this..." She turned to our parents, eyes glistening: "This is all my fault..." But Dad's expression stayed frozen. "How could any of this be your fault? The internet's right." "If she hadn't been calling nonstop, jamming the hotline, maybe we would've received useful leads sooner. Maybe we'd have caught him by now." "Having a daughter like her—might as well consider her dead." I listened to Dad's words and smiled bitterly. "Dad, you don't have to be angry anymore. I'm already dead." The words had barely left his mouth. A side door of the press hall burst open, and a medical examiner stumbled in. His face was ashen, forehead slick with sweat, voice shaking: "Mr. Fox... a septic tank in Southside—they just pulled out body parts. Female." "The victim... appears to be your daughter. Gertrude Fox."