Illegitimate Daughter’s Payback: Revenge Is a Dish Best Served Cold

My father was the CEO of a major corporation, and I was his illegitimate daughter—the one no one was supposed to know about.

Growing up, I was the child nobody cared for. My father didn’t love me, and my mother wasn’t much better. From a young age, it was just me and my little brother looking out for each other.

When I got into college, my father’s family decided to take my brother in. However, only a few days later, I received the news that my brother was dead. 

I knew, deep down, that his death wasn’t just some accident. From that moment on, I worked even harder, determined to succeed. When I finally returned, I had a special gift prepared for my father’s family.

This one’s for my brother!

I was an illegitimate child. Yep, my mother was the infamous homewrecker everyone despised. She was just an intern at a hotel when she met my father, the CEO of some big corporation.

Apparently, my father was drunk that night, and after a wild fling, my mother stuck to him like glue. Back then, she was young and beautiful. No man could resist someone like her throwing themselves at them.

My father thought throwing some money at her and keeping a little side piece would be simple enough, but my mother had bigger plans. She secretly got pregnant, hoping to force her way into the main seat. When that didn’t work, she cried, screamed, and even threatened to end it all just to bring me into the world.

I was born a month premature because my mother, hearing that my father’s wife had just given birth, rushed to the hospital to have an emergency C-section. She didn’t even wait for the anesthesia to wear off before calling my father, demanding he claim his newborn daughter.

However, guess what? My father turned off his phone.

Honestly, I couldn’t blame him. Any man stuck with a woman like my mother would probably wish they could go back and undo their mistakes.

It was too bad for him, though. Due to me, he couldn’t shake her off. My mother warned him that if he even thought about leaving us, she’d throw herself and me off the top of his company’s 29-story building.

My mother wasn’t one to bluff when it came to stuff like that. She made sure people knew she meant business, and her threats worked like a charm. Hence, my father put us up in a small apartment and sent some money each month. My mother, with her fierce determination and stubbornness, made sure we had a roof over our heads.

My earliest memory of my father was my mother calling him relentlessly for a month, threatening him with three bottles of sleeping pills and two wrist-cutting attempts, until he finally showed up at our shabby little apartment.

He tossed a wad of cash on the table, clearly irritated. “Isn’t this what you want? Just ask my secretary for money next time, and stop calling me.”

My mother started dredging up the past, her voice sharp enough to pierce the ceiling. “Marcus Norton, you have no conscience! Remember when–”

He cut her off, clearly sick of hearing her complaints, “Today is Cindy’s birthday. I have to get back.”

Cindy Norton was his daughter with his wife, born on the exact same day as me.

My mother yanked me over, practically waving me in his face like a banner. “You only care about your wife and daughter. What about this one? She’s your flesh and blood too! She’s got your last name, doesn’t she?”

My father’s face turned dark as he tried to leave, but my mother clung to his leg like her life depended on it, crying and ranting about how he had abandoned her and ruined her life. No one paid any attention to me, the pawn in all this.

I walked over to the coffee table, stared at the pile of cash, and looked up to ask my father, “Are you rich?”

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded awkwardly.

I grabbed the money, struggling to stand on my tiptoes as I handed it back to him. “I don’t eat much. I don’t need all this. Can you stay with me for a few minutes instead?”

I saw the surprise and shock in his eyes. After a moment of hesitation, he sat down stiffly on the couch.

I pulled out a tattered little booklet, a free ad from the supermarket with cartoon characters and a simple story. I climbed up next to him and pushed it into his hands with no flattery but just a natural request—like any kid who craved their father’s attention.

“Can you read me a story?”

He actually read a little, his voice flat and awkward. I listened quietly, gradually leaning against his arm.

When he got up to leave, I stopped him, grabbing a small, smudged cake from the table and handing it to him with all the seriousness I could muster.

He blinked, finally realizing. “It’s your birthday too?”

I nodded shyly.

He looked a bit embarrassed and rubbed his hands together. “I came in a rush… I didn’t bring you anything.”

Still, I smiled brightly and waved the little booklet in my hand. “I already got the best birthday gift.”

The next day, I received a doll bigger than I was.

I was five that year. Yet, some talents were just innate, like reading people’s expressions and understanding what they were thinking.