My Family Chose My Brother's Scratch Over My Dying Heart

The soft beeping of monitors fills the VIP room as I hover near the ceiling, watching Ethan's eyelids flutter open with practiced precision. His performance begins before he's even fully conscious—a slight wince, a carefully timed groan, the perfect amount of confusion painted across his features.

"Mom... Dad..." His voice emerges weak and trembling, exactly the right pitch to tug at heartstrings. "Where... where am I?"

Vivian's face transforms instantly, worry melting into pure maternal devotion. She leans forward, her perfectly manicured hand cupping his cheek with a tenderness I'd never once experienced. "Oh sweetheart, you're in the hospital. You were in an accident, but you're safe now. Mommy's here."

"Accident?" Ethan blinks slowly, his acting skills truly impressive. Then, as if suddenly remembering, his eyes widen with what appears to be genuine concern. "Wait... Autumn sis... where is she? Is she okay?"

The question hangs in the air, and I watch my mother's expression shift. For just a moment, irritation flickers across her features before she smooths it away with practiced ease.

"My precious boy," she whispers, tears actually forming in her eyes. "Even when you're hurt, you're worried about that... about her." She catches herself, but the venom in her voice is unmistakable. "Don't you worry about anything right now. Just focus on getting better."

I float closer to the bed, my ghostly form casting no shadow. "Good performance，Ethan," I whisper to the empty air. "Too bad I'm already dead. Don't have a chance to applaud you anymore."

Richard moves from his position by the window, his face flushed with barely contained rage. The expensive leather chair creaks as he settles beside the bed, his hands clenched into fists.

"That girl," he spits, the words dripping with disgust. "Autumn has always been nothing but trouble for this family. A disaster from the moment your mother brought her into our home." His voice grows louder, more venomous. "If she'd been paying attention instead of daydreaming like she always does, none of this would have happened. My son could have been killed!"

Each word hits me like a physical blow, even in my incorporeal state. Twenty-three years of trying to earn his approval, of walking on eggshells, of making myself smaller and smaller to fit into their perfect family portrait—and this is what he really thought of me.

Vivian sighs deeply, her shoulders sagging with what appears to be genuine regret. "You're right, Richard. It's my fault... I should never have been so soft-hearted back then. I thought I was doing the right thing, giving her a home, but..."

"So to you, I was never family," I whisper, my voice breaking even though no one can hear it. "Just a burden you were forced to take in…"

The truth settles over me like ice water. I was never their daughter. Never their family. Just a burden they'd tolerated out of some misguided sense of obligation.

Ethan's voice cuts through the tension, soft and apologetic. "Please... don't blame姐姐." He struggles to sit up slightly, wincing as if the movement causes him pain. "Maybe... maybe I remembered wrong about what happened. Regardless of everything, she's still my sister."

The performance is flawless. His voice carries just the right amount of pain and nobility, the perfect blend of forgiveness and hurt. But I see what my parents miss—the brief flash of satisfaction that crosses his features when he thinks no one is looking. The tiny smirk that tugs at the corner of his mouth before he arranges his expression back into one of wounded innocence.

"A mother couldn't ask for a more thoughtful son," Vivian breathes, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks. "How did I get so lucky to have such a thoughtful, forgiving son?"

I stare at them in disbelief. "How can none of you see that he's just pretending?" The words tear from my throat in anguish. "No, it's not that you can't see it. You just don't want to.。"

The harsh ring of Vivian's phone cuts through the emotional moment. She glances at the caller ID and frowns. "It's the hospital," she mutters, clearly annoyed by the interruption.

"Dr. Weston?" Emma's voice is barely audible through the speaker, thick with tears and desperation. "I'm calling about Autumn. Her condition is critical. She needs emergency surgery immediately, and we need your authorization as her next of kin—"

"Enough!" Vivian snaps, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "How much did she pay you to put on this little show? Tell that attention-seeking brat to stop this ridiculous charade right now!"

"Dr. Weston, please, this isn't a joke," Emma's voice cracks completely. "She's dying. The internal bleeding is severe, and if we don't operate now—"

The line goes dead. Vivian has hung up, her face twisted with disgust.

I float beside her, my form trembling with rage and heartbreak. "You know what, Mom? My last hope shattered the moment that call ended"

Minutes pass in tense silence. Then Vivian's phone buzzes with an incoming call. She stares at the screen for a long moment before answering with barely concealed fury.

"Autumn Weston," she says, her voice dripping with false authority. "When are you coming up here to apologize to your brother for this mess you've caused?"

But it's Emma who responds, her voice hollow with grief. "Dr. Weston... Autumn can't come to the phone. She's unconscious. She's been unconscious for over an hour now."

"Still playing games, I see." Vivian's laugh is cold and bitter. "Fine. You tell her she has exactly three minutes to get up here and apologize properly, or she can forget about calling me 'mother' ever again. Three minutes, do you hear me?"

She hangs up and checks her watch with the precision of someone timing a business meeting.

I watch those three minutes tick by in agonizing slow motion. Each second feels like an eternity as I hover between the VIP room and the operating theater below, where Dr. Chen is still fighting desperately to restart my heart.

Three minutes.

Exactly three minutes after my mother's ultimatum, the heart monitor in the operating room flatlines completely.

"Mom," I whisper to her oblivious form, "You gave me three minutes... but those are the only three minutes I have left."

As the night deepens and my parents finally drift off to sleep in the comfortable chairs beside Ethan's bed, I notice him stirring. His eyes open, alert and calculating, scanning the room to ensure he's truly alone.

Quietly, he reaches for his phone hidden beneath his pillow. His fingers move with practiced efficiency, deleting files, clearing histories. But it's one particular video that makes my ghostly form recoil in horror—footage from a dashboard camera, timestamped from earlier today.

With clinical precision, he erases every trace of it.

Then he opens his messaging app and types:

"It's done. She's dead."

The response comes immediately:

"Good work. Don't leave any loose ends."

My entire being—whatever's left of it—convulses with the force of this revelation.

"Ethan..." I gasp, though no sound emerges. "That accident... was it you?"

The truth hits me like a sledgehammer. This wasn't an accident. This wasn't fate or bad luck or wrong place, wrong time.

This was murder.

And I died protecting my own killer.