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Five years ago, my brother handed me to traffickers. All because his precious “sister” cried and said I wanted to ruin her life. Five years later, I crawled back— homeless, starving, dying of brain cancer. He didn’t recognize me. He kicked me away at her birthday party, told me to endure one more month, and promised to bring me home— as long as I never hurt her again. He donated mi||ions, saved strangers, earned the title of “global philanthropist.” But when winter came, he personally ordered that I wasn’t allowed a coat. I thought the worst thing he took from me was my family. Until I learned he had erased my legal identity— so I couldn’t even die with a name. That was the moment I understood: He never wanted me to come home. He wanted me to disappear. It had been the fifth year since my brother personally handed me over to traffickers, and I finally clawed my way back from the edge of death. When hunger made my vision swim, I grabbed a smashed cake off the sidewalk and shoveled it into my mouth. My cheeks were still full when a heavy boot slammed into me, and I went down hard. “Sylvia Wilcox! Showing up on Ava’s birthday, are you trying to mess with her again?” The moment our eyes met, I realized who he was. Brandon Wilcox, my brother, the billionaire who had just thrown a ten-mi||ion-do||ar birthday party for the “fake heiress,” Ava Wilcox. Looking at my wretched face, his expression remained mocking. “Now you know how nasty the real world is, huh? Good. You earned every bit of it.” “There’s one month left in the five-year term. When it’s up, I’ll bring you home and give you the best life.” “But there’s a condition. Do not hurt Ava again!” I blinked and rubbed at my eyes, and no matter how hard I tried, I still could not make out his face clearly. And somehow, I laughed. Maybe because other than pain, he had always been a blur in my life. “I won’t,” I whispered. He never had to worry about his precious little sister getting “bullied” again, and I was not going b
