Chapter 2

Olivia spoke with an air of superiority, her tone laced with arrogance. "This foolish child should be grateful to consume the young master's bodily fluids. It's a rare privilege for her."

Just then, my mother-in-law appeared, eager to support Olivia's statement. "Indeed! We're talking about a boy's urine here. My grandson is destined for greatness, and this little girl is fortunate to have any association with him."

Olivia replied with a haughty grin, her voice becoming more patronizing. "Precisely. My daughter is unintelligent and has no prospects. It's best she gets accustomed to the young master's essence now. Perhaps she'll grow up to be his loyal servant someday."

My mother-in-law applauded enthusiastically, her excitement unsettling. "What a brilliant idea! Olivia, you should begin her training immediately. Subject her to more hardships early on so she understands her place later in life. She can follow your example, serving our family for generations to come."

The two women exchanged knowing glances, their satisfaction evident.

Olivia's cruelty wasn't unexpected—after all, my daughter wasn't her own child. But my mother-in-law? Seeing her favor male children so extremely, to the point of dehumanizing her own granddaughter, left me feeling deeply betrayed and disheartened.

I observed the pair, their plotting smiles illuminating the room, as my anger simmered beneath the surface. However, there was also a glimmer of anticipation within me.

They interpreted my lack of response as ignorance, confirming their belief that I was completely unaware of the switch. Their confidence grew, and their actions became increasingly bold.

They gave my daughter a demeaning nickname, Misty—worse than what one might call a stray animal. Their justification? "The less valuable the name, the easier the upbringing."

While my son was lavished with new playthings almost daily, my daughter had none. On the rare occasions when my son, out of genuine kindness, offered one of his toys to his sister, it always ended in disaster.

Olivia, upon discovering such acts of generosity, would fly into a rage. She would strike and kick my daughter viciously, clawing at her mouth while screaming, "You little thief!"

Her accusations were relentless, her punishments severe. "Don't you dare touch anything in this house," she snarled, "or you'll be branded a thief, and thieves have their hands cut off."

Her aim was evident: to destroy any trace of self-esteem or worth my daughter might possess, to constantly remind her that she was the most insignificant member of the household.

Under such persistent abuse, my daughter became shy and withdrawn. She avoided eye contact, cowering in fear at the sight of anyone. Her small frame was covered in bruises and scars—physical evidence of Olivia's brutality.

When it was time for the children to start kindergarten, I enrolled both in the finest international school. However, Olivia confined my daughter to a room, refusing to let her attend.

When I confronted her, she responded smugly, "Madam, Misty is dim-witted and can barely communicate. She's bound to fail. Why waste resources on her education? Concentrate on nurturing the young master instead."

Her warped logic didn't stop there. "Besides," she added, "if the young master's classmates discovered their relation, wouldn't that bring him shame?"

My mother-in-law chimed in with her usual bias, nodding in agreement. "Exactly! That silly girl doesn't need formal education. It's a waste of money. She should learn domestic chores instead."

I turned to my husband, Sean, desperate for support. I implored him to reason with them, to explain that every child deserves an education, especially at such a crucial age.

Sean frowned and replied dismissively, "Honey, why do you even bother with that silly girl? She's not worth the effort. If you're too kind to her now, aren't you worried she'll become a burden to our family in the future?"

His words stung, knowing full well that he was referring to his own daughter. He had no intention of showing her even the slightest paternal affection.

I looked at him intently and asked in a measured, deliberate tone, "Sean, don't you think she bears a strong resemblance to you?"

His expression wavered momentarily. "If she were your daughter," I pressed, "would you truly be able to tolerate seeing her live in such misery?"

For a brief moment, I detected a flicker of remorse cross his face, but he quickly concealed it. He cleared his throat and responded hastily, "Honey, you're too soft-hearted. Fine, I'll discuss it with Olivia."

Yet, his words rang hollow. My attempt to appeal to his conscience had planted a seed, but I hadn't foreseen the repercussions.

It was my cautious, probing remark that set off an unexpected chain of events. Instead of inspiring compassion, it intensified the hostility within the household.

From that moment on, the faint hope I had for my daughter faded, as her life spiraled into an even darker abyss.