I Died, and My Billionaire Father Went Mad

I begged him—madly begged him—even if he never loved me for the rest of his life, it would be enough.

But he only gave me one glance. Those eyes, always cold when they looked at me, spelled out each word with cruel precision:

“Anyone who hurts my daughter deserves to die.”

The moment Lucky collapsed, my cries stopped too.

I didn’t know when they left. Somehow, I dragged myself up from the ground and staggered forward to cradle Lucky in my arms.

He lay limp against me. I whispered his name, and he barely opened his eyes. A single tear fell into my palm as he nuzzled me gently, then never moved again.

…

Numb, I carried Lucky for what felt like forever.

Until I collapsed, unable to tell whether the blood covering me was his or mine.

When I woke again, it was to Ms. Wilson’s frantic voice.

“Emily, thank God you’re awake! You’re so sick, why didn’t you stay in the hospital for treatment?”

I lowered my eyes, expression empty. “I had no money.”

Ms. Wilson was stunned, her face flickering with complex emotions. She had never met Richard, and always thought I was an orphan.

“I’ll help pack some clothes for you,” she said softly.

I nodded. “Please… could you also bring the family photo from my place?”

Not long after she left, my consciousness began to drift.

In my dream, Dad wrapped his arms around Mom’s shoulders, kissed my cheek, and laughed, saying he would make me the happiest little princess in the world.

But Lucky was dead.

My Lucky was dead.

Dad, you lied to me.

I don’t know how long I slept.

Every time I woke, I could hear Ms. Wilson’s worried voice, sometimes breaking into sobs.

“What? Richard Carter is Emily’s father?”

“Emily is this sick, and he hasn’t shown up once—what kind of father is that?”

“Why can’t we reach him? Emily… she doesn’t have long left…”

“Emily, Emily…”

Ms. Wilson was wonderful, as kind as Mom had been.

She sat with me through chemo, read me bedtime stories.

Too often, I fell asleep halfway, too exhausted to listen till the end.

On my birthday, fireworks thundered outside the window.

Ms. Wilson tried to block my view, but I smiled and teased her, saying I wanted a bite of cake.

Wiping her eyes, she promised to go buy one, telling me to wait for her and not fall asleep.

I pushed off the covers, step by painful step toward the window. The night wind was cold, stirring my hospital gown. Curling up on the sill, I gazed at the sky as dazzling fireworks bloomed into shining words.

“Happy birthday to my precious daughter, Sophia Carter.”

My eyes blurred with tears.

Sophia—that had once been my name.

After Mom died, I became Emily.

Emily, the extra one.

I let out a frosty breath, fumbling in my pocket for my phone. Chemotherapy had ruined my vision; it took a long time to find Dad’s number.

Word by word, I typed carefully:

“Dad, I’m sick. I’m dying soon. Could you come see me one last time?”

The phone buzzed.

Only a voice message.

“Let me know after you’re dead.”

I tilted my head back, but tears still slipped into my mouth, bitter as poison.

How tragic—on my last birthday in this world, regret was all I had.

With a sigh, I pulled eight photos from under my pillow.

Each one I had drawn myself.

Each one showed the same scene:

A tall father, a gentle mother, and me.

This year’s drawing was only Mom, me, and Lucky.

I clutched it tightly to my chest.