I Died, and My Billionaire Father Went Mad

A furious shout rang out, followed by the sharp sting of a slap across my face.

My left ear buzzed, and the world fell into terrifying silence.

“Dad, it’s okay. I know my sister didn’t mean to snatch the soup I made for you. She just wants your attention. Please don’t be mad at her.”

Dizzy and reeling, I tried to explain, but the words died on my lips when those familiar, cold eyes fell on me.

“You’re that low, huh? You have to steal everything from Sophia? Do you think I can’t feed you or clothe you?”

I looked up at the face so similar to mine, pale and weakly murmuring, “Dad, it wasn’t like that. The soup was from me. I only wanted to—”

Richard cut me off impatiently, turning to the guard. “Who brought the soup?”

The guard swallowed hard, his eyes darting between Sophia and me before lowering his head. “Miss Sophia told me to take it up. This young lady just tried to grab it.”

Richard sneered, disgust clear in his eyes. “Just like your mother—you make me sick.”

He gave me a once-over, his impatience deepening. “Always pretending. You love playing the pauper? Fine. Starting this month, not a single cent from me. Let’s see how long you can keep up the act.”

I lowered my head, my fingers icy cold.

He didn’t even know—I hadn’t received a penny of support from him in eight years.

Richard left with Sophia, and as they brushed past me, Sophia deliberately slammed into my shoulder.

Her lips moved, but she didn’t realize my left ear was already deaf.

I opened the door to my tiny rented apartment, where a yellow dog wagged his tail and bounded toward me.

“Lucky, I saw Dad today.”

I crouched down, ruffling his fur, and pulled a piece of ham from my pocket to feed him.

He wouldn’t eat. Instead, he leaned against me, licking my face anxiously.

“I’m not hurt. I was just so happy I tripped. Don’t worry.” Leaning against him, I counted softly on my fingers. “This month, I’ve seen Dad three times—twice on TV, and once today.”

I picked up the family photo from the table.

A tall father, a gentle mother, and me, perched on his shoulders.

We were smiling, so happy.

Holding the photo to my chest, I whispered, “Lucky, Dad must love me, right? He gave me you, and you’re the best. He’s just too busy.”

“I wonder if he drank the soup. I simmered it for so long.”

Lucky curled at my feet, whining softly in response.

I stood and hurried to the stove. “Forget it. He always forgets when he’s busy. I’ll just make another pot.”

The flame flared up, and a drop of blood fell into the pot.

Lucky barked frantically, running to the table and dragging over my bag of medicine, circling me nonstop.

I patted his head, blowing my nose with a tissue, forcing a smile. “Alright, alright. I’ll take it now.”

On the table lay a hospital report, pinned beneath a wish list.

Swallowing a handful of bitter pills, I looked down at the list.

1.Eat a meal with Dad.

2.Take a photo with Dad.

3.Celebrate a birthday with Dad.

The phone rang. Ms. Wilson’s joyful voice came through:

“Emily, congratulations! You got into the Ivy League. Your acceptance letter has arrived at the school. You can pick it up tomorrow.”