On the day my uncle finalized the paperwork to sell me into a high-end underground escort ring, I used the silver hairpin my mother left me to bribe a guard for a packet of rat poison. When I was ten years old, my entire family was transported back in time to the colonial era. My parents starved themselves, saving every scrap of food to pay a harsh governess to teach me the strict rules of high society, terrified that my loud, impulsive nature would get us killed in this unforgiving era. But when I was fourteen, I snuck out to see the lantern festival and caught the eye of a local, violent aristocrat. My mother took over a dozen stab wounds protecting me. My father was beaten until his dying breath, screaming at me to run. From that day on, I never laughed out loud again. I endured humiliation without a single word of defense. Even when I was coughing up blood, I refused to let a male doctor examine me. I lived in absolute terror that if I was ever willful or impulsive again, it would mean my parents had bled out for nothing. And now, my uncle was selling me to an escort ring. I refused to let the daughter my parents died to protect become a plaything for other men. But just as I swallowed the poison, the courtyard doors swung open. My parents walked in, wearing modern clothes. "Happy Birthday, sweetie! The 'Perfect Lady' behavioral modification test is officially over!" "We never time-traveled. Dad rented out this entire historical reenactment town." "And our 'deaths' were just a lesson to teach you how to be elegant, disciplined, and mature." My mother pulled me into a tight hug, smiling with profound satisfaction. "Our wild, rebellious little tomboy has finally become the perfect, refined young lady." I opened my mouth, but I couldn't form a smile. So... the guilt that had tortured me for five years... the unspeakable suffering, the swallowed tears... it was all just a test they engineered. I endured the agonizing, twisting pain erupting in my stomach and leaned into her embrace. "Mom. Dad. I'm so glad you're back." "But this time... I don't think I can go home with you." 1 My mother froze for a second, then laughed, playfully tapping my nose. "Oh honey, are you still in character?" My father stepped out from behind her, holding a large buttercream birthday cake. "Alright, the test is over." "Whatever you want to eat, just tell Dad. We're throwing you a massive makeup birthday party tonight." Those familiar yet entirely foreign titles crashed down on me. Dad. Mom. I hadn't heard those words in five years. I stared at the numerical candles on the cake. Nineteen. So today was my birthday. And it was the day they chose to finally drop the curtain. Another wave of brutal, twisting agony ripped through my stomach. I ground my teeth together, forcing myself not to double over. My mother took my hand, inspecting it with satisfaction. "Your posture is perfect, your composure is flawless. Even with a surprise this massive, you didn't lose your elegance." "See, honey? I told you this immersive behavioral therapy would work." My father smiled smugly. "Back then, she was sneaking out of school, getting into fistfights with boys, and demanding we buy her an electric guitar." "If we didn't step in, she would have ended up in jail or dead in a ditch." "Look at her now. She's flawless. The absolute picture of a proper, respectable daughter." I looked down at the hand my mother was holding. The fingertips were covered in thick, rough callouses from years of hand-washing laundry on a washboard. The old, ugly scars on my wrists were hidden beneath my long, linen sleeves. They didn't even notice them. "So, the violent aristocrat at the lantern festival... that was fake too?" "Of course." My father waved a hand dismissively. "Professional actors." "The blood packs strapped to your mother, the blood I coughed up when I 'died'—all Hollywood props." "And the dozen stab wounds?" "Retractable prop knives. Very common in the film industry." "When you fell to the ground in front of me, Mom kept screaming at me to run." "And Dad... you coughed up so much blood." My mother smiled, her expression incredibly gentle. "It had to feel real. That was the only way you'd learn your lesson." I nodded slowly. "I understand." They didn't know. They didn't know that after I escaped into the woods that night, I snuck back. I tried to scrub the blood off the cobblestones. I scrubbed it three times, and it wouldn't come out. I knelt in that puddle of fake blood, smashing my forehead against the stone over and over again. I begged God to take my life and give my parents back. For the next five years, whenever I heard the sound of metal clashing, I would hyperventilate and shake uncontrollably. For five entire years, I never slept through the night. Footsteps echoed from outside the door. My "uncle"—the man who had just grabbed me by the hair and tried to drag me onto the auction block—walked in. He pulled off his fake beard, rubbing a massive, swelling bruise on his forehead. "Mr. Vance, your daughter hits like a truck." My dad frowned. "Chloe, did you hit Uncle Dave?" "He was trying to strip my clothes off to 'inspect' me." "That's standard procedure for the escort storyline." Uncle Dave rubbed his head, complaining: "I barely touched her, and she grabbed a heavy brass candlestick and swung for the fences." "If I hadn't ducked, she would have cracked my skull open." The smile vanished from my mother's face. "We trained you for five years, and you are still this impulsive and violent?" I looked at her. "Is a woman not allowed to defend herself when a strange man tries to strip her naked?" "Of course you are." She explained, her tone dripping with strained patience: "But this is a test. The entire room is wired with hidden cameras." "The production staff wouldn't actually hurt you." "I didn't know that." "You should have trusted your parents." I couldn't help but let out a short, hollow laugh. "But to me, my parents have been dead for five years." The room plunged into silence. My dad set the cake down, his tone turning dark and authoritative. "Is that how you speak to your mother?" "We spent millions of dollars renting out this entire historical town, hiring over a thousand actors to help you complete your developmental assessment, and it was all for your own good!" "You suffer a little inconvenience, and now you're blaming us?" My mother let go of my hand. "Chloe, do not disappoint me." Disappoint. Those two words had terrorized me for five years. When I couldn't stomach the stale, rotting food—I was disappointing my dead mother. When I was too sick to get out of bed—I was bringing shame to my dead father. And now, standing right in front of me, alive and breathing, they still felt I wasn't obedient enough. I lowered my head. "I'm sorry." My mother's expression finally softened. "That's a good girl." She pulled a pristine, white designer dress from her luggage. "Go change. There are hundreds of staff members waiting outside to attend your graduation ceremony." Another spasm of agonizing pain ripped through my stomach. I couldn't hold it back anymore. "Can we... can we wait a little bit?" "I really don't feel well." My dad checked his Rolex. "No. We only rented the venue until midnight." "Everyone played their part for five years. Don't throw a childish tantrum at the very end and ruin the finale." My mother shoved the dress into my arms. "Hurry up." I clutched the dress and walked into the adjoining washroom. As the door clicked shut, I heard my mother laughing outside. "See? Look how obedient she is now." My dad replied: "Well, at least the last five years weren't a total waste." I slid my back down the door, collapsing onto the floor. A mouthful of dark blood surged up my throat, but I forcefully swallowed it back down. On the vanity table, the yellow paper packet that held the rat poison was nothing but a torn corner. Earlier, when I offered the brothel madam my silver hairpin and begged her for a way out, she impatiently pointed to a mahogany box on her vanity. "If you want to kill yourself, take it. Just don't delay the auction." She probably thought it was just another scene in the script. But I didn't know what a script was. I only knew that the grayish-white powder was incredibly bitter. And the moment I swallowed it, a roaring, consuming fire ignited in my stomach. I crumpled the torn paper corner in my fist and slowly changed into the white dress. The sizing was perfect. Except the waist was a little too tight. It was pressing directly against the burning agony in my stomach, making it worse. 2 The walk from the courtyard to the main theater took less than five minutes. By the time I walked in, the venue was packed. The "madam" had taken off her extravagant period jewelry and was wearing a sleek corporate pantsuit. The "village elder" who had forced me to sign the indentured servitude contract was holding up his iPhone, taking a selfie. The cruel governess who used to beat me was sitting next to my mother, her face wrinkled in a bright, sycophantic smile. "Congratulations on your graduation, Miss Vance!" Everyone erupted into applause. They laughed, looking entirely relaxed. As if the vicious slaps I endured, and the freezing winter nights I spent starving, were nothing more than lines of dialogue they could forget as soon as the director yelled 'cut'. My mother pulled me to the center of the stage. "Say thank you to everyone." I didn't move. My dad immediately chimed in, his tone warning: "Chloe, these people dedicated five years to you. Don't forget your basic manners." I bent my knees and dropped to the floor, kneeling. A collective gasp echoed through the theater. My mother hurriedly tried to pull me up. "Oh my god, I didn't mean literally get on your knees." I looked up at her. "The governess taught me that when a woman expresses gratitude, only a full prostration shows true sincerity." The governess's smile froze awkwardly. "Miss Vance, I was just teaching you the etiquette written in the script." I looked at my parents. "Did you know exactly what I was learning every single month?" My mother nodded matter-of-factly. "Uncle Dave sent us detailed progress reports every thirty days." "But did you ever actually come and look at me yourselves?" "Chloe, we have our own lives." Her tone edged into impatience. "Your father has a company to run, and I have to take care of your little brother." "Did you expect our entire family to put our lives on hold for five years just for your behavioral test?" "Little brother?" Realizing she had slipped up, my mother simply pulled out her iPhone. On the screen, a four-year-old boy was sitting on a bench at Disney World, eating an ice cream cone. My parents were sitting on either side of him. The three of them were wearing matching family outfits, smiling radiantly. "This is Oliver." "We were afraid that if you knew about him, you'd throw a fit and demand to come home, so we kept it a secret." I stared at the timestamp on the photo. Three years ago. That was the year my fever wouldn't break. I knelt in the freezing ancestral hall for an entire night. I prayed to God, offering to trade ten years of my own lifespan if it meant my parents could be reincarnated and find peace. It turned out they had already started a new family. I was the only one faithfully tending to two empty graves, burning paper money every year. "You visited the historical town during the spring." "Why didn't you come see me?" My mother avoided my gaze. "We couldn't risk breaking character and ruining the immersion during the test." "Besides, Oliver caught a fever twice that trip, we were incredibly busy." I nodded slowly. "When he gets a fever, you stay by his side." "When I was dying of a fever, you read a progress report." "Chloe Vance!" My dad snapped, cutting me off sharply. "Don't start competing with your little brother the second you get back." "Oliver is only four years old. You are nineteen!" A massive, violent cramp ripped through my stomach. I doubled over, and a single drop of dark blood splashed onto the pristine white dress. My mother's expression shifted. "What is that on your mouth?" I wiped it away with my sleeve. "Lipstick." Uncle Dave scoffed from the side. "Playing the victim again." "A few years ago, when she was trying to skip a lesson, she somehow managed to steal a fake blood pack from the props department and smeared it all over her bed." "Nearly gave one of the tutors a heart attack." The governess quickly chimed in: "Mrs. Vance, she pulled these little stunts all the time." "When she was 'in pain', she screamed like she was dying, but she could eat a full meal just fine an hour later." The hand my mother had extended toward me stopped mid-air. She let out a heavy sigh. "Chloe, the test is over. There's no need to keep acting." "Go apologize to Uncle Dave, and we'll consider this whole incident resolved." I looked at the man who, an hour ago, had almost sold me into an underground brothel. "And if I refuse to apologize?" My dad's face darkened completely. "Then it proves that these five years were a complete waste of time, and you learned absolutely nothing." I stood in silence for a moment, then walked over to Uncle Dave. "I'm sorry." Uncle Dave finally smiled. "See? Now that's how a refined young lady behaves." My mother linked her arm through mine, her voice dropping into a coaxing, motherly tone: "This is the final stage." "Just be a good girl and get through this, and then we can all go home." I looked at her. "Mom, what happens if I don't make it through?" She didn't hesitate for a single second. "Then we add another year to the test." 3 The massive projector screen began playing a highlight reel of my "behavioral transformation." Fourteen-year-old me, hands on my hips, screaming at the governess. Fifteen-year-old me, kneeling in front of my parents' fake graves, sobbing and swearing I would never be rebellious again. Sixteen-year-old me, sitting meekly in front of an embroidery frame. When the needle pierced my finger, I didn't even dare to whimper. The audience erupted in laughter. Uncle Dave held up a glass of champagne, joking: "Miss Vance was an absolute nightmare when she first arrived." "Climbing walls, cursing people out, stealing horses. She was a literal feral monkey." "But once Mrs. Vance 'died', she fell right into line." My mother smiled, her eyes tearing up slightly. "What parent actually wants to force their child into something like this?" "But if we weren't harsh, how was she ever going to learn?" I looked down at my hands. My nails were digging so hard into my palms they were drawing blood. The agony in my stomach was coming in relentless, suffocating waves, but I kept my posture perfectly rigid and straight. My mother noticed I wasn't eating. "Why aren't you eating?" "I don't have an appetite." "Are you being a picky eater again?" She scooped a large slice of buttercream cake onto my plate. "You used to love sweets when you were a little girl." I stared at the cake. When I was ten and they first brought me to this place, I cried and begged for a slice of cake. The governess locked me in a room and starved me for three days. She told me that a woman who craves indulgences is cheap and undisciplined. From that day on, I never asked for anything sweet again. "I don't like it anymore." My mother's hand paused. "You obviously loved it before." "People change." My dad interjected, visibly annoyed: "Your mother specifically ordered that for you. Take a bite." I picked up a forkful of buttercream and placed it in my mouth. The second the sugar hit my tongue, my stomach revolted violently. I clamped my hand over my mouth, but dark blood and white cream violently expelled from my lips, splattering into the bowl. My mother jumped up in a panic. "Chloe!" But the governess beat her to it, quickly throwing a napkin over the bowl. "Mrs. Vance, don't fall for it again." "It's probably just another hidden blood pack." My dad grabbed my mother's arm, pulling her back. "Tonight is supposed to be a celebration. Don't let her ruin the atmosphere." My mother looked at me, hesitating. "Chloe, what exactly are you trying to accomplish?" "My stomach hurts." "Since when?" "Since before you walked into the courtyard." "Did you eat something bad?" I looked dead into her eyes. "I ate rat poison." My mother froze for two seconds, then actually laughed out of sheer frustration. "Stop talking nonsense." Uncle Dave hurriedly stepped forward to clarify. "The brothel auction scene did include a 'poisoning' alternative ending in the script." "But the powder in the prop packet was just cornstarch. She could eat a pound of it and be perfectly fine." My dad's expression turned glacial. "Using cornstarch to try and terrify your parents. Do you honestly think this is a funny game?" "I'm not trying to terrify you." "Enough." My mother shook her head in profound disappointment. "At least in the past, you never joked about suicide." "We just got back, can you just let your father and me be happy for one night?" Julian walked over, holding a glass of wine. "Chloe." I stared at him for a long time before finally recognizing the childhood best friend who used to get into all kinds of trouble with me. "Your parents said that once the test was over, we'd announce our engagement." "Didn't you used to yell about how you were going to marry me every single day?" I asked: "Did you know they faked their deaths, too?" "Of course." He swirled his wine glass, smiling casually. "When your parents were drafting the project proposal, they even asked for my input." "And honestly, I agreed that you needed to be humbled." "With the temper you used to have, who could possibly tolerate you?" It turned out everyone knew the truth. Everyone except me. I was the only one kneeling in the dirt, repenting to empty graves day after day. "I'm not marrying you." Julian's smile vanished. "Chloe, don't push your luck." "You've been completely isolated from modern society for five years. You don't have a high school diploma, you have zero marketable skills, and you don't even know how to operate a smartphone." "Aside from me, who the hell is going to want you?" My dad didn't utter a single word of defense. My mother merely chided lightly: "Julian, don't be so harsh." It wasn't that he was wrong. He was just being "harsh." I gripped the edge of the table and forced myself to stand up. "I want to go back to my room to rest." My dad's face darkened. "Finish the toast with Julian, then you can go." "I really can't hold on anymore." "One last glass." He shoved the wine glass into my hand. "Don't ruin the mood for everyone else." I stared at my reflection in the amber liquid. If the fourteen-year-old Chloe Vance were here, she probably would have flipped the entire table. But they had systematically crushed and killed her. The version of me standing here now only knew how to obey. I raised the glass and downed it in a single gulp, not leaving a single drop. When the empty glass slipped from my fingers and shattered on the floor, my knees gave out, and I collapsed with it. My mother finally reached out to catch me. "Chloe, what's wrong with you?" I rested my head in her lap, clinging to her exactly the way I used to when I was a little girl seeking comfort. "Mom... I'm so tired." "Please... just let me sleep for a little while." 4 My mother didn't hug me back. She glanced nervously at the guests in the audience, then grabbed my arm and forcefully hauled me up from the floor. "Stop kneeling. What does this look like?" My dad lowered his voice, his tone sharp. "Even if you don't want to get married, you don't throw a tantrum and embarrass Julian like this." Julian's expression was icy. "Mr. Vance, it looks like five years wasn't enough to fix her." "She's quiet now, but deep down, she's still as stubborn and defiant as ever." My mother quickly forced an apologetic smile. "She just got back to reality, she's having trouble adjusting." "We'll discuss the engagement once we get back home." The agony in my stomach had now spread entirely through my chest. My arms were completely devoid of strength, and I could only lean heavily against my mother to stay upright. "Mom, I really want to go to my room." "No." She rejected the request without a second thought. "The guests haven't left yet. How does it look if the guest of honor abandons her own party?" "I'm in so much pain." My dad's face hardened. "Uncle Dave already confirmed the packet was just cornstarch." "You tried to pull this stunt on us once, and that was enough. How long are you planning to keep this act going?" Uncle Dave quickly stepped up to provide reassurance. "I personally handled the props. It was just standard baking starch, it's completely harmless." "Young people, you know how it is. She just found out she was tricked for five years, it's natural she has some resentment." "But Mr. and Mrs. Vance only did this out of love for her." Hearing that, my mother finally relaxed completely. She casually wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth with a napkin, whispering a stern warning: "Alright, enough. Make sure you hand over wherever you're hiding those fake blood capsules before we leave." "Don't leave a mess for the cleaning crew to find." I didn't try to explain anymore. I looked down at the blood staining the front of my white dress and said softly: "My dress is dirty. I'm going to the restroom to wash it out." My mother finally let go of my arm. "Be quick about it. Don't intentionally make everyone wait for you." I nodded. "Okay." I leaned against the wall, taking slow, agonizing steps toward the back courtyard. It was a very short distance, but it took me a painfully long time. The banquet hall behind me erupted into laughter and conversation again. Not a single person turned around to look at me. There was a large brass mirror resting on a vanity in the restroom. The girl staring back at me was wearing a beautiful white dress, but her face was significantly paler than the fabric. I closed the heavy wooden door and dropped the iron latch into place. The second I turned around, a massive mouthful of black, coagulated blood spewed onto the mirror. The dark blood slid slowly down the brass surface, fracturing my reflection into distorted, grotesque pieces. I slid down the door and sat on the floor, the fire in my stomach burning hotter and more violently by the second. When the pain reached its absolute, agonizing peak, my mind suddenly drifted back to the girl I was before I turned fourteen. Back then, I skipped class, I climbed walls, and I got into fistfights with Julian. If I scraped my knee, I would cry in front of my parents for an hour. My mom would carefully apply ointment, and my dad would stand next to her, threatening me: "If I catch you climbing the fence again, I'll break your legs." But in the end, he would always carry me home on his back. I had always believed that no matter how much trouble I caused, they would always be there to catch me. Then, they died at the lantern festival. And I realized... that there are some people who won't wait for you forever. I never dared to cry again. I never dared to be willful. I was terrified that if I took a single misstep, I would betray the bloody sacrifice they made to buy my survival. And now... they were back. But it felt like I could never, ever go home again. A sharp knock echoed against the wooden door. "Miss Vance. Mrs. Vance asked me to tell you it's time to cut the cake." I opened my mouth. My throat was choked with thick, pooling blood. I couldn't make a single sound. A few minutes later, my mother arrived. "Chloe. Come out." "Everyone is waiting for you." When I didn't respond, her tone rapidly shifted from coaxing to intense irritation. "I said that's enough." "I already gave you an out, how much longer are you going to throw this tantrum?" My dad marched over, pounding aggressively on the door. "Chloe Vance, open this door!" "Abandoning your guests to hide in the bathroom, is this the kind of etiquette you learned after five years of training?!" "We spent hundreds of millions of dollars to mold you, not so you could learn how to throw attitude at your parents!" I wanted to tell them that I wasn't throwing attitude. I just physically couldn't stand up anymore. The excruciating agony in my stomach was slowly beginning to numb and fade. My body felt incredibly light. It felt like I was being transported back to the lantern festival five years ago. My parents were lying in a pool of blood, screaming at me to run. This time, I didn't run. I closed my eyes, whispering into the dark: "Dad. Mom." "I'm coming to be with you now." In the exact moment my consciousness shattered completely, I heard my mother's voice outside the door, dripping with bitter disappointment. "Even when she was rebellious in the past, she at least never intentionally humiliated us in public." My dad let out a cold, harsh scoff. "She clearly hasn't suffered enough." "If I had known she'd act like this, we should have extended the test for another year." When I opened my eyes again, I was standing outside the restroom. My parents were still pounding furiously on the door. And my physical body was slumped against the inside of the door panel, the pristine white dress completely drenched in dark red blood. I realized... I was dead. The crowd of guests gathered in the hallway grew larger. Julian stood with his arms crossed, looking profoundly annoyed. "She's doing this on purpose." "Rejecting the proposal wasn't enough drama for her, now she has to play dead in the bathroom to force us to coddle her." My mother's face was completely devoid of patience as she issued her final ultimatum. "Chloe, I am going to count to three." "If you don't open this door, do not expect to come home with us tonight." "One." Silence from inside. "Two." Still no sound. She waited a long time, but she never counted to three. My dad's patience finally snapped entirely. "Break the door down!" "Let everyone see exactly what kind of psychotic tantrum she's throwing!" Two event staff members hurled their weight against the heavy wooden door. Once. Twice. On the third impact, the iron latch snapped. The heavy wooden door fell inward. The corpse that had been leaning against it slowly toppled sideways, the blood-soaked white dress fully exposed under the harsh hallway lights. The fury on my mother's face froze solid. She stood paralyzed in the doorway, her lips trembling slightly. "Chloe?"
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