Chapter 1The Police Director Regrets Disowning His Hero Daughter

I was the daughter the whole internet nicknamed "The Scourge," the one who stole my mother’s life savings—the money meant for her cardiac surgery—and blew it all on high-end escorts at a downtown club, claiming it was for my own selfish vanity.

That very night, I was brought down in a VICE raid. My father, Police Director Frank Wallace, nearly had a heart attack from the sheer humiliation. He cut all ties with me in front of his entire squad.

“Sloane Wallace! You are no daughter of mine. Never show your face to your mother or me again!”

I vanished as he wished, a ghost in the wind.

Seven years later, a little girl appeared at the precinct. She was wearing rags and clutching a backpack stained dark red. She spoke timidly.

“I’m looking for Mr. Wallace. Sloane asked me to bring him a gift.”

Dad’s eyes immediately went bloodshot.

“She’s out of money, so she comes crawling back? Is that leech, Sloane, trying to bleed her mother and me dry from the grave?”

The little girl shook her head in fear.

“Sloane doesn’t want money. She’s with lots of other sisters, living in the black house. She wants you to come get her.”

* * *

Seven years. Dad looked so much older, but the fury in his face when he heard my name was exactly as it had been that final night.

I drifted close to him. No one could see me, but I dropped to my knees anyway and lowered my head seven times, a deep, silent apology.

“Dad, I’m so sorry. Your daughter won’t be able to take care of you and Mom anymore.”

The agony of my physical death still clung to my soul. I felt like I was enduring the slow burn of a terrible fire at every moment. But even that great pain couldn't compare to the ache in my heart over the gray strands threading through his hair.

Phoebe flinched at Dad’s sharp voice. She was the toughest of the children, though. She sniffled but didn't cry. Instead, she stretched out her small arms, holding the stained backpack up, trying to reach it to him.

“Mr. Wallace, this is the gift Sloane left for you.”

But Dad angrily slapped the bag away.

“Where is Sloane? She severed all ties seven years ago and walked out without a single look back. What good are these gifts now? Does she actually expect me to forgive her?”

Bringing up the old scandal caused a wave of whispers among the uniformed officers. Detective Miller, Dad's closest friend, couldn’t hold back his frustration.

“She really is a debt-collector, isn’t she? Couldn’t rest even after leaving. Nearly killed Ellie seven years ago, and now she's back to finish the job on you?”

That seven-year-old headline seemed to be burned into everyone’s memory. Without exception, they all saw me as the monstrous daughter.

“Ellie needed her cardiac bypass. Not only did she ignore her own mother’s illness, she stole the money and hired escorts.”

“I was actually the one who caught Sloane in the raid. Three guys. I still can’t bring myself to talk about the scene.”

“Thank God the Director managed to recover the stolen funds, or Ellie… God.”

The sighs grew heavier. Phoebe, anxious and frightened, retrieved the backpack and clutched it fiercely. She seemed to understand that they were badmouthing me, her eyes wide and tear-filled as she defended me in a choked whisper.

“Sloane is good. Don’t call her bad names.”

“What’s the connection with Sloane? Why is this kid so protective of her?”

Everyone’s attention slowly shifted to Phoebe. She looked two or three years younger than her actual age due to chronic malnutrition. Dad’s expression flickered between anger and confusion.

“Are you Sloane’s daughter? That leech’s child?”

Phoebe’s environment had been so brutal that I’d only taught her how to talk after I arrived. She didn’t know what a “mom” or a “daughter” was. She only clung to the task I had given her, struggling to explain.

“Sloane took the best care of me. Mr. Wallace, please, open the backpack. Sloane and so many other sisters are in the little black room. They want to get out, but they can’t.”

Detective Miller scoffed. “She walked out so easily back then. Now she can’t afford to raise her kid, so she sends her back to cheat money out of you. Sloane is truly a leech.”

Dad grabbed Phoebe’s arm and then froze. Beneath the thin skin, he could see layers of scars, old and new, sickeningly overlapping.

“Sloane… that animal. She can’t even raise her own daughter properly? Did all those lessons about protecting the people go straight to the dogs?”

Then, he seemed to remember something else, and his voice became desolate.

“Maybe I never taught her anything at all.”

I felt the deep disappointment radiating from him. Perhaps the wounds to my body had been so profound that they had shredded my soul, too. I shook my head gently, a lonely voice in the silence.

“You taught me very well, Dad.”

The word “animal” must have hit a nerve. Phoebe suddenly dropped, covering her head and screaming in a loud wail.

“I’m sorry… please don’t hit me… I won’t run away again.”

I knew this was the deep-seated PTSD of the black house, but Dad didn’t. Everyone fell silent, watching Phoebe curl up on the floor, crying helplessly.

“Sloane…”

Miller’s eyes were red-rimmed, but they didn’t curse me anymore. My nose stung with unshed tears. They had never changed. Always so soft-hearted and good. That’s why I had sent the only one who could escape, Phoebe, to find them.

Dad’s hands clenched white-knuckled. He stiffly patted Phoebe's head, his voice hoarse.

“Tell me where Sloane is. I’ll go ask her myself if she’s fit to raise you. If she can’t, I’ll take you to a foster home. I won’t let you be abused again.”

Without the expected fists or whips, only a warm hand rested on her. Phoebe slowly relaxed, clinging to the backpack. She furrowed her brow in painful memory.

“Sloane is in the black house.”

Seeing that Phoebe couldn't offer any more information, Dad silently pulled out his phone and brought up a contact.

He used to have me saved as "My Princess." Later, when I was demanding, greedy for money, he changed it to “Sloane Wallace.” After we cut ties, I became a cold, anonymous number.

His finger hovered over the screen for a long time before he finally pressed the dial button. I knew this was a call that would never be answered. I’d broken the SIM card and thrown it in a dumpster the day I left seven years ago.

“Hello?”

But the call connected.