Cost Of His Cruel Billionaire Game

When the wealthy Whitfield family finally found their biological daughter, my eighteen years as their adopted child instantly meant nothing.

My adoptive parents and my fiancé handed me an invoice for $12.4 million in back child-rearing costs, demanding I repay it by selling my memories to the Memory Bank.

"You need to learn some humility and sacrifice something real if you want to earn your place back in this family."

At the welcome gala, they stripped me of my inheritance, banished me to a table by the kitchen doors, and my fiancé publicly called off our engagement.

No one remembered that it was also my birthday.

They assumed I would sell a few trivial childhood memories, feel the sting of their discipline, and come crawling back to beg for their mercy.

They genuinely believed my love for them was an infinite resource to be squeezed, that every hug, every lullaby, every promise could be given a cold, precise price tag.

So I gave them exactly what they asked for.

To clear the debt in full, I had every core emotional memory of them permanently extracted. The family and the man I once loved became strangers to me, completely and forever.