Chapter 2Money Is The Only Loyal Love

Alistair Prescott didn't like my mother, and he certainly didn't like me.

On the drive away from the hollow, I listened to him vent to the driver.

My mother, it turned out, was a "mistake" from his youth.

He said that if he hadn't thought she was young, pretty, and easily controlled, he never would have slept with her. He never expected her to be so calculating, running off once she realized she was pregnant.

From his tirade, I gathered he had a devoted wife, Sylvie.

A daughter, Sierra, who had been raised like a princess.

And a son, Remy, who had leukemia.

If his son didn't desperately need a bone marrow transplant, he would never have dragged me into the Prescott family's life.

Alistair dozed off mid-sentence.

The space in the luxury car was vast, yet I felt cramped and suffocated.

After what felt like forever, the car stopped outside a stunning, columned mansion.

Smack.

I was still climbing out when the slap landed. I hadn't even had a chance to register the house.

The sudden blow, combined with the stiffness from the long drive, sent me sprawling onto the driveway. My cheek was a sheet of stinging heat.

"Sierra! What in God's name are you doing?"

Facing her father's reprimand, the girl—my half-sister—pouted. "Daddy, don't you love me anymore?"

Alistair sighed, already melting. "Don't be ridiculous, sweetheart. I was just worried you'd hurt your hand."

Sierra instantly brightened. She hooked her arm through his, staring down at me with an air of pure, arrogant disdain.

"Hitting her dirties my hands. Dad, she's ruined my mood on her very first day. Can we at least make her kneel in the solarium and pray for Remy? Please?"

Alistair glanced down at me, then affectionately ruffled Sierra’s perfect blonde waves.

"You're impossible, kid. Fine. You win."

As they turned away, Sierra's shimmery, designer dress caught the light, a spectacular, dazzling thing made of a fabric I'd never seen before.

I knelt for five hours that day.

It wasn't until late that night that I met Sylvie, Alistair’s wife.

She was immaculately maintained, but her face was etched with a permanent, profound worry. She barely spared me a look before ordering a housekeeper to take me away.

I was settled in the staff quarters, sharing a room with Mrs. Lewis, the senior housekeeper.

Mrs. Lewis brought me a plate of food.

The rice was dry, and on the side were two cold, greasy pieces of pot roast. The first bite was heavy and oily, coating my mouth with fat.

I smiled brightly. "Thank you, ma'am. This is very good."

She just looked at me and said nothing.

I knew everyone here disliked me, the bastard daughter dragged in from the backwoods.

But if I was going to survive here, I had to change their minds.

A few days later, I was taken to see my half-brother, Remy.

His face was ghostly pale, as if he might crumble at any moment. When he saw me, there was no hostility, only a quiet emptiness.

But when he heard I was his donor, his eyelashes flickered.