From Captive Fake Daughter To Untouchable Billionaire Heiress

“Did you honestly believe a few drops of marrow could make you his real wife?”

Beatrice’s voice was a sickly sweet whisper, meant only for my ears.

I had turned away from the grand hall, leaving my faded coat on the marble floor, but Beatrice had followed me into the quiet, dimly lit corridor. She blocked my path, swirling a glass of red wine, her eyes gleaming with a vicious sort of triumph.

“Oliver only keeps you around because Julian’s body is failing,” she sneered, stepping closer. “To him, you aren’t a person. You’re just a medical supply.”

I didn’t argue. I didn’t have the energy to fight her. I just wanted to walk out the door and never look back.

But as she leaned in, the dim light caught the silver necklace resting against her collarbone.

My breath stopped.

It was a silver locket. The metal was slightly warped, the intricate floral engraving blackened at the edges.

It was my locket.

Ten years ago, I had dragged a teenage Oliver out of a burning warehouse. The smoke had scorched my lungs, and the falling debris had left a permanent scar on my shoulder. I had lost my locket in the ashes that night.

When Oliver woke up in the hospital, Beatrice was the one sitting by his bed. She had found my locket, claimed it as her own, and took all the credit for saving his life. That was why Oliver loved her. That was why she was his untouchable "White Moonlight," while I was just the greedy opportunist who forced him into marriage.

I stared at the warped silver. “You stole that.”

Beatrice noticed my gaze. Her hand flew to the locket, her smirk widening into a wicked grin.

“So what if I did?” she whispered. “He believes me. He will always believe me. You could scream the truth until your throat bleeds, Carmella, and he would still look at you with nothing but disgust.”

She was right. I had tried to tell him once, early in our marriage. Oliver had looked at me with such profound revulsion, accusing me of trying to steal Beatrice’s heroism, that I never brought it up again.

“Keep it,” I said, my voice dead and flat. “You two deserve each other.”

I stepped around her to leave.

But Beatrice wasn’t finished.

Her eyes flashed with sudden malice. She raised her crystal wine glass and slammed it hard against the marble pillar beside us. The glass shattered into jagged shards.

Without a second of hesitation, she dragged a sharp piece across her own forearm, slicing the skin.

Blood welled up instantly, spilling bright red over her custom gown.

Then, she threw herself to the floor and let out a blood-curdling scream.

“Ah! Carmella, please! Why would you do this?!”

The music in the grand hall stopped abruptly. Footsteps echoed like thunder as the party guests rushed into the corridor.

Oliver was the first to arrive.

When he saw Beatrice on the floor, bleeding and crying, all the color drained from his face. He dropped to his knees, pulling her into his arms with a frantic, desperate panic I had never once seen him display.

“Beatrice! What happened?” he demanded, his hands trembling as he pressed his handkerchief to her bleeding arm.

“I… I just wanted to talk to her,” Beatrice sobbed, burying her face in his chest. “She was so angry, Oliver. She pushed me into the glass. She said I didn't deserve to be here.”

Oliver’s head snapped up. His eyes locked onto me, burning with a hatred so intense it felt physical.

“You vicious, jealous bitch,” he spat.

“I didn’t touch her,” I said calmly. My voice didn’t shake. I was too tired to panic. “She cut herself.”

“Shut up!” Oliver roared. He scooped Beatrice up in his arms. “Doctor! Get the estate doctor right now! Beatrice has a delicate constitution. She loses blood too quickly!”

The medical team, always on standby for Julian, rushed into the corridor.

Oliver turned his furious glare back to me. “Take her to the clinic room immediately. Draw her blood for Beatrice. As much as she needs.”

The guests gasped, but no one intervened.

I stared at the man I had called my husband for three years.

“No,” I said, my voice steady. “I just had a marrow extraction two hours ago. My red blood cell count is critically low. If you take my blood now, I will die.”

Oliver’s expression didn’t soften. There was no hesitation, no flicker of concern for my life.

“Then die making yourself useful,” he said coldly. “Take her.”

Two burly security guards stepped forward to grab my arms. I struggled, my weakened body screaming in pain, but I was no match for them.

“Stop! Let her go!”

A rough, panicked voice broke through the crowd.

I looked up and saw my father. Arthur Vance.

He was wearing a stained, gray janitor’s uniform, holding a heavy wooden mop cane. He had taken a job at Oliver’s estate to keep up his "destitute" act, pretending to scrub floors while secretly buying fifty-million-dollar yachts.

For a split second, a foolish, desperate hope flared in my chest. My father is here. He’s going to stop them. He’s going to save me.

Arthur pushed through the crowd. He looked at Beatrice, bleeding in Oliver’s arms, and his face twisted in horror.

Then, he turned to me.

There was no love in his eyes. Only sheer panic that his precious adopted daughter was hurt, and absolute terror that Oliver might blame their family.

To appease the billionaire, and to protect Beatrice, my father raised his heavy wooden cane.

He didn't aim for the guards. He aimed for me.

Crack.

The thick wood slammed into the back of my knees. My legs gave out instantly, and I crashed hard onto the marble floor.

Before I could even process the pain, the cane came down again, striking my back with brutal, sickening force.

“You ungrateful monster!” my father screamed, his face red with performative rage. “How dare you hurt your sister! We raised you to be humble, and you turn into this jealous, vicious snake!”

Crack.

Another blow hit my ribs. The air was knocked from my lungs.

“Mr. Sterling, please forgive her!” my father begged Oliver, panting as he stood over my broken body. “She has always been a bad seed! Take whatever blood you need from her to save my Beatrice!”

The crowd watched in silence. Oliver looked down at me with cold satisfaction. Beatrice hid a smirk against his chest.

I lay on the cold marble floor, my vision swimming. A sharp, metallic taste filled my mouth. I coughed, and bright red blood splattered across the pristine white stone.

The physical pain was agonizing, but it was nothing compared to the absolute, hollow silence in my chest.

My husband wanted me dead to save his fake savior. My father beat me to protect the daughter he actually loved.

My entire life was a cruel, elaborate joke.

I didn't cry. I didn't beg. I just closed my eyes, letting the darkness pull me under, knowing that the Carmella who loved them had just died on this floor.