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At the scene of the car crash, the so–called daughter, Delilah Wren, crawled out of the wreckage, her face streaked with blood. She collapsed to her knees before me, kneeling like a madwoman.
“Please, I know I was wrong! I’ll never fight for their love again! Don’t kill me–I’ll do whatever you say. I’ll leave the house.”
My parents stood frozen, eyes blazing with fury. My brother clenched his fists. My fiancé, Daniel Thorne, stared at me with bloodshot eyes.
Then, without hesitation, they turned on me.
They sent me to prison-“for discipline,” they said.
Two years later.
stepped out of the prison gates, my legs trembling, my clothes hanging off my emaciated frame. Even the smallest size felt too large now.
Dazed, I looked up–and a pair of polished black leather shoes entered my vision.
Daniel stood there, his slender hand reaching toward me, as if to help me into the Bugatti parked nearby.
I dodged him and got in on my own.
He let out a deep sigh, staring at me for a moment. “Don’t blame your parents and brother for not picking you up,” he said softly. “Today’s the premiere of Delilah’s short film. They went tc support her.”
He added, “Try to be better this time. Don’t bully Delilah anymore. She’s suffered enough these past few years.”
My chest tightened. I bit back the sting of tears. “And what about me?”
He paused, fingers tightening on the wheel. “What?”
When he looked at my hollowed face, something flickered across his features–regret? But it vanished as quickly as it came.
“If you hadn’t done what you did to Delilah, we wouldn’t have had to send you to prison.”
I turned to the window, watching the scenery blur past. A bitter laugh scratched at my throat.
You all chose her. Then fine. I’ll disappear.
Just the memory of those two years in prison made my body shake with silent sobs. I tried to hold myself together.
Sensing my pain, Daniel opened his mouth to speak–when his phone rang.
Delilah’s syrupy voice spilled out from the speakers: “Daniel, the premiere’s about to start. Where are you?”
His eyes softened instantly. “Silly girl,” he said with a chuckle. “Didn’t I say I’d pick Ava up today?”
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“Then bring her with you,” she said gently. “I’ll be waiting.”
He gripped the wheel harder, saying nothing.
A pause.
Then her voice again, soft and noble: “I know you’re worried she’ll hurt me again, but I believe she’s changed. She’s spent two years in prison. Besides… don’t you have me to protect me?”
His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, landing on me.
He smiled faintly. “Alright. I can’t say no to you.”
The call ended.
He made a sharp turn, then said coldly, “I know you resent Delilah for taking your place. But she’s kind. Her whole family is gone. She deserves compassion. I won’t let anyone hurt her.”
“Ava, as long as you learn your lesson, we’ll still care for you.”
I said nothing.
In their eyes, Delilah was the fragile flower I tormented. I was the villain, through and through.
We arrived at the theater.
Daniel went to park, and I was told to head in first.
The cinema was drenched in gold and crimson. Posters of Delilah’s face lined every wall. Her smile glowed from the giant screen above, ethereal and untouched. Towering bouquets and lavish gifts surrounded the entrance.
She was the beloved little princess.
I glanced down at my worn–out clothes, tugging at the frayed hem.
Just as I was about to step inside, a horde of reporters rushed toward me, cameras flashing like lightning.
“Ava! Is it true you tried to murder your own sister and nearly killed your parents in the process?”
“Do you feel any remorse now that you’ve been released?”
“Ms. Wren, tell us–what was prison like for someone so vicious?”
I panicked, trying to push through them.
“No–I didn’t! Get away from me!”
But they latched onto me like leeches, relentless.
Tears spilled down my face. I couldn’t hold them back.
Delilah and I had been born in the same hospital, just two hours apart.
Her mother was a poor nanny. To give her daughter a better life, she switched us.
From then on, she was raised in luxury by the Wren family.
I was raised by the bitter, abusive woman who should’ve been her mother.
Four years ago, before my adoptive mother died, she was consumed by guilt and brought me to the Wren family, revealing the truth.
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At first, they accepted me.
But then, Delilah began to act.
Slapping herself and blaming me. Throwing herself down stairs. Whispering, “Please don‘ blame my sister.”
She broke Dad’s priceless vase, shredded my brother’s blueprints–then cried that it was all m
fault.
No one ever questioned her. No one ever listened.
The car crash was the final nail in the coffin.
I remembered the moment my father dragged my mother out of the smoking car.
“Ava,” he said with disgust, “I never thought you could be this heartless. Trying to kill your owi
sister?”
My brother’s fists trembled. “I won’t let you hurt Delilah again.”
I could barely breathe. “Why don’t you believe me? I’m your daughter!”
“We don’t have a daughter like you!” my father roared.
Even Daniel stood silently, holding the sobbing Delilah in his arms.
She choked out, “Don’t blame her… I forgive her…”
And they praised her for her kindness–while I was dragged to the police car, sirens wailing.
The reporters‘ shouts faded as my breath caught in my throat. Cold sweat trickled down my spine.
Then–through the crowd–I saw a familiar face.
My brother.
Julian Wren.
He stood just meters away, watching me.
