A Housekeeper's Daughter Stole My Daughter's Identity

A few years ago, our housekeeper, Emma, moved into our home.

Her cooking won over my daughter immediately, so I decided to keep her on to help care for her.

But not long after, my old illness flared up again, and I had no choice but to step away from the company and let Bennett take over temporarily.

During my recovery, Bennett reassured me repeatedly—our daughter was doing well.

He even said she had made good friends with Emma's granddaughter.

Now, frowning deeply, I returned home.

My daughter was curled up on the sofa, her eyes wide with uncertainty.

“Mom... you’re back,” she whispered.

She moved toward me hesitantly, trying to hug me.

I pulled her into my arms—but she let out a soft cry of pain.

Alarmed, I gently rolled up her sleeve, and froze.

Bruises. Ugly, dark ones. Purple and green.

A cold sharpness flashed through my eyes. My voice dropped into a dangerous tone. “Who did this to you?”

But my daughter buried herself in my arms, trembling. “M-Mom... I fell. It was my fault...”

“I’m sorry... I really didn’t mean to...”

She kept apologizing, her body shaking with fear.

My heart ached.

This wasn’t how she used to be.

It was my fault for leaving her alone for so long.

Now that I knew she wasn't doing well, I wouldn't leave her side again.

Gently, I led her to my bedroom.

“Tonight, Mommy’s staying with you.”

With me there, she finally relaxed and drifted off to sleep.

Looking at my daughter, I clenched my fist in anger. I needed to get to the bottom of this.

Just as I was deep in thought, the bedroom door was suddenly kicked open.

My daughter jolted awake in terror, her whole body trembling.

A girl in silk pajamas burst into the room, eyes blazing with fury, and jabbed a finger at my daughter as she shouted, “You filthy thing! Who said you could sleep here?!”

She stormed toward us—but froze the moment she saw me.

“Who are you?” I asked coldly, my gaze sharp as ice.

“And why did you open the door to the master bedroom without permission?”

The girl blinked, confused. “Why would I need permission? This is my parents’ house.”

I let out a soft, cold laugh. “Your parents? I don’t recall having a daughter like you.”

“Now get out, before I lose my temper.”

The girl opened her mouth to argue—but before she could get a word out, Emma came rushing in and clamped a hand over her mouth.

“Madam, this is my granddaughter. Please don’t mind her—she has a habit of sleepwalking,” she said hastily, dragging the girl away.

Before leaving, she plastered on a smile and handed me a bowl of apple and soup.

“Madam, Miss Frances hasn’t eaten anything tonight. I made this for her.”

I nodded slightly. “You may go now.”

Once they left, I noticed it—my daughter seemed deeply uncomfortable around the two of them.

“Frances, are you hungry?” I asked gently.

“Come on, have a little something.”

She shook her head quickly. “No, Mommy... I don’t want to eat.”

“Please, don’t make me eat. I hate what I’ve become...”

I looked at her and felt another sharp pang in my chest.

Her once slender figure was gone—she was now bloated, her skin dull and rough.

Her face was covered with pimples, something she never used to have.

“I don’t want it...” she repeated, staring at the bowl of soup with terror in her eyes.

But this had always been her favorite food.

“...Alright,” I said softly, stroking her hair. “If you don’t like it, Mommy will make you something else tomorrow.”

She finally relaxed, curling up beside me and falling asleep.

I glanced down at the untouched bowl of soup. A dark glint passed through my eyes.

Quietly, I picked up my phone and dialed my assistant.

“Assistant Jones,” I began, keeping my voice calm, “I need a favor. Send someone to test something for me.”

“Yes... right now.”