Chapter 1Money Is The Only Loyal Love

She always told me that family, friendship, and love—they will all betray you. Only money never will.

So the moment I returned to the Prescott family estate, I made a decision.

I would become the master of the Prescott house.

* * *

I never knew my father. It was just my mother and me, living in a small, forgotten hollow deep in the country.

The town was poor. Everyone, from the toddlers to the great-grandmothers, had to work. The phrase they loved to repeat was, “Poor children learn to run the house early.”

But my mother was different.

She never taught me how to work the land or keep a home.

From the time I could understand, she drilled into me that the world was cruel and offered no fairness.

When Mrs. Gable taught her daughter to be kind and gentle, my mother demanded I shed any excess goodness. Claw your way up by any means necessary the moment you see an opening.

When Mr. Jones taught his son that kinship and family were everything, she taught me that family, friendship, and love would all betray me. Only money never would.

She taught me to observe, to be sweet-tongued on the surface, and ruthless underneath.

She showed me, through her own actions, that cold, hard cash was the only loyal thing on this earth.

When I was fifteen, my biological father showed up.

He wore a tailored suit and his hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place. His polished leather shoes, reflecting the sunlight, looked absurdly out of place on our cracked concrete porch.

Mrs. Gable teased me, "Well, girl, looks like you’re finally going to have a good life."

I sat on the steps, staring absently at the gleaming hood ornament on his car—a silent signal of a world I didn't know.

I knew better. Good fortune doesn't just crash down on you for free.

That day, I was driven in the expensive sedan straight to a hospital.

The driver oversaw a full physical exam and several vials of blood drawn. When we were done, I was dropped back in the hollow.

My mother said nothing, just told me to wait.

Ten days later, the man returned.

His brow was relaxed; he seemed to be in a much better mood than the last time. He wanted me to stay outside, but my mother insisted I remain in the room and listen to their conversation.

"The matching results are in. It's a half-match."

My mother seemed unsurprised, her expression tranquil.

But I saw the truth. Her facade of calm was paper-thin. Her hand, clutching mine, was trembling.

At fifteen, I didn't know what a “half-match” meant.

That day, the two people with the closest blood tie to me negotiated for three hours in my presence.

In the end, I went home with my biological father. My mother walked away with Five Million Dollars.

My bone marrow. That’s what she sold for the price of a house.