Chapter 3Shattered Fairytales: The Heiress Who Gave Up

My brother arrived quickly with the books he had dug out of my old bookshelf.

I was never a big reader, so there weren't many books there.

Growing up, my dad always told me that if studying was too hard, I shouldn't bother. He said I was the Kensington princess, and the Kensington family didn't need me to be a scholar. He told me to just eat, drink, and shop—seeing me happy was what gave him the motivation to make money.

But when Chloe returned, my dad looked at her Ivy League resume and beamed with pride, giving himself a thumbs up. "As expected of Kensington blood. Good seed blooms beautifully no matter where you plant it."

After saying that, he glanced at me, a flash of realization crossing his eyes.

That look of realization made me want to crawl into a hole. So, I was the bad seed.

Chloe's study was packed with books, and she truly loved reading.

Meanwhile, my study still only had one set of fairy tales. I only loved reading fairy tales, even as I grew older.

That set of fairy tales was bought for me by my brother when we were little.

He had always been cold to me. It was the only gift he had ever given me.

But because I loved following him around as a kid, I treasured that gift more than anything.

He handed the book to my mom, coughed, and said somewhat awkwardly, "Why did she even keep such old, beat-up books?"

I treasured that set of books deeply. Even when I finally moved out of the Kensington estate, I had wanted to take them with me.

But my brother had watched me like a hawk, terrified I was trying to steal something valuable. In a fit of anger, I left them behind.

My mom opened the fairy tale book. Her cold fingers hesitantly brushed against the withered, bony back of my hand, trying to soften her voice. "Harper, I'm going to read to you. Wake up soon."

The first story in the book was Snow White.

My mom read a few sentences and stopped. "Did she really like this kind of stuff?"

I had no way of telling her that I did. I had been reading it the night before I moved out, and my tears had even stained the pages.

My brother, surprisingly, understood me. "She liked it. Look how worn the pages are."

My mom continued reading: "The little princess had skin as white as snow, hair as black as ebony, and lips as red as blood... She had a kind heart and loved playing with the animals in the forest..."

As she read, my mom suddenly paused.

As if remembering something.

After a while, she forced a strained smile at my brother. "Doesn't this sound exactly like Harper when she was little? Snow-white skin, dark hair, always loving little animals."

She suddenly remembered, "The stray cats near the house... no one's fed them in a long time. Once Harper moved out, no one took care of them, right?"

Someone did. Even after I moved out, I still came back to feed them, Mom.

Because they were the only ones who still wanted to be near me.

Even after I decided to die, I bought a massive amount of cat food and asked a volunteer I knew to keep feeding them.

My brother didn't say anything, seemingly lost in thought as well.

After a moment, he reminded my mom, "Don't mention stuff like this in front of Chloe. She's getting engaged to Liam soon. She needs to be in a good mood."

My mom quickly agreed and kept reading.

When she reached the part where Snow White gets a stepmother, she paused again.

I think that was because I had a habit of writing my thoughts in the margins.

I remembered what I wrote there when I was a kid: So scary. Thank God I have the best mom in the whole world who loves me so much.

My mom got stuck reading that line.

Thankfully, she only froze for a moment before pushing through, though her voice was noticeably unsteady.

When she got to the part where the stepmother gives Snow White the poisoned apple, she stopped again.

I remembered my margin note there, too: Why did she hate Snow White so much? She even called her Mom! After being called Mom for so many years, didn't her heart soften even a little bit? Snow White didn't know anything, she just treated her like a real mother!

I remembered that note so clearly because I didn't write it when I was a kid. I wrote it right before I left the house.

Every word was written through tears, leaving deep indentations on the paper.

My mom suddenly started coughing violently. It was a terrifying, chest-rattling cough that startled my brother.

He snatched the book from her hands. "Mom, you should go home. The smell in here is awful. Don't choke on it."

My mom kept coughing and ignored him.

He added, "Chloe is getting engaged. Go back and help her plan it. It's her first time getting engaged; she doesn't know what to do."

My mom finally stopped coughing. She agreed, turned to leave, and told my brother as she walked out, "You keep reading to Harper. Read a few more stories."

My brother sounded impatient. "I know."

Right then, the doctor walked in and looked surprised. "You're leaving so soon? It's only been ten minutes."

My mom brushed it off. "Something came up at home. Her brother will stay with her."

She paused, then asked hesitantly, "Doctor, is it really true that she is consciously choosing not to live?"

The doctor was firm. "Of course. Let's not forget how she ended up in a vegetative state in the first place."

My mom fell silent.

But I heard my brother scoff. "She's so greedy and terrified of dying. There's no way. She was probably just trying to scare me into giving her money and took it too far."

3

A month before I jumped, I did ask my brother for money.

My biological father, Mr. Miller, was hospitalized and they couldn't afford the medical bills.

They couldn't reach Chloe because she was on a business trip, so they cautiously came to me, asking if they could borrow some money.

But I had just moved out of the Kensington estate.

To prove that I wasn't greedy and wasn't trying to fight Chloe for the inheritance, I had returned every single cent I had to my brother when I left.

My brother had drawled lazily, "I'll hold onto it for you. Someone as lazy and spoiled as you will come crawling back for it eventually."

What did I say back then?

I said I had hands and feet. Even if I wasn't as smart as Chloe, finding a job to feed just myself wouldn't be a problem.

My brother had watched me leave with a cold sneer.

I found a job as a cashier. It was enough to support myself, but I had zero savings to pay the massive medical bill the Millers needed.

Left with no other choice, I called my brother, hoping to borrow a little bit from the money I had given back to him—just enough to cover the hospital fees.

But the moment he heard I was asking for money, he didn't even let me finish. He burst into mocking laughter. "What happened to your backbone? Done pretending?"

Then he said he was in a meeting and too busy to deal with me.

He told me to wait until he had free time, and hung up the phone.

I lowered my head and smiled bitterly.

I really had some nerve. I wasn't a Kensington daughter anymore, yet I was still eyeing my old allowance.

I should have returned everything to the Kensingtons.

I took a deep breath and downloaded a payday loan app.

I had to pay for their hospital bills somehow.

I contacted the loan agent, and they told me to come in for an in-person interview on Monday.

I sighed, agreed, hung up the phone, and waited for Monday to take out the first loan of my life.

But on Sunday, Chloe came back.

Hearing that her adoptive father was hospitalized, Chloe went to the Kensingtons and begged them for help, eventually paying off the medical bills.

When Mrs. Miller called to tell me, I let out a massive sigh of relief.

After all, payday loans were predatory and dangerous. If I fell into a debt trap, it could take years to recover. Who wouldn't be terrified to borrow from them?

But when Mrs. Miller heard me sigh in relief, she fell into a long silence.

After a while, she said coldly, "A person who doesn't even show filial piety to the people who gave her life is worse than an animal."

I froze.

I wasn't being unfilial. I was just waiting until Monday for the loan interview.

But Mrs. Miller didn't wait for my explanation. She hung up.

I called back, but she didn't answer.

From that day on, it felt like my spirit had been completely drained. Just getting out of bed in the morning took a monumental amount of effort. Opening the curtains and washing my face felt like impossible, monumental tasks. I had to lie in bed for hours just to mentally prepare myself to stand up.

I loved keeping the curtains drawn, lying in the dark doing absolutely nothing. Just lying there, crying pointlessly until I fell asleep.

At the time, I thought I was just sad and would get over it soon.

I didn't know it was depression.

By the time I found out, it was already severe.

Even now, trapped as a vegetable, the severe depression still controlled me, draining me of all my will to live.

Even today, when my brother actually took the time to read to me—something I wouldn't have dared dream of when I was a kid—it didn't make things any better.

My brother held the worn fairy tale book, flipped to The Ugly Duckling, and read in a slow, detached voice: "The ugly duckling finally realized that he was a swan, unlike the ducks on the farm."

His voice was cold but pleasant. But when he read that line, the irony was deafening.

If I could open my eyes right now, I would definitely see the mocking sneer on his handsome face.

He murmured softly, "A swan is a swan. Even if it's placed among ducks, it will eventually return to the swan lake."

He came alone today. I heard him on the phone earlier; it seemed my mom forced him to come. He was highly displeased and spoke with obvious irritation.

He kept reading, hitting the exact spot where I had written another margin note: But who put the swan egg in the duck pile? That's so mean!

My brother fell into a long silence.

After a while, he suddenly reached out and touched my face.

The movement was so abrupt that if I wasn't covered in tubes, I would have jumped out of my skin.

My brother touching my face? The sun must have risen in the west.

Looking back carefully, my brother wasn't always completely cold to me.

I always felt like he hated making eye contact with me. If our eyes met, he would look away.

This started when we were very young.

When I was a kid, I thought my brother hated me so much he couldn't even stand the sight of me.

I clung to him, followed him everywhere, and tried to please him, but nothing worked.

It wasn't until he was an adult and I was fifteen. My parents came home late, and there was a massive thunderstorm. I was terrified and crying uncontrollably. My brother sighed, came into my room to comfort me, patted my back until I fell asleep, and in my half-asleep haze, just like today... he touched my face.

But after that night, he seemed to hate me even more.

Just like today. After finishing The Ugly Duckling, he abruptly stood up, kicked his chair back, and hurried out of the room.

If I wasn't a vegetable, I would have thought he was fleeing in a panic.

When he reached the door, his footsteps paused. I heard him take a deep breath, as if he wanted to say something, but ultimately he stayed silent.

He closed the door.