It was 107°F in the scorching summer heat, and I was standing on the street handing out flyers. My mother’s Bentley was parked right by the curb. She was blowing the AC inside, supervising me as I earned my "cleaning fee." It wasn't until I shoved the very last flyer into the window of a Ferrari that had just pulled up. Two minutes later, I pulled open the car door and got in. My mother finally panicked. Speeding down the road, she called my phone: "Who is the man driving that car?" "What is your relationship?" "Have you slept with him?!" I just smiled. "He is a man who would buy me tampons, and who doesn't mind that I stained the backseat of his car." "Don't worry, I'm on my period right now. He’s not that much of a beast." "He'll have to wait at least seven days..." 1 Heat waves rolled up from the asphalt pavement in waves, and I felt like the soles of my shoes were about to melt away. Sweat dripped from my forehead, slid down my cheeks, and stung as it seeped into my eyes. My cheap T-shirt had been soaked through for a long time, clinging stickily to my back, suffocating me so much I could barely breathe. I wanted to stand under the shade of the trees on the sidewalk, even if it was just for one minute. But I didn't dare. Not far away was that black Bentley. My mother sat in the car, staring at me like an overseer. I had two hundred flyers in my hand, and I had to hand every single one out without a single one left over. This was the "task" she gave me today. All of this was simply because this morning, my period came early. When I stood up, I accidentally left a tiny, nail-sized bloodstain on the beige leather backseat of her Bentley. For this one spot of blood, my mother went crazy. She used her six-figure Hermès Birkin bag to smash me over the head, over and over again. The hard metal lock struck my temple, making it throb with pain. "Olivia! Do you think this car is too clean? You ruined my car on purpose! You are exactly like your con-artist father, filthy to the bone! You only know how to bring trouble to people! Disgusting!" I hung my head, silently enduring her verbal abuse. It was like this every time. As long as I made her unhappy, she would bring up that man. The man who had a brief marriage with my mother, and who, when she was pregnant, embezzled a massive sum of money from her company to save his high-school sweetheart—some poor girl from the countryside. My dad. Since the day he vanished, I became the biggest stain in my mother's life. A living, breathing piece of evidence, constantly reminding her that she had been cheated out of her money, her heart, and her body by a poor boy. My mother projected all her hatred for my father onto me, intensifying it. She firmly believed that the blood of "poverty" and "betrayal" flowed in my veins, just like my father's. She sent me to the most expensive private academy in the city, but she only paid the most basic tuition for me—just enough to let me step foot through the school gates. She made me wear cheap street-stall clothes, looking like a freak among a group of wealthy heirs. Every day, lunchtime at school was my public execution. My classmates would sit in the dining hall, eating flown-in Wagyu beef and bluefin tuna. But I couldn't enter that dining hall. Because my mother didn't pay the two-thousand-dollar monthly meal fee for me. I could only be alone, like a rat hiding from the light, tucked away in the corner of an abandoned utility room on the top floor of the academic building. When I opened my lunchbox, a sour smell hit my face. Inside were the leftovers from what the house staff ate the night before, haphazardly mixed together. It was impossible to tell what it originally was. Blackened, wilted vegetable leaves, solidified clumps of grease, and a sticky, mushy lump of rice. Sometimes, if I was "lucky." There would even be one or two rib bones inside that had already been gnawed completely clean. It felt like some kind of charity, and at the same time, a silent mockery. My mother called this "tempering." She said I had to first grind away that filthy, impoverished bloodline before I was worthy of the Sterling family's wealth. 2 The year I turned 14, a sharp, twisting pain flared up in my lower right abdomen. At first, it was just a dull ache. I thought I had eaten something bad and didn't take it seriously. But not long after, the pain violently escalated, like a red-hot iron rod brutally churning back and forth inside my body. I was in so much pain that I rolled off the bed, curling up on the ice-cold floor. Cold sweat broke out layer by layer, quickly soaking through my thin pajamas. Supporting myself against the wall, I struggled to drag myself to the living room, begging for help from my mother, who was leisurely applying a face mask. Even my voice was trembling. "Mom, my stomach... hurts so much..." She lifted her eyelids, shot me a glance, and let out a cold sneer from her nose. "What trick are you trying to pull now?" "Your father used that exact same pitiful face to con money out of me back in the day. You father and daughter, you have cheap, lowly calculation carved into your bones." The disdain in her tone chilled my heart even more than the twisting pain in my abdomen. I tried to explain, but the severe pain made me unable to speak a single complete sentence. Waves of pain hit me one after another. I started rolling on the floor, my vision blackening in flashes, my consciousness hovering on the edge of collapse. I was really going to die. This thought caused me to burst out with my last bit of strength. I struggled to crawl to her feet and grabbed her silk robe. I kowtowed to her. One time, then another. My forehead struck the floorboards, making a dull, heavy thud. "Mom... please... save me..." Perhaps this utterly pathetic, miserable display of mine finally pleased her. She slowly stood up, looking down at me from above. "Going to the hospital is fine, but sign this first. My money isn't blown in by the wind; you have to remember every single cent I spend on you." She threw a piece of paper and a pen at me. It was an "IOU." On the white paper with black ink, it stated that I, Olivia Sterling, due to a sudden illness, voluntarily borrowed the surgery fees and subsequent treatment costs from my mother, Evelyn Sterling. I promised to repay the principal and interest in full once I reached adulthood and started working. The interest rate was five times the bank's standard rate. In that moment, I finally understood that in her eyes, I wasn't her daughter. I was just a burden who needed to constantly repay a father's debt. Through the agonizing pain, I used all the strength in my body and trembling hands to sign my name on that ice-cold piece of paper. Only then did she unhurriedly call the driver. 3 After the surgery, my mother only allowed me to stay in the hospital for two days. She ripped out my IV tube, saying that if I didn't go back to school, I would fall behind on my coursework. The wound on my abdomen chafed painfully against the fabric of my clothes, but this little bit of physical pain was far less agonizing than the torment of being an "outcast" in that elite prep school. Because I hadn't paid the few hundred dollars for textbook fees, I could only squeeze next to my desk-mate to share one book during class. My desk-mate was a somewhat cowardly boy. Whenever those rich kids, who took pleasure in bullying me, cast unkind looks our way, he would slide the book a large chunk over to his side, leaving me only an awkward corner. I could only desperately crane my neck, like a starving bird stealing food. During the break, the humiliation arrived as expected. A group of girls wearing exquisite makeup cornered me in the restroom. The leader was Madison, the "Queen Bee" of our class. They pushed me to the floor, and ice-cold, filthy water was poured over my head. It soaked my cheap, washed-out T-shirt and instantly soaked through the gauze on my abdomen. An icy, stabbing pain radiated from the wound. "Hey, Olivia, I heard your mom is the CEO of a publicly traded company. Why can't you even afford your textbook fees?" "You wouldn't happen to be an illegitimate daughter, would you? The kind that can't be shown in public?" Their mockery pierced my heart like needles. That day, they pushed and shoved me, kneeing my abdomen. The freshly healed wound tore open again. Bright red blood soaked through the gauze, dyeing my clothes red. I was sent to the infirmary to be re-bandaged. The school called my mother, reporting the bullying and the unpaid fees. The phone was on speaker. I stood in the office, like a criminal waiting for trial. I clearly heard my mother's voice on the other end—calm, unbothered, even carrying a trace of a lazy smile. "It's just kids playing around. Our Olivia isn't that delicate." "As for the textbook fee," she paused, her voice carrying a playful amusement, "I'm doing this to train her independence. I absolutely cannot let her develop the bad habit of getting something for nothing." "If she wants money, make her go earn it." And so, I became the only student in that elite private school who had to go collect trash after the final bell. While my classmates sat in various luxury cars with logos I didn't recognize, heading to high-end restaurants and private clubs. I carried my heavy backpack and walked into the dirtiest corners of the city, digging through dumpsters that reeked of sour rot, searching for plastic bottles and cardboard that could be exchanged for cash. Once, I was digging through a dumpster in the back alley of a high-end French restaurant. I happened to see my mother and her socialite friends sitting at an open-air cafe not far away. My mother saw me. She showed absolutely no surprise. Instead, she lifted her coffee cup and toasted me from afar, the corners of her lips curling into a cruel yet satisfied arc. Like she was appreciating a play she had personally directed, titled "Tempering." And I was just the clown struggling in the mud for her amusement. I collected recyclables for a week. My fingers were cut, and my entire body reeked of sour garbage. In the end, I only exchanged it all for thirty-seven dollars and fifty cents. The thousands of dollars needed for textbook fees were nowhere in sight. At the very last moment on the day of the payment deadline, my homeroom teacher, Mrs. Miller, called me into her office. She pushed a brand-new set of textbooks in front of me and said gently, "Olivia, the teacher paid for your books." "Mrs. Miller... I..." I held that stack of brand-new books, and my tears fell uncompetitively. Mrs. Miller patted my shoulder, her tone warm. "Don't cry. I don't need you to pay me back. You just need to promise me that you will study hard, and that will be enough." After getting the textbooks, for the first time, I sat in the classroom with my back straight. I studied like crazy, wanting to repay Mrs. Miller's kindness with excellent grades. But those good days lasted less than a week. My mother must have seen the crossed-out textbook fee on the billing statement the school mailed to our house. She came to the school and went straight to the Principal's office. Not long after, Mrs. Miller, who was right in the middle of teaching our class, was called out by the principal's assistant. When she left, she was still pinching half a piece of chalk in her hand. She only said, "Students, self-study," and never came back. The class started buzzing with discussion. A strong wave of unease suddenly rose in my heart, so much so that I couldn't even focus on my book. It wasn't until after class that I saw it on the bulletin board. A thin piece of A4 paper, yet heavy enough to crush a person—a notice regarding the termination of Mrs. Sarah Miller's employment contract. My mother was one of the biggest financial sponsors of this private school. To her, firing a teacher was easier than crushing an ant. I rushed to the school gates like a madwoman. My mother was just about to get into her car. "Mom! Why did you fire Mrs. Miller?!" I cried and shouted at her, my voice cracking from agitation. "Why are you crying?" Her tone was completely flat. "Did I fire her? No. It was your 'kind-hearted' Mrs. Miller who insisted on being a busybody and ruining my educational policy." "What educational policy! Mrs. Miller is a good person! She was just helping me..." "A good person?" My mother let out a short laugh, as if she had just heard the biggest joke in the world. "Olivia, I'll teach you another free lesson today. In this world, the most worthless thing is a so-called 'good person,' and all that unprovoked kindness." "Besides, you need to be very clear about one thing. Everything Mrs. Miller is experiencing right now is because you implicated her." "She lost her job because of you." That single sentence pinned me dead to the spot. It was true. It was because I accepted that kindness that I harmed the only person who was good to me. My mother looked at my deathly pale face with satisfaction, turned around, pulled the car door open, and got in. The car window slowly rolled down, revealing that well-maintained, yet entirely temperature-less face of hers. "Oh, right. I’ve already reimbursed Mrs. Miller for your textbooks." "That money, naturally, still counts as a loan to you." "The interest will continue to accrue." 4 After Mrs. Miller was fired, I became the god of plague in the school, someone everyone avoided at all costs. When I walked down the hallway, classmates who had originally been laughing and talking would instantly fall silent, looking at me with a gaze mixed with fear and disdain, before silently dispersing. The bullying from Madison's clique completely tore off its disguise and became unprecedentedly blatant. They would snatch the brand-new textbooks Mrs. Miller bought me right off my desk in front of the entire class. They used markers to draw obscene doodles and vicious curses all over them, and then, right in front of my eyes, tore them to shreds, page by page. I pounced on them like crazy, trying to snatch those books back. They were the only proof of warmth I had ever possessed. But they pushed me to the ground in a chaotic scramble. The hard floor bruised my bones. I don't know who unscrewed a bottle of ink. The sticky, freezing blue-black liquid poured down from the top of my head. The ice-cold liquid soaked through my clothes and dyed the scattered pages on the floor black. But no other teacher ever dared to step forward to help me again. They intentionally avoided my gaze, as if I carried some contagious bad luck. They were all afraid. Afraid that they would end up like Mrs. Miller—that because they offered me a trivial piece of charity, their lives would be effortlessly destroyed by my powerful, omnipotent mother. I became a true isolated island, abandoned by the whole world. That day, they cornered me in the restroom again, pouring a bucket of dirty water over me from head to toe. When I got home completely drenched, unable to tell if it was dirty water or tears on my face, I collapsed. I could no longer endure this boundless despair. For the first time, I mustered up my courage and blocked the doorway to my mother's study. She was elegantly sipping red wine and flipping through a financial magazine, turning a blind eye to my miserable state. Using all my strength, I asked the question that had hovered in my heart for years, nearly tearing me apart: "Why?" My voice was trembling, carrying a crying tone. "Why can't you treat me like a normal mother would?" She finally reacted. She took a photo frame out of her drawer and threw it at my feet. Crash! The glass of the frame shattered, scratching a corner of the photo inside. In the photo was a man smiling a gentle, clean smile. His eyes and features were identical to mine. My mother finally lifted her eyes, and in those beautiful pupils surged a hatred that was practically overflowing. "Because of this face, these eyes. You look exactly like him." She stood up and walked toward me step by step, looking down at me as if she were looking at a piece of garbage that completely disgusted her. "Every day I look at you, it's like looking at a debt collector. A living, breathing piece of evidence constantly reminding me of how stupid and cheap I was back then!" She extended her finger and poked my heart heavily. "Olivia, the fact that I didn't throw you away the moment you were born is already the greatest mercy I could show you as a mother." In that moment, the last trace of warmth in my heart, the final thread of extravagant hope for family affection, was snuffed out by her own hands. Thoroughly frozen, shattered into powder. It turns out that not all bloodlines are tied to heartache. The maternal love written in books might just be a fairytale, and the hatred a real mother had for me was bone-chilling, colder than the winter wind. 5 ... The static noise in my Bluetooth earbud snapped me awake from my scorching trance. I had just handed a flyer to a passing man. He swatted my hand away with a look of disgust and cursed vulgarly, "Roll away, don't bother me." Instantly, my mother's cold voice came through the Bluetooth earbud in my ear. "Olivia, your posture is wrong." "If you are begging for a living, you need to look like you're begging. You need to smile, you need to look approachable. Who are you showing that funeral face to?" She paused, her tone full of mockery: "Do you think it's that easy to make money? You don't even stand properly. Who is going to take your stuff?" I twitched the corners of my mouth, forcing a smile that looked uglier than crying, and began mechanically repeating the process: handing out, getting rejected, handing out again. But my mother was still endlessly nagging and lecturing in my earbud. The two hundred flyers were finally handed out until only the very last one remained. At this moment, she spoke into the earbud again: "Do you see it, Olivia?! That red Ferrari that just parked by the curb!" "Quick! Shove the flyer to him! That is our premium client. Catching someone like him is more useful than handing out a thousand flyers!" I numbly lifted my head and looked over, following her words. That red Ferrari was parked by the curb, its engine still running. Gripping that final flyer, which had long been softened by my sweat, I moved my lead-filled legs and walked over. Just as I was about to bend down to shove the flyer through the gap in the car window. The car door was pushed open without warning. A man stepped out of the car. He was tall and stood perfectly straight. Even a simple white T-shirt and black pants couldn't hide the noble aura radiating from his entire being. He was carefully cradling a tiny kitten in his hands. The cat was only the size of a palm, completely dirty, and meowing with a soft, tiny voice. It sounded like it was acting spoiled, but also like it was afraid. One look and you could tell it was a stray cat he had just picked up. The man lowered his eyes, focused entirely on the little guy in his arms. He frowned slightly, looking somewhat helpless. He lifted his head, his gaze falling on me, and his cold, clear voice carried a trace of inquiry: "Do you know how to take care of a kitten?" I was instantly stunned in place. My brain went completely blank. And right at that moment, my mother's death warrant rang crazily in my earbud again. The sound was sharp and piercing, almost puncturing my eardrum: "Olivia! What are you staring off into space like a dead person for?!" "Hurry up and hand the flyer over! Let him see your sincerity! You idiot!" I looked at the shivering little cat in the man's arms, and then I thought of myself. I jerked my head up. Tears burst out like a broken dam without warning, blurring my vision. Right now. This was my only chance. "I do, but can you take me away from here first?" I stared intensely into his eyes, terrified of missing even the slightest hint of rejection. "Please." "...Someone is watching me." The man's deep eyes narrowed slightly. His line of sight seemed to cross over my shoulder, glancing at that black Bentley parked not far away. He didn't ask a single question. He just pulled the car door open. "Get in." I practically crawled and scrambled my way inside. The engine let out a roar, and we instantly vanished around the corner. Before I even had time to catch my breath, my mother's furious voice came through the Bluetooth: "Olivia! You're crazy! What are you doing?!" "Whose car is that! Get out right now!" I took a deep breath and spoke faintly: "Mom, he is a man who would buy me tampons, and who doesn't mind that I stained the backseat of his car." There was dead silence on my mother's end for a second. Following that was a hysterical stream of curses, even worse than before. "You slut! You are exactly like your deadbeat father!" "You're both lowlife trash! Like a dog that jumps the moment it sees money!" Normally, I would only endure it silently. But right now, I took the earbud out and threw it out the window without hesitation. 6 Actually, I had no idea how to take care of a kitten. My only intimate contact with a cat was when I was very young. That day, I brought a rain-soaked stray cat back from outside. It was skin and bones, and I put it in my room, wanting to keep it. As a result, my mom found out. She wore that familiar look of disgust and disdain. She had a maid grab the kitten by the scruff of the neck and throw it far out the front door, just like tossing a piece of trash. She pointed at my nose and warned me, word by word: "Olivia, if you ever dare to bring this kind of dirty thing home again, I will throw you out right alongside it, and don't you ever come back!" On the way to the man's house, I constantly used my phone to search for tutorials on taking care of kittens. [How to care for a kitten as a beginner?] [Can kittens drink cow's milk?] [What temperature warm water should be used for goat milk powder?] I read until my head was spinning, terrified that I would remember any detail wrong. I was afraid. Afraid that he would realize I knew absolutely nothing, and then, just like my mother, throw me out of the car. Luckily. When we got back to his house—which was as massive as a palace—and it was time to feed the kitten. This man, Ethan Vance, didn't seem to be much better at this than I was. He held the tiny baby bottle with a serious expression, but his movements were incredibly clumsy. And I, relying on the knowledge I had just frantically crammed, helped him mix the warm water and test the temperature. He couldn't spot my flaws. The kitten finally finished the milk with immense satisfaction, curled up in a soft towel, and let out a tiny purring sound. The room fell quiet in an instant. This moment of peace reminded me that this short-lived shelter was about to end. I gripped the hem of my shirt tightly, my fingernails almost embedding themselves into my palms. I can't leave. I can't go back to that hell. I lifted my head, meeting his inquiring gaze. I mustered all the courage I had in my life, my voice trembling slightly from tension. "...Does your house need a maid?" Ethan was stunned for a second, then replied faintly, "I have an auntie who cooks for me." It was an expected answer. But I was unwilling to accept it. This was my only chance. I urgently added, "What about someone to take care of the cat?!" "I can take care of it. I'm very good at taking care of small animals. I can do anything!" I wanted to stay so badly. Because the current me was penniless and homeless. Right at this moment, an inopportune sound echoed in the room. Rumble— My stomach growled. I haven't had a single drop of water to drink since morning. Ethan's gaze landed on my face, which was now flushed red with embarrassment. He said: "Let's eat first." The dining table was covered in exquisite dishes, the kind of food I had only ever seen my mother eat before. I sat cautiously at the table, my hands resting on my knees, not even daring to touch the silverware. He seemed to notice my constraint and handed a clean fork and knife to me. "Eat." That single word instantly shattered my initial reserve. I shoved the food into my mouth with total disregard, wolfing it down. I ate too fast and even choked, coughing until tears came out of my eyes. When I finally lifted my head from the food, I suddenly realized that the man sitting across from me hadn't touched his silverware from start to finish. Ethan just sat there quietly, his deep gaze resting on me, his emotions unreadable. My cheeks burned hotly in an instant, and a sense of shame overwhelmed me. He must think I am uneducated and embarrassing. "It's okay," he seemed to see through my thoughts, a very faint curve hooking the corner of his mouth. "The way you eat is very appetizing." "By the way, looking at your age... you should still be in school, right?" Gripping my fork, I nodded, my voice as small as a mosquito's hum: "...High school senior." He frowned imperceptibly. "Then why are you out here... offering to be a maid?" "Also, who was watching you?" I put down my fork, lowered my head, and stared at the dirty tips of my shoes. I was silent for a very, very long time. "It was my mom." I don't know how I managed to recount everything. The humiliation, the pain, the despair. Through my barren vocabulary, it became a pale, lengthy statement. By the end, my voice was unbearably hoarse, and my vision was a blur. I lifted my head, looking at him with teary eyes, like a drowning person grabbing onto the last piece of driftwood. "I'm begging you, please give me a job." "I promise I will take good care of the cat. I can swallow any bitterness." Ethan listened to my story. There was no pity in his eyes, nor was there disdain. After a long time, he finally spoke, his voice calm to the point of being almost cruel. "I don't need a maid here." He rejected me. The very last flame of hope was extinguished. I stood up from the chair, my body swaying slightly from exhaustion. "...I understand. Thank you for dinner." I bowed deeply toward him. Then I turned and walked toward the grand front door. I should go. Back to the hell I belong in. Just as my hand touched the doorknob, Ethan called out to me. "Wait a second. I don't need a maid." "But your tuition, your living expenses, and all the expenses for your future college education—I can sponsor them."
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