Finance

 Heiress Shelters the Top Student

On the night my stepfather crept into my room, my mother stood outside the door, indifferent—a guard for the crime. In that single moment when I felt the world slipping out from under me, the only person who ran to save me was the one I’d never gotten along with, the girl whose existence felt like flint against my life: Tran Tu Du. She shoved my mother aside, knocked her own father unconscious, then slung me onto her back and carried me out of that house, step by heavy step, into the pounding rain. I had never dared imagine there could exist a drop of warmth between us so scalding it hurt.

I first met Tran Tu Du at the party celebrating my mother’s promotion—from mistress to wife. It wasn’t righteous or clean, hardly suitable for a public ceremony. My stepfather invited a handful of acquaintances to the house for a discreet celebration. In the middle of the clamor—gloss over rot—Tu Du walked in with a custom black evening gown, a full half head taller than me, every bit the arrogant heiress. She lifted a glass of red-gold wine, crossed the crowd, and stopped before my mother. The smile on her lips was perfect, polite, but her eyes were cold and full of contempt.

This kind of woman thinks she’s fit to be my mother?

The words fell with the wine splashing deep red across my mother’s hair. Carefully styled strands collapsed, soaked; makeup dissolved in rivulets. The room did nothing to help—everyone simply watched. On one side stood a remarried woman clawing her way up with a stepdaughter; on the other, the only daughter of Tran Duc Thanh. Everyone knew where the weight lay.

The silence broke with a couple of soft coughs. Every word the man—her father—let fall was a blade driving into my mother’s chest. Stay a few days now that you’re home, Tiểu Du. My mother turned back to him with a wounded, panicked gaze—the man she had wagered her youth on offered a chill as payment. She wasn’t reconciled, but she didn’t dare object. Of course I’ll stay. This is my home. Tu Du smiled—a disdain that chilled to the bone—and swept up the stairs. Passing me, her glance slid off like I was an overstocked object. I kept my head down—didn’t look at her, didn’t look at my mother becoming a spectacle among statues made of people.

Tran Duc Thanh was the kind of man who looked only at profit, not people. He climbed with his wife’s family’s power. When Tu Du was born, her mother was told she couldn’t have more children; to reassure her family, he volunteered to get a vasectomy, swearing a thousand tender vows and playing the perfect gentleman. Years later, Tu Du’s mother died. Her grandfather retired. Power and money fell neatly into his hands—and the façade cracked. He brought one woman after another into the house as if half his life had been a grievance to avenge. My mother was among them, clinging to any trick to be kept, believing that if she waited long enough he would grant her a name. For over a decade she was a silhouette behind a door. Today he finally made her official—but still no second child ever came. So no matter how insolent Tu Du was, he swallowed it. My mother and I had no voice at all. We lived under the same roof like unwanted tenants.

My mother tried to curry favor with Tu Du, but each attempt ended in crushed dignity. She would come back from those invisible wars, shut her door, and pour every ounce of rage onto me. She forgot I was a child. She beat me and screamed words that slid like knives into my chest. Why did I have you? Why aren’t you his daughter? You’re useless. Everything I suffer is because of you. I curled into a corner, arms over my head, weathering each heavy blow. Old scars layered under new.

Then one day, she lost control. The crack of bone was cold; pain blazed through me. I clutched my arm on the floor, hot tears falling—physiological, my heart numbed long ago. She threw crumpled petty cash at me and passed judgment: go to the hospital yourself; if anyone finds out, forget about staying in school. She turned away. I picked up each wrinkled bill, trembling. The pain stung; tears spilled faster; my body shook on instinct at the edge of collapse.

Only tears? Can you do anything besides cry? The voice at the door was level, chilly: Tu Du. I didn’t know how long she had watched. Her eyes were unreadable. You’re sixteen, not six. She hits you—why don’t you hit her back? I bent to take the last bill. I had tried to resist when I was younger. I got thrown out at night, bitten by stray dogs, bullied, scavenged to survive, nearly abducted. It always ended the same: I shivered in a police station until my mother dragged me home to harsher punishment. I’d learned: resistance meant leaving school; it meant crushing years of effort, turning freedom—so close—into a distant luxury. Resistance needs a backer. I had none. My tiny pride had been ground to dust. For me, staying alive was already an effort. How could someone cradled by the world understand?

I thought if I endured until graduation, we would be strangers afterward. My silence must have been misunderstood. She frowned, impatient, and pulled me up. Come on. I’ll take you to get checked.

She didn’t just get my arm looked at; she ordered a full exam. Severe malnutrition—what century are we living in? Does the Tran family lack food? The doctor knew her and spoke bluntly. She’s a special case—nothing complex: feed her properly and stop the injuries. When my bandage was done, Tu Du waited at the door, aloof yet patient. Let’s go.

From that day, something delicate connected us. She waited for me at breakfast so we’d leave together. When my mother raised a hand, she’d “accidentally” push the door open. If anyone asked what we were to each other, she answered crisply: “Top of the school, my sister, the golden honor roll of First High.” Goodness arrived so suddenly I was stunned, grateful, and lost on how to repay it. So I offered the only thing I owned: knowledge.

Fate had written a halo on Tu Du’s head. She could get anything—except grades. She always ranked near the bottom. I compiled study materials, rewrote notes, reminded her to do assignments, and created intentional mistakes she could catch. I thought a bit of effort would turn dislike into curiosity. One day, I paused at her door; inside, laughter and voices. That fool really thinks you mean it? She kills herself daily for your grades, even makes wrong answers on purpose. I almost feel moved. Laughter burst. Tu Du’s voice, bored: If not for irritating her mother, why would I care?

A cold bucket dumped over my heart. The warmth I’d nurtured was crushed. What I treasured was only a tool in their joke—foolish, bitter, ridiculous. I pulled away from her door. Back in my room, I locked the stack of notes I’d made through sleepless nights. I shouldn’t feel sad. She’s the daughter of the wife; I’m the daughter of the prior mistress. Her dislike is… inevitable. If I think that way, things return to orbit.

We reset. I stopped managing her work, stopped walking together. When she asked a question, I’d answer coolly, “Do you really need it?” She would often go quiet and leave. She was the sole legitimate heir of the Tran family; she didn’t need grades to change her fate. The world had laid a bright path at her feet. I was the one who needed achievement.

Oddly, her restraint made my life breathe easier. After a few failed attempts to hit me in front of her, my mother dropped the “every three days light, every five days heavy” rule. She fought outside, sparring with my stepfather’s lovers for scraps of advantage; when they tricked her, she came home to vent, but less often.

That summer after tenth grade, I found a job, going early and late, saving money and avoiding everyone. I didn’t notice the air at home changing. That day, rain lashed; the manager sent me home early. The street was dark; the neighborhood lost power. At home—blackness. My mother handed me a warm drink—rare concern. Working so hard—do you need money for living? I drank it in one go, ignoring the complexity behind her eyes.

In my room, my head swam; soon my limbs went numb. The door opened; someone approached the bed, stroked my face. Lightning split the sky; brilliance slid across his features—Tran Duc Thanh. Your mother told you, didn’t she? If you go with me, I won’t let you suffer. I understood instantly. My mother had fought his lovers and finally saw she could not control him. She’d scrambled onto the throne over the corpse of another woman and feared another would displace her. So she drugged me, led him into my room, and pushed me into her mud.

This is illegal, I rasped. What’s illegal about mutual consent? My mind blanked; my body wouldn’t move; I screamed. Help! Hey! What are you screaming for? Your mother’s standing guard at the door—who’s coming? Through the crack, I saw her outline. Mother… Strength left me. Tears spilled, soaking my pillow. A fire of hatred flared. If I live through tonight, they will die.

Outside, a voice exploded. What are you doing in there? Move! The door slammed open. Tu Du blew in like a storm, grabbed a vase, and smashed it into the vile man’s skull. Die, filth. You make me sick. Blood splashed my face. He crumpled, groaning. My mother rushed to him, clutching him, wailing, Husband, are you alright? She didn’t glance at me. Tu Du’s gaze fell on me, saw my clothes twisted; her face contorted. She kicked them both—You beasts! If I’d come late, what would you have done to her? I should kill you. She threw anything she could grab until breath failed, then came to fix my clothes. Finding me immobile, she crouched and hauled me onto her back, carrying me out.

Behind us, a scream tore the air. If you walk out, you’re no longer my daughter. You’ll throw away a billion for a low creature like her—worth it? Tu Du froze. On her back, I turned to look; her eyes chilled to frost. Her mouth curved, cruel. Keep your filthy money to burn in the afterlife. She didn’t look back. She walked straight through the gates into the rain. The driver and butler had vanished. She carried me to the curb; we were soaked; she was weak, panting, but didn’t complain.

After a long time, she spoke. If you want to cry, cry. You don’t have to hold it in. I didn’t cry. What fell on her neck was rain. She took me to an apartment under her mother’s name. You’ll live with me. Stay till university; then you’re free. I stared at the spacious home—and remembered that before my mother married, Tu Du had lived alone, refusing to stay with her father. The wedding crash made sense; but why did she then choose to live under the same roof, day after day, with people she despised?

I had an answer—warmth melted into the ice in my chest—but I didn’t ask. I realized she was the type whose mouth was a blade but whose heart was soft. Actions, not words.

Her savage defense enraged her father. He’d been arranging for her to study abroad; now she disappeared. He publicly disowned her. The reason she’d never tried to change herself was this: her whole life, people told her she didn’t fit academic pursuits. She was the kind who spent money and floated—no matter how hard she tried, they said she’d never go far.

Looks like I hit him pretty hard. She sprawled on the sofa playing games, lazily victorious. Too bad I didn’t catch him in the act—I’d have dragged him to court. From across, I asked, If you won’t go abroad, will you take college entrance exams? What do you want to do? She blinked—she’d never considered it. Huh? College?

I had ideas. In eleventh grade, I won direct admission through the national Olympiad. Free of exam pressure, I poured half my time into salvaging her grades. She was smart; no one had ever asked her to work for anything. I knew how to steer her mind after years of being psychologically cornered. Don’t you want to prove you can take back what belongs to you? Don’t you want people to see you deserve respect? Didn’t you say you want a brilliant future? Then why the games? Get up. No sleep until homework’s done.

She was shocked, chafed against the control. When she flared, I let tears rim my eyes and spoke gently: I know you care that I’m the mistress’s child. We’re not related; I have no right to manage you. If you don’t get into college, it’s fine. I’ll work more to support you. I only want to help a little. The tear hadn’t fallen before she surrendered, returning to the desk. My trick worked every time: she couldn’t stand me being unhappy; a single tear made her memorize a page of vocabulary.

Time passed. My mother stopped sending vicious messages. Life with Tu Du evened out—quiet, free, fun. She introduced me to her friends with cheerful pride. In the first semester, she rose into the top 300; the second, top 100—good odds for key universities. Her playmates were stunned. You secretly worked hard just to shock us? She frowned, dissatisfied. My sister’s the top scholar with a direct offer. I’m still far behind. They dispersed, tired of hearing her brag about me.

In twelfth grade, I advanced to the national training team again. Before I left, I wrote a tight study plan for her. Let’s fight to get into the same university. She flashed an OK. Sure, sure, I’ll listen to you. I reminded her: the camp isn’t far; call me if anything happens. She waved me off: Go study. I can live without you. I held her gaze. We promised to meet at the summit.

I worried she’d grow lazy without me to watch over her. I thought nailing the future only required tireless effort from me. When the training ended, I returned—to a home unchanged, except everything of hers was gone. She had left. An old friend arrived, pity and reluctance mixed on his face. His father’s fertility projects failed; now they remembered her. For people like us, foreign study has more status than domestic college—the circles differ too. She left in a rush, didn’t want to bother you during training, asked me to say: thank you; if you need money, message her; if not, forget it—she’s busy.

He left. I stood, silent. Later, I reached my bed, unable to name what I’d lost. I stared out the window all night at blinking city lights. The east grew pale; the sun rose. I told myself even a clumsy excuse was fine; even leaving without goodbye was fine. An Gia Tue, you can’t even grasp your own fate—what right have you to enter someone else’s life?

Soon after training, I went abroad for an international competition and won. I was admitted directly into University B’s physics department, under a top chip-semiconductor professor. Perhaps some destinies are sealed: he met me once and chose me as his last direct disciple, instructing seniors to treat me like family. I obeyed him wholly. In those years, I lived in the lab, buried in study and research—more time for the future than for breath. Before graduation, upperclassmen invited me to cofound startups. I turned down my professor’s offer to pursue a doctorate and chose the strongest project.

You can go far in theory, he said. You won’t reconsider more study? If theory can’t turn into money, it’s meaningless to me, Professor. The startup has potential—and I have other things to finish. He sighed. You’re my favorite student. If you need anything, come back anytime. I bowed deeply and left campus.

For years, I asked seniors to look for Tu Du—nothing. With my professor’s stature and our network across academia and business, that was absurd—unless the Tran family never sent her abroad at all, or she didn’t complete a degree. Either way, it agitated me. Her old friends had scattered. To find her, I had to deal with the Tran Group. Their focus had shifted from city S to city A; mismanagement shrank them. Still, they weren’t prey for a student. I needed parity with her father.

Our lab’s research vaulted forward. Within two years, the company listed publicly. As IV’s CTO, I entered city A’s upper circles and began to squeeze the Tran Group: recruiting their people, stealing projects, severing support until their growth gasped daily. Someone from Tran Group asked my secretary for a meeting. I twirled my pen, distant: Leave it. Wait until their boss comes himself; his humility at our door will prove he’s out of moves. That’s what I want to see.

I took my medication nightly and told myself he still had a daughter—blood would temper him. I overestimated blood. Before I could corner him and ask where she was, I met a broken Tu Du in a hospital. I was visiting my professor for treatment; outside the ward, I saw two familiar faces: my mother and Phó Canh Lam, a scion of the Phó family. His voice was flat, unrepentant: I didn’t mean to hit her; she stayed stubborn. Now the child’s gone; she can’t conceive. Am I supposed to live with her forever?

My mother shrieked: If you hadn’t been a degenerate, would she be like this? Your family owes us an explanation. He smirked: You want money? Give Tran Group the road-purification project, done. Their spat degraded into farce, but the information cracked lightning inside me: Tu Du miscarried. My hands shook as I texted a senior with equity in this hospital. He replied quickly: OB ward, room 833—pregnant, husband drunk and violent, miscarriage with lasting complications. Is she family?

My phone rattled in my hand. I knew every word but refused their combined meaning. Tears I’d dried for years surged, sweeping me under. On the line, my senior called my name; I answered slowly: She is my sister.

I stood at Tu Du’s door, hand on the frame, too afraid to push. Inside, my mother’s voice rippled the quiet: You were so fierce before—what now? Get up and keep going. Your whole life destroyed is worth a few projects. If I were you, I’d die quickly. If you disobey, my husband will crush Gia Tue like an ant—see if you dare fight back. Rage flooded me. I shoved the door open. Even if you die ten thousand times, she will not. My mother didn’t recognize me. Who are you to yap here? If I’m a dog, you’re its mother—a decrepit cur wagging for scraps, living off selling your daughter. She squinted, then certainty hardened. Tiểu Tue…

I refused to argue. I went straight to the bed, hit the nurse call: Disturber in the room—security requested. My mother’s face shifted. What’s your meaning? Will you go against your mother for an outsider? Madam, brothel-keepers are called mother, too. It fits you. I advise you to leave. Security won’t care whose mother you are. Footsteps swelled in the hall; she snarled and left, spitting: This isn’t over.

Tu Du sat on the bed, silent, pale as air, like a breath could dissolve her. I looked at her for a long time, my chest crowded with nameless feelings. I had imagined our reunion a thousand times—what I’d say, what I’d do. Now words were clutter. When a nurse announced meal delivery, I finally spoke. I’ll fetch your tray.

Outside, I steeled my heart. I called a senior: I need your help. That afternoon, Tu Du transferred to a VIP room. The hospital director and OB chief inspected personally; the difference in treatment was obvious. She watched the procession, then me, then them. When they left, she said softly, Congratulations. No one can touch you now. My hand paused straightening her blanket. Yes.

You know everything, don’t you? I’m a swamp now. Don’t come—it’ll dirty your eyes. I laced my fingers. Tran Duc Thanh never sent you abroad. Why lie to me? Em… you mean back then? As soon as you left, he tied me up and married me off to the Phó family. At first I resisted; later I thought being fed like rice worms wasn’t bad. If I didn’t lie, would you force me to take exams? We’ve never been on the same road, Gia Tue. She said it candidly, but I was no longer the gullible teenager. You like looking straight into eyes whenever you lie. If you don’t want to talk, fine. I’ll wait until you do.

She said nothing more. I stayed and kept her company. My research cycle had paused; the company was steady. Each day I brought two meals—one for my professor, one for her. My professor’s wife teased: You’re more diligent at the hospital than the office. I rubbed my nose, sheepish: I found my sister. She was surprised and wanted to visit. She’s been through bad things—she doesn’t like talking now. The professor’s wife sighed: Have you considered a psychiatrist? I froze. A psychiatrist? I’d never connected the fierce, reckless Tu Du with mental care.

The psych chief came under the pretext of a ward check. When he emerged, his certainty cut clear: classic bipolar disorder; treated like a commodity by family, controlled and imprisoned by husband, forced to abandon a bright future. Severe enough that without timely treatment, she might end her life at any time. I bowed deeply, voice shaking: Please help her. He added: Her manic phases are longer than the others, yet in your presence her moods stay stable—no self-harm or dangerous aggression. This is rare in severe cases. You are clearly her anchor. I closed my eyes. I know. Even falling into hell, she carried me to the light. Now it’s my turn to lead her toward the future.

From admission to discharge, her “husband” never appeared. I learned later that my mother had told her father enough to drive him to IV to beg for cooperation. The receptionist phoned me: Your father is here. I said four words without wavering: Throw him out. He was ejected, shouting that he was my father, until the police took him away. The local news covered it. Only then did he and my mother calm down.

After discharge, I brought Tu Du home—our home, preserved carefully. Perhaps because of the environment shift, that night she swung manic. She smashed everything within reach, pointed at my face: Don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking. Seeing me like this—are you pleased? I’m dirt; everyone can stomp me. Why did these things happen to me? My biggest regret is helping you years ago. I hate you. Even prepared, poison words still stabbed deep. In the lonely nights, I’d wondered if saving me had ruined her. If she hadn’t rescued me, she would still be a high heiress, the heir to Tran Group—not an offering to the Phó family, tormented for ten years, ground down.

I said nothing, gathered glass quietly. My silence lit a fuse. She grabbed a cup and hurled it toward me. It shattered; warm blood trickled down my forehead. She panicked. Why didn’t you dodge? I didn’t want to. Her expression crumpled; she lunged to cover the wound but kneeled straight into glass. Hiss. Her knees sliced open. I stopped cleaning, let shards fall, braced a hand on the floor, tipped my head in fading sunset, and laughed softly.

What are you laughing at? Her voice rasped, angry but trembling. The room fell still. Neither of us noted the blood patterning skin. Pain felt small. When the sun slid below the city line, she spoke in fragments. Who needs your care? I’m not worth your trouble. You have a road of flowers ahead—why stay in my swamp? I’m worthless. Let me sink.

I rested my bleeding forehead on her shoulder—the thin slope of it shaking. She jolted. I don’t want to, either—but you’re mine. You carried me out of hell. You’re hard on the outside, soft inside, mouth full of thorns but heart that never abandons anyone. She said nothing. I lifted her onto the sofa and cleaned the room.

Bipolar disorder is slow to treat, slower for long-suffering patients. I visited my professor for help. He sighed: I didn’t expect the first thing you begged me for would be this. I was sincere: She matters. He promised to help. The next day, a call: my professor had persuaded a notoriously difficult psychology professor to take the case. I thanked him—he barked at me: You have time to thank me? Handle that wretched stepfather. Finish it and get back to the lab or I’ll have your head. He hung up. From the sofa, Tu Du peeked. I smiled: Professors—more prickly with age. She snorted: Right—voice like a bronze bell.

But my professor warned me: finding her didn’t mean peace. Her father needed to pay. When he received my call, he was startled and elated. I offered agency rights to IV’s newest product line in exchange for her freedom. Ambition flooded his eyes, though he feigned caution. Not sure. The Phó family just gave us a major project. I met his eyes and cut off retreat: Partner with me or wait for me to acquire Tran Group. Two paths: bow your head or vanish. Nausea rose; I didn’t want to look at him another second. I rang for my secretary to show him out.

Soon, rumors that IV and Tran Group had become strategic partners spread through the elite. My phone overheated. People doubted my intelligence. Are you insane? Others sneered: Why not partner better? Are you rescuing Tran Group? I brushed it all aside—except for my professor. I told him the truth: the higher he climbs, the harder he falls. I laced the contract with tripwires. Tran Duc Thanh’s first foray into this field would make him a puppet. I’d let him preen, then flip clauses to cancel not only cooperation but force him to pay tenfold penalties. My professor paused and cautioned: Be careful. Cornering him could turn him rabid. I knew—worse, I needed to corner him. But I wasn’t rushing. The cooling-off period before Tu Du’s divorce was one month. Until the papers were final, he could strut under IV’s name. Meanwhile, her husband had kept her captive for years and beaten her while pregnant, costing her children forever. That debt could be collected early.

My seniors weren’t all gentlemen. One of them—the only son of city A’s underworld boss—accepted the task. Payment was necessary; the only thing I could offer was IV stock. He refused. IV’s core value is you. You give me shares and run—I lose big. What do you want? I asked. He twirled his pen, eyes narrowed. Your boss is on vacation. Where did he go? My antenna snapped up. My boss—my senior—was a true romantic, sulking before leave like a spurned spouse. Was this the gangster’s chase-the-spouse arc with a tech prince?

I sold out my senior for his own happiness—and mine. The underworld prince texted back: Done. The next day, city A’s upper crust buzzed: Phó Canh Lam drugged in a bar, mistaken for a male escort, dragged into a room and beaten—especially his pride—completely ruined. I sent the prince a grateful thumbs-up; he messaged: Anytime. Just don’t name me as the source. I replied with a nodding chick sticker. Against overwhelming force, one’s knees must be flexible.

On the day Tu Du became legally single, my senior and the prince returned from Japan. I laid a table brimming with food. They arrived hand in hand, sweetness oblivious to decorum. When Tu Du saw them, she paused, then smiled—for real. My senior knew I’d given him away but didn’t scold me. The prince, meanwhile, hovered over my senior like a treasure, escorting him even to wash his hands.

They were good. Tu Du sighed softly. I served her a ribbon of stir-fried potato—the taste of sweetness after hardship. I told her about my professor’s regrets: He lamented that my senior became a businessman and that I didn’t pursue a doctorate—because he thought lifelong research still wouldn’t suit the person my senior loved. He gave up his childhood dream, drank himself into the hospital, and still drove IV to number one. Tu Du’s eyes flashed, resistant and proud: Good thing he succeeded. Yes. We succeeded.

She looked at me: And you? Why didn’t you continue? I met her eyes and spoke four words: To find someone. Someone who saved me, then lied to me.

At the end of dinner, the prince warned: My people arrive within two days. Protection won’t be flawless. Be careful. Tu Du gripped my sleeve: What did you do? I smiled: Nothing big. A grand gift for our loving father. The prince shook his head and whisked my worried senior away.

The next morning, the Tran Group’s scandals topped the trends: for years he’d paid his mistresses from ten to thirty million for pregnancy attempts; none succeeded or survived; he then used four domestic and overseas genetic-editing facilities to manufacture children—succeeding and failing at once. Photos of dozens of embryos side by side, shots of him in debauched clubs—the feed burned. As they scrambled to tamp the blaze, news of IV canceling cooperation climbed to second. He phoned. I had just finished discussing Tu Du’s improving condition with the psychiatrist; recovery would take time and patience. I had both. I would bring her back to a normal human life.

He snarled: What do you want? You planned it all, right? Kicking me while I’m down? I smiled, voice cooling: If not for the divorce timeline, do you think your group would survive the month? No need to pretend. The blade is at your throat. He sputtered: You won’t pay penalties? Tran General hasn’t read the contract. Any reputational risk lets IV cancel and demand tenfold damages. If I were you, I’d go home and inventory whether you can pay.

His voice shook with rage. Your mother—ten years ago she drugged her daughter for glory. Handle that however you like. I hung up, cutting off his powerless roar. When I lifted my head, Tu Du stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching. I smiled: Almost done. Wait for his prison sentence; then we’ll have peace. She closed her door without a word.

IV’s legal team moved like flame. The Tran Group staggered. The prince placed bodyguards on us both. I worried; he shrugged: My darling doesn’t care about many people. Naturally, I’ll watch over you two. On the day of the economic trial, her father didn’t appear. The judge processed in absentia. Outside, reporters swarmed me.

Miss Tran, your mother says you were born vicious and tried to seduce your stepfather—true? Miss Tran, your father says you had an inappropriate relationship with your stepsister—response? He says this is revenge for separating you two—true? Microphones thrust forward like vultures’ beaks. Her father knew he’d lose and used filth. I wore a mask and said nothing. Bodyguards shoved open a path; I got in the car—only to learn I’d underestimated reporters’ madness. Our car was boxed front and rear; a side slam, metal shrieking; the vehicle spun, smashed into a green median. My head hit glass; blood veiled my face. Before I blacked out, someone pried the door.

Tran General, she’s here. Pay the rest. What’s the rush? She’s worth a lot. When I settle my debts, the money and the girl are yours. He laughed—fresh from the trending list, making chaos.

I woke to a gray ceiling in an unfinished building, cement stained, rebar exposed. You’re awake? His voice was hoarse with hate. I clawed my way up, and you cornered me. How will you pay? He kicked me; I curled, minimizing damage. I lost everything. Do you know how many of my children failed to be born because you cut off my resources? Maybe you should make up for that, hm? His hand gripped my jaw, breath foul. I shut my eyes, refusing to see his face.

Do you know why I let a mouse like you live? Because that idiot daughter insisted on protecting you. Your mother had photos of you in the bathroom—she installed cameras to film you for me. The day you went to school she was still fierce—but we showed her the photos, threatened to spread them: at your school, your workplace, ruin your life. We’d destroy your direct offer too. Just like that, the shrew became a quail. She entered the Phó house to bring me contracts. She took only her mother’s photo and the ragged scarf you knit. To me, she’d long been trash.

My teeth sank into my tongue; blood sparked metallic in my mouth; hatred blazed. Beasts refuse to eat their young—but those two conspired to destroy their own child.

He leered. Now it’s your turn. Ten years of debt—I’ll make you taste every flavor. His hand crawled across my face—

—and a force slammed him away. I opened my eyes. Tu Du stood before me, no longer an untouchable heiress but a frenzy of protection—eyes red, breath ragged, rage distilled. She lunged, every blow fueled by a decade’s fury. Chaos exploded. The prince’s bodyguards stormed in, pinned the thugs. Shouts, crashes echoed.

The prince looked me over, angry and worried: Look at you. How am I supposed to face my sweetheart? I had no time for his flair—Tu Du had her father by the throat, nearly choking him. Save him! I gasped. Our plan didn’t include murder. He scoffed: Afraid? She’s mentally ill—a patient kills without criminal liability. He unstrapped my restraints. Ever think that letting her finish off the prime culprit might be the best medicine? I froze. Your subdermal tracker—only I knew. She tracked me down and insisted on coming. She knew our plan, yet went feral the instant she saw him hit you. Why?

My vision blurred. I staggered to her, ignoring pain, and embraced her from behind. Stop. Sister, stop. It’s over. He can’t hurt us anymore. She trembled; the tremble grew, then broke into infant wailing—rebirth’s scream. Phoenixes bathe in fire, die and live.

I held her, but I couldn’t hold the ten years she’d paid for me. Genetic editing remains a legal blind spot domestically; attempted harm is not. Those two counts sent him to prison. My senior raged that I’d hidden this and endangered myself—and booted the prince out of our apartment. That night, I had to go explain. They tracked you for days; the prince’s guards watched. I needed a chance to make him fall forever. Old charges weren’t enough. My senior touched my bruised mouth, voice low with anger and care: I also taught you to protect yourself. I dropped my pretense; the shell cracked. I hate him. He treated his own daughter with such cruelty. He isn’t a father—barely human. Bankrupt and disgraced isn’t enough. If he can ruin her life so easily, why should I let him go?

My senior stayed silent, finally leaning to whisper: I arranged attention for him in prison—he won’t die easily, but within five years, you’ll never have to see him again. My eyes burned; I couldn’t speak. He patted my shoulder: Silly. You don’t only have her—you have me too. Everything you did for me, I remember. He asked: She’s recovering well? Yes. After beating him, her state stabilized. The doctor said venting helped. Good. I declined the professor’s invitation for now; “Make money a few more years” suits you. If you return to pure research, you’ll be too busy to care for her. He was right.

Two years later, she fully recovered. That New Year, our professor invited us for a reunion meal. His wife set a warm table and poured red wine; laughter stitched the room. On the way home, snow began to fall. I pulled a scarf from my bag and draped it around Tu Du. Suddenly she stopped, immobilized by the cold, staring into a dark corner. I followed her gaze: my mother. She sat hunched against a wall in rags, shivering with a basket of withered flowers.

Two years earlier, her father went to prison; the Tran Group collapsed overnight. My mother—once indulged—had nowhere to go. She came to IV to livestream curses, calling me a jinx and wishing me unburied death. At first, attention surged—people love watching noble houses fall, especially when a female tech star has family stains. They love others’ failure; the higher they were, the sweeter the mockery as they fall. But days passed; she kept making scenes; the internet sensed wrongness. Teachers and classmates spoke: years of pointless beatings, a body map of scars; thrown out at night in high school; working to eat; juggling work and study in university. The backlash rose—online and off—until my mother became a pariah. People whispered wherever she went; sneers stuck to her shadow. They said she fell into drink, begged a man from a bar, poured her last coin into him—and he laughed: A woman who treats her own daughter like that? Who would stay?

I thought our paths would never cross again. I didn’t expect to meet her like this. I turned away. Tu Du caught my hand. Wait. She stepped forward. How much? My mother looked up, stumbled at seeing Tu Du, eyes slipping toward me, lips trembling without sound. No number? Then I’ll pay as I please. Tu Du took out a ten-yuan note, tossed it into the basket, and picked a wilted sunflower. She turned to me, smiling bright as sun in the snow. Put it in a vase at home. I drew my gaze from my mother and smiled. Okay. First snow—it’s beautiful.

Snow powdered the street; passersby lifted hands to catch flakes. From a shop window, winter music chimed, mingling with a small wind bell—then a shout behind us: Accident! Someone ran up, panting. The flower-seller rushed into the street. The car couldn’t brake in time— The phrase cut off, the rest implied. Tu Du squeezed my hand hard; her eyes knotted with complexity. My face didn’t change. I lifted my chin to the cold air laced with first-snow scent, did not look back. Let’s go home.

Thank you for listening to today’s story. I value your thoughts, feedback, and feelings. Like, share, and subscribe to support the channel. See you in the next tale.