#### My mother always said the city was too expensive to raise two girls. So, she dumped me at Grandma’s place in the countryside and kept my sister by her side. Sixteen years later, I am the CEO of a multinational conglomerate, preparing to acquire my sister’s company. On the due diligence report, her profile reads: “Only child. Loving parents. Wealthy family.” It turns out, I was never considered part of that family. *** During the summer when I was eight, I finally figured something out. My mother wasn’t broke. She just didn’t want to spend a single dime on me. That day, Grandma took me to the city to see a doctor. I had a low-grade fever, my head felt heavy and dizzy, and I sat in the very back row of the bus, pressing my face against the window, watching the brick buildings rush past. Grandma kept muttering next to me, saying how hard my mother had it in the city, that I needed to be understanding and not cause any trouble for her. I nodded and said okay. But the moment we got off near the shopping mall, I spotted her instantly. My mother. She was wearing a floral sundress I had never seen before. The fabric looked silky and shimmered under the sun. Her hair was styled in soft, bouncy curls cascading over her shoulders. She looked more beautiful than the women on the glossy department store posters. Standing right next to her was a little girl. She was just as tall as me, just as thin, and shared the exact same face. But that girl was wearing a pink princess dress with a puffed-out skirt that bloomed like a flower. On her feet were shiny white patent leather shoes, sparkling with tiny crystals. She was cradling a doll that was bigger than my head—a golden-haired, blue-eyed doll dressed in the exact same pink dress she wore. My mother knelt, gently wiping the girl’s mouth with a soft handkerchief. Her movements were so tender, as if she were handling a priceless treasure. And then, my mother smiled. It was a smile I had never seen on her face before. There was no impatience, no forced warmth, no furrowed brows. Her eyes curved into crescents, her lips parted, and her entire face seemed to light up. I tugged at Grandma’s faded sleeve, my throat bone-dry. “Grandma, is that Mom?” Before Grandma could answer, my mother looked up and caught sight of me. Her face changed instantly. That expression is something I’ve remembered for sixteen long years. It wasn’t joy, and it wasn’t pity. It was sheer panic. It was the look of someone who had just seen something that wasn’t supposed to exist. Like she was looking at a ghost. She grabbed the little girl’s hand and spun around. She walked away so fast she was practically running. The little girl stumbled as she was dragged along, nearly dropping her doll. She looked back once—just once. Her eyes were filled with pure confusion. I wanted to run after them. I wanted to scream, *Mom!* But my legs felt like they were set in concrete. I couldn’t move an inch. My throat felt like it was being squeezed tight, and I couldn’t squeeze out a single word. Grandma wrapped her arms around me. “Don’t go,” Grandma whispered, her voice muffled against my hair. “The city is too expensive. You have to be understanding of your mother.” That night, I sat in the dirt yard of Grandma’s small cottage, thinking for a very long time. The city was expensive. So, my sister got to wear princess dresses while I only got her hand-me-downs—sweaters with frayed cuffs and jeans that were always inches too short. So, my sister had her mouth wiped gently, while I wiped my face with my sleeve, leaving dark smudges behind. So, my sister got to stay by my mother’s side, and I didn’t. We were twins. But only one of us was allowed to be loved. The other was just a spare. I didn’t understand what “spare” meant before I was eight. But after that day, I understood it completely. Grandma’s cottage was in a dusty, remote town in Kentucky, miles away from the nearest county center. It was a tiny, old house with three rooms and a fence made of dried cornstalks that rattled whenever the wind blew. Grandma kept two pigs, a dozen chickens, and three goats. After I arrived, there was one more mouth to feed. Grandma never complained. She just started waking up even earlier. At four in the morning, while the sky was still pitch black, Grandma would gently shake me awake. We would light the stove, feed the animals, chop the feed, and boil oatmeal. The oatmeal was so watery you could see your own reflection in the bowl. Grandma would scoop the thick parts into my bowl and drink the watery broth herself. When I tried to push it back, she would just force it back to me. “A growing girl needs her strength,” she’d say. But no matter how much I ate, I didn’t seem to grow much. My clothes were always Serena’s old things, washed so many times they were practically gray and covered in patches. The pants were always too short, leaving my ankles bare to the biting cold. My shoes were cheap clearance items Grandma bought from the local flea market for two dollars. The soles were paper-thin, and my feet would ache terribly after a long walk. Winter was always the hardest. The wind cut through the gaps in our thin walls like a knife. I would curl into a tight ball under the blankets, shivering. Grandma would drape her own heavy wool coat over me and go sit by the fireplace to stay warm. I would run my fingers over that coat. It was stiff, and the filling inside had bunched up into hard lumps. I asked Grandma once why Mom never sent me a new winter coat. Grandma was quiet for a long time before she spoke. “The city is expensive, Patience. Your mother is doing her best.” I never asked again. But in my heart, I wondered—was Serena’s coat new? It must have been. That pink dress she wore at the mall was brand new. The fabric was so soft, the color so vibrant. It was nothing like the stiff, scratchy, faded rags I wore. During Christmas, my mother brought Serena back to the countryside. I stood in the yard, watching a clean SUV pull up. I watched my mother step out, and then I watched Serena climb down from the passenger side. Serena was wearing a bright red winter jacket with a fluffy white faux-fur trim around the hood. She looked like a little princess straight out of a movie. On her feet were pristine Ugg boots, also lined with soft white fur. She stood beside our mother, looking at me timidly with bright, clean eyes. My mother glanced at me and said, “You’ve grown.” And then, she ignored me. She went inside to talk to Grandma. I heard them talking about how high the rent was in the city, how much Arthur’s salary was, and how Serena was attending a private bilingual kindergarten that cost thousands of dollars a term. I crouched in the yard, listening to those words drift out of the window, each one drilling into my ears. Serena walked over and stood in front of me. She tilted her head, studying me for a long time. “Are you my sister?” *** ####
I didn’t say anything. “Mom said you live with Grandma because the apartment in the city is too small for all of us.” I still kept my mouth shut. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a piece of candy, and held it out to me. “Here.” I looked down at the candy. It was a Werther’s Original. I recognized the shiny gold wrapper. I had seen them in the glass display case at the town’s small convenience store. I had never tasted one. I reached out, took it, and clutched it tightly in my fist. “Why aren’t you eating it?” she asked. “Saving it,” I muttered. She gave an “oh,” watched me for another moment, and then ran back inside the house. That night, I carefully unwrapped the candy and took a tiny lick. It was so sweet. So sweet that tears nearly welled up in my eyes. But I couldn’t bear to finish it. I wrapped it back up in the gold foil and tucked it deep into my pocket. I kept that candy for a very long time. I kept it until it melted, sticking to the wrapper so badly that it could never be opened again. When I was nine, the town’s elementary school opened a new term. Grandma took me to register. When the teacher asked for my name, Grandma said, “Patience. Patience Evans.” The teacher finished writing it down, looked at me, and sighed. “This child is too thin. She needs more nutrition.” I lowered my head and remained silent. School became the happiest part of my life. The classroom was warm, there were chairs to sit on, and I didn’t have to do chores. When the teacher spoke, I listened with all my might, refusing to miss a single word. Those letters, those numbers—they were like treasures to me. Once they entered my mind, they never left. At the end of the school year, I ranked first in the entire district. Grandma was overjoyed. She practically bowed to my teacher in gratitude. The teacher called me over, patted my head, and said, “This girl is brilliant. Make sure she stays in school, she’ll go far.” Grandma nodded eagerly, her face lighting up. “Yes, of course. I’ll make sure of it.” But when the next term started, we couldn’t scrape together enough money for the school fees and book costs. Grandma had to sell five of her chickens and borrow twenty dollars from a neighbor just to pay the fees. That night, Grandma sat by the fireplace and let out a long sigh. “Your mother didn’t send any money this month.” I said nothing. “She said the city is expensive right now. She asked us to wait a little longer.” I watched the flames flicker in the hearth. The light cast deep shadows over Grandma’s face, making her wrinkles look even deeper. “Grandma, I don’t need to go to school anymore.” Grandma immediately smacked my shoulder. “Stop talking nonsense! If you don’t go to school, what will you do? End up like me, digging in the dirt for the rest of your life?” I shut my mouth. But in my mind, I wondered—was Serena going to school? Of course she was. She went to a private bilingual school that cost thousands. My mother didn’t hesitate to spend money on her. I went to a run-down public school that cost eighty dollars a term, and Grandma had to sell her livestock for it. That was the difference. From the very beginning, we were never the same. When I was twelve, Grandma fell ill. She coughed constantly. A deep, hacking cough that kept her awake all night. When I came home from school, I found her lying in bed, her face pale and yellow, her lips completely white. The stove was cold, and there was no food in the kitchen. I ran to the neighbor’s house, and they helped me call my mother. When the call went through, I could hear loud noises on the other end—the sound of a TV playing, and Serena’s bright laughter. My mother’s voice came through the line, sharp and impatient. “What is it?” “Grandma is really sick,” I said. There was a brief silence on the other end. “I’m too busy right now, I can’t make it down. Take care of her for now, I’ll mail some money in a few days.” The line went dead. I stood by the neighbor’s phone, holding the receiver, listening to the dial tone for a very long time. That night, I lit the stove myself, boiled some broth, and helped Grandma take her medicine. After she drank it, she held my hand, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Patience… I’m so sorry. I’ve failed you.” I shook my head. “Grandma, don’t talk. Just sleep.” She fell asleep. I sat by her bed, looking at her pale face and her thin, bony hands. It felt like something heavy was slowly sinking to the very bottom of my chest. My mother’s “few days” turned into two weeks. By the time the money arrived, Grandma was already able to get out of bed. I went to the post office to collect it. Fifty dollars. The clerk looked at me and asked, “Is this all?” “Yes, that’s all,” I whispered. I stuffed the cash into my pocket and walked home. Halfway there, I stopped outside the convenience store. Through the glass counter, I saw the gold-wrapped candies. They were cheap, but I stood there for a long time before finally walking away without buying any. Grandma needed that money for her medicine. *** ####
When I was fourteen, a man came to our town to buy local medicinal roots and wild herbs. His name was Marcus Miller. He was in his forties, thin, wore glasses, and spoke very gently. He rented a small space in town to buy herbs like wild ginseng, goldenseal, and elderberries. He paid better than the local trading posts, and he always paid in cash on the spot. Grandma had spent her whole life foraging in the mountains and knew every plant. She took me up the trails, pointing them out one by one. *This is wild ginseng, you dig the root; this is elderberry, you harvest the fruit.* I had a sharp mind. I remembered everything after seeing it once. Grandma nodded and said, “Good. You can go up the mountains by yourself from now on.” That summer, I carried a heavy woven basket on my back, heading up the mountain trail before dawn and returning only after dark. I sold whatever I gathered to Marcus. He would weigh them, calculate the price, and hand me the cash. “You’re harvesting even more than your grandmother, kid,” he’d say with a smile. I would clutch the money tightly and hand it to Grandma. Grandma counted the bills, a rare smile appearing on her face. “This is enough for your school fees next year.” I smiled too. But that night, Grandma started coughing again. It was worse than before, a violent, unstoppable hacking that went on all night. I got up to rub her back, but she shook her head, wheezing that it was just her old ailment. Yet she grew thinner and paler by the day. Before school started, I took her to the county hospital. The doctor asked Grandma to wait outside and called me into his office. He looked at me and asked, “Are you her granddaughter?” “Yes,” I replied. He was quiet for a moment, then sighed. “Go home and start preparing.” “Preparing for what?” I asked, my voice trembling. He didn’t answer. But I understood. On the way back, Grandma kept insisting she was fine, that it was just a minor bug. I supported her frail body, unable to say a single word. The winter I turned fifteen, Grandma passed away. Before she closed her eyes, she reached out, her vision already gone, searching for me. “Patience…” I pressed my face against her cold cheek. “Grandma, I’m here. I’m right here.” “Patience, remember… you have to live well… live well and show them all…” I nodded, my tears spilling onto her face. “I know you’ve had a hard life… I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you…” “Don’t say that, Grandma,” I sobbed. “You’re going to get better.” She weakly shook her head, her hand slowly losing its grip. “Your mother… she is cold-hearted. But don’t waste your life hating her… hating someone is too exhausting… don’t…” Before she could finish, her hand fell limp. I knelt by the bed, calling her name over and over until my voice went hoarse, until no more tears would come. Grandma never answered me again. After she was gone, I couldn’t stay in that town anymore. My mother returned for the funeral. She dressed in black, but there were barely any tears on her face. Serena didn’t come; my mother said she was preparing for her high school entrance exams and couldn’t afford to miss class. After the funeral, my mother sat in the quiet cottage, looking at me. “Come back to the city with me.” I stared at her. “Your grandmother is gone. How are you going to survive out here on your own?” “Okay,” I said. That day, I packed my few belongings, tucking Grandma’s photo into my pocket. She didn’t leave much behind—just a few old clothes, a pair of worn-out shoes, and a small metal tin. Inside the tin was three hundred dollars I had saved from foraging, and that old, melted candy wrapper. I took the candy wrapper with me. The day we drove into the city, a light drizzle was falling. I sat in the back of the SUV, watching the rural town slowly shrink in the distance, watching Grandma’s small cottage get smaller and smaller until it became a tiny dot and vanished completely. My mother drove in silence, never saying a word to me. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, tears silent as they slipped down my face, blending with the rain outside. In the city, I moved into my mother’s apartment. It was a spacious three-bedroom place, clean and modern. The living room had a plush sofa, a large TV, and a family portrait on the wall. In the photo, my mother wore a beautiful red dress, standing next to a man, with Serena standing beside them, smiling sweetly. I recognized the man’s face. There was a black-and-white photo of him on Grandma’s cabinet. My father. He had passed away years ago, and I barely remembered what he looked like. But in this portrait, he wore a tailored suit, his hair neatly combed, smiling warmly. Serena walked out of her room, stopping short when she saw me. She was much taller now than when she was eight, the exact same height as me. She was wearing comfortable silk loungewear, her long hair draped over her shoulders, her skin fair and flawless. She glanced at me, then at my mother, said nothing, and retreated back into her room. My mother pointed to a tiny door off the hallway. “You’ll sleep in there.” The room was incredibly small, fitting only a single mattress and a small plastic dresser. The window faced the brick wall of the adjacent building; even during the day, it was pitch black without the light on. I put my bag down, sat on the edge of the mattress, and stared at the window. There was nothing to see outside. Just a cold, gray brick wall. For dinner, my mother made three dishes: roasted chicken, steamed vegetables, and garlic shrimp. Serena sat across from me, her head down as she ate, never looking up to meet my eyes. My mother kept putting food onto Serena’s plate, piece after piece, saying, “Eat more, sweetie, you’re still growing.” She didn’t put a single piece on my plate. I reached out with my fork, taking a small piece of broccoli and placing it in my bowl, chewing slowly. The food was delicious. Much better than anything we had in the countryside. But I couldn’t taste a thing. That night, I lay on the small mattress, listening to the muffled sounds from the living room. The TV was murmuring, accompanied by laughter. Serena and my mother were watching a show together, sharing some private joke. I turned over, facing the wall. The wall was freezing cold. *** ####
After living there for two weeks, I noticed a lot of things. My sister’s name was Serena Sinclair. She attended the most prestigious private prep school in the city. Her grades were average, but my mother bragged about her to everyone she met. Her bedroom was three times the size of mine, complete with a study desk, a massive closet, and shelves overflowing with books and designer plush toys. There was no desk in my room. My mother told me to just make do for now and that we’d figure something out later. Every day when Serena came home from school, my mother would ask her what she wanted to eat. If Serena wanted takeout, my mother ordered it. If Serena wanted a specific dessert, my mother baked it. If Serena had no appetite, my mother would gently coax her to eat. Once, Serena caught a fever. My mother was frantic, driving her to the emergency room in the middle of the night and staying awake until dawn. When they returned the next morning, my mother’s eyes were red with exhaustion, yet she still smiled warmly, asking Serena if she wanted some homemade soup. It made me think of when Grandma was sick. When I called, my mother said she was too busy. When I told her Grandma was coughing blood, she just said she would mail money. And by the time the money arrived, the worst had already passed. As I sat in my dark room, staring at the gray brick wall outside, the truth finally clicked in my mind. She was never too busy. She just didn’t care. In the eight years I lived in that country town, my mother visited exactly twice. Once for Christmas, and once when Grandma was sick. Both times, she stayed for barely half a day before rushing off, claiming she had too many things to handle in the city. I actually believed her. I thought she was truly overwhelmed. Yet she had all the time in the world to watch TV with Serena, to cook her favorite meals, and to stay up all night at the hospital for a simple fever. She was only busy when it came to me. At dinner that night, my mother served baked salmon. Since Serena loved salmon, my mother plated the best fillets for her, murmuring about how healthy it was. I took a small piece of the tail end and ate quietly. Serena suddenly spoke up. “Mom, how long is she going to stay here?” My fork froze mid-air. My mother also paused. “What are you talking about? She’s your sister.” Serena rolled her eyes and didn’t say another word. I kept my head down, chewing my food slowly. The fish was dry and tasteless. But I didn’t say a word. When the school semester was about to start, my mother handed me an enrollment brochure for a local vocational school. “Your academic foundation is weak,” she said smoothly. “Even if you go to a regular high school, you won’t get into a decent university. It’s better to learn a practical trade so you can start working early.” I looked at the paper. Was my academic foundation weak? In our town, I was always at the top of my class. Granted, the curriculum in the city was different, and I had some catching up to do. But she had made this decision after only two weeks. How did she know I couldn’t get into a good college? I didn’t ask. There was no point. To get Serena into her elite private school, my mother had paid a twenty-thousand-dollar donation, claiming it was an investment in her daughter’s future. But for me? The trade school was free, and it would get me out of her house and into a job faster. I sat in my dark room all night. The next morning, I packed my bag and walked to the address Marcus Miller had given me. Marcus had stopped coming to our town a year ago to open his own wholesale herb and spice warehouse in the city. Before he left, he had written down his address and told me, *Patience, if you ever need a place to go, come find me.* When I found his shop, he was busy sorting dried herbs. He froze when he saw me standing there, then a warm smile spread across his face. “Look at you! You’ve grown so tall, kid.” “Marcus,” I said quietly, “I want to work.” He paused, looking at my small bag. “What happened?” “I need to earn my own living.” He stared at me for a long time, then nodded without asking further questions. “Alright. I need an assistant anyway. You can stay in the back room. I’ll cover your food and rent, and pay you eight hundred dollars a month.” “Thank you,” I said. That evening, I sent a text message to my mother: *I’m moving into the trade school dorms. Don’t worry about me.* She replied with a brief: *Okay. Keep in touch.* I unpacked my things in the tiny back room of Marcus’s warehouse, taping Grandma’s photo and that old, melted candy wrapper to the wall. As I closed the door, I felt a weight lift from my chest. I was finally free of that cold, gray wall. *** ####
The warehouse was located in an old industrial district of Chicago. It had a storefront in the front and a small living quarters in the back. Marcus lived in one room, and I took the other. The room was tiny, even smaller than the one at my mother’s apartment. But through the window, I could see the open sky, the clouds, and the neighborhood cats sunning themselves on the rooftops. I smoothed out the sheets on my bed and touched Grandma’s photo. *I’m doing okay, Grandma. Don’t worry about me.* The shop was always busy, and Marcus had been struggling to manage it alone. Once I started helping, things became much smoother. I memorized the inventory instantly, kept the ledger flawlessly, and could calculate invoices faster than a computer. Whenever customers came in, I greeted them, weighed their orders, packed them, and handled the payments with ease. Sometimes Marcus would watch me and sigh. “Patience, you have a brilliant mind. You shouldn’t waste it in a dusty warehouse like this.” “Then what should I do?” I asked. “Go to college,” he said simply. I lowered my eyes and didn’t answer. A few days later, he placed a stack of papers in front of me. “Night classes. College prep courses. Take a look.” I scanned the tuition fees. The application was three hundred, prep books were two hundred, and a semester would cost over a thousand dollars. I pushed the papers back. “I can’t afford it.” “Don’t worry about the money,” Marcus said softly. I looked up at him in surprise. “I’ll pay for it,” he said. I froze. “Marcus… I can’t accept that.” “Don’t call me Marcus, call me Mr. Miller,” he chuckled, though his eyes were completely serious. “I tried to go to college back in the day, but I missed the cutoff score by two points. I’ve been stuck in this shop ever since. You have a real gift, Patience. Don’t let it go to waste.” Looking into his kind, earnest eyes, my throat tightened, and tears threatened to spill. “Mr. Miller, I…” “No arguments. Registration is tomorrow.” That night, I lay in bed, staring at the moonlight filtering through my window, tears quietly slipping into my pillow. *Grandma, someone is finally looking out for me.* The night school was on the other side of the city, a one-hour bus ride each way. I worked in the warehouse during the day, closed up at five, rushed to classes, and returned around ten at night. Then, I would study until two in the morning. Sometimes Marcus would get up in the middle of the night, see the light under my door, and bring in a cup of warm tea. “Don’t push yourself too hard. Your health comes first.” I would nod, drink the tea, and keep studying. On the day of my college entrance exams, Marcus closed the shop to drive me to the test center. He waited outside the entire time. I don’t remember what he asked when I walked out, only that he was smiling wider than I’ve ever seen. When the results came out, I scored in the top 0.1% of the state. Marcus’s hands shook as he held the printout. “I knew it! I knew you were a genius!” He bought a bottle of wine that night and drank half of it himself, his face flushed with joy, laughing until tears came to his eyes. I ended up getting a scholarship to a prestigious finance program at the state university. Marcus helped cover the remaining living expenses, insisting it was just a loan I could pay back later. “I will,” I promised. “With interest.” Throughout my four years of college, I worked constantly. I waitressed, handed out flyers, tutored, and worked retail. By the time graduation came, I had several corporate job offers. I chose a position as a junior analyst at a prominent global investment firm. On my first day, I called Marcus. “Mr. Miller, I got the job.” He let out a soft breath over the phone. “Work hard, kid. I’m proud of you.” “I’ll start paying you back next month,” I said. “There’s no rush,” he replied warmly. I stood outside the towering skyscraper downtown, looking up at the glass facade reflecting the blue sky. I thought of Grandma, the tiny country cottage, and the woman who had run away from me at the mall. All of that was in the past now. This was my new beginning. *** Ten years. How long is ten years? It is long enough for a trade school runaway to become a CFO. Long enough for a warehouse assistant to become the CEO of a multinational investment firm’s entire regional division. Long enough for old hurts to settle to the very bottom of one’s heart—unseen, until something stirs them up. In those ten years, I never went back to that apartment. My mother called a few times. She’d mention that Serena got into a decent college, that Serena graduated, that Serena got a job. I’d just reply with a polite, “That’s good.” “What are you doing these days?” she’d ask. “Just working,” I’d say. “Where?” “Out of town.” “Are you making enough?” “Enough to get by.” Eventually, she stopped asking, and I stopped answering. But I never forgot. I never forgot the way she looked at me like I was a monster when I was eight. I never forgot crouching in the dirt yard, listening to them laugh inside. I never forgot her telling me she was too busy while Grandma lay dying. I never forgot the tiny dark room, the gray brick wall, and the plate of food I was never offered. I kept every single memory locked away. This spring, my firm was handling a major acquisition. We were looking to acquire a rapidly rising local cosmetics brand called “Serene Beauty.” It was an e-commerce startup that had taken the market by storm. The founder was a young, self-made female entrepreneur, and the media loved her story. When the due diligence file was dropped onto my desk, I was in the middle of a meeting. My assistant whispered, “Ms. Sinclair, here is the file on the Serene Beauty acquisition.” “Thanks,” I murmured, not looking up. After the meeting, I returned to my office and opened the folder. On the very first page was the founder’s biography, complete with a professional headshot. My hand froze. *** ####
The face in the photo. At first glance, she looked incredibly like me. The eyes, the nose, the shape of the lips—everything carried a haunting familiarity. But her face was flawless, her lips parted in a soft, confident smile. It was the kind of smile that belonged only to someone who had been deeply loved and protected her entire life, someone who had never known want. I stared at the photo for a long time. Then, I scrolled down to read the text. “Serena Sinclair, 30, only child. Born to a loving, wealthy family. Graduated from state university, subsequently founded ‘Serene Beauty,’ currently serving as CEO…” *Only child.* *Loving family.* *Wealthy upbringing.* I read those words three times. So that was it. In their world, I had never existed. All those years, my mother had proudly told everyone that she only had one daughter. No wonder she had run away from me at the mall. She wasn’t afraid of me recognizing her. She was terrified that people would find out she had another daughter—one she had abandoned in the countryside for eight years. She was terrified that her perfect, elite life would be stained. I closed the file, stood up, and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window. Outside, the Chicago skyline stretched out under a piercingly blue sky. I stood there in silence. My assistant knocked and walked in. “Ms. Sinclair, when would you like to schedule the meeting with the Serene Beauty team?” I didn’t turn around. “Set it for next week. I will personally lead the final negotiation.” The assistant looked surprised. “You’re going personally?” “Yes,” I said, my voice cold and steady. It had been sixteen years. I wanted to ask her face-to-face. *Did you ever hear about the sister you left behind in the dirt?* *** ####
The meeting was held in the main conference room at Serene Beauty’s headquarters. I brought three people with me: our head of legal, our financial director, and a project manager. Their side had about eight people, including the founders, the vice president, and various department heads. When I walked into the room, she stood up. Serena Sinclair. She was slightly thinner than in her photo, dressed in a sharp white blazer, her hair styled perfectly, wearing elegant, minimalist makeup. She smiled and extended her hand. “Ms. Sinclair, it is an honor to meet you.” I shook her hand briefly. “Likewise, Ms. Sinclair.” Her hand was incredibly soft and perfectly manicured, with pale pink nails. My hands were bare. These hands had chopped wood, fed livestock, dug up wild roots, washed dishes, and calculated millions of dollars on a keyboard. We took our seats, and the meeting began. My project manager ran through the presentation, outlining our valuation, integration plans, and future growth strategy. Her team raised questions, our legal counsel responded, and our finance director filled in the details. It was a standard, highly professional corporate negotiation. I remained quiet, observing. Serena didn’t say much either. But her eyes kept drifting back to my face—lingering for a moment, shifting away, and then returning again. I knew exactly what she was looking at. Halfway through, we took a fifteen-minute coffee break. I stood up and walked over to the window, looking out at the nearby park. Serena walked over and stood beside me. “Ms. Sinclair, have we met somewhere before?” I kept my gaze fixed outside. “I don’t think so.” She was quiet for a moment. “You look strikingly like someone I used to know.” I turned my head to look her in the eye. “Who?” She blinked, startled, and then shook her head. “Never mind. I must be mistaken.” I didn’t press further. She gave me one last, lingering look before walking away. The afternoon session went smoothly. We finalized the details, signed the letter of intent, shook hands, and wrapped up. She escorted us to the elevators. Just as the doors were closing, I caught her eye. She was still staring at me, her expression a mix of confusion and dawning realization. As the elevator descended, my assistant smiled. “That went incredibly well, Ms. Sinclair. We should be ready to sign the final contract next week.” “Yes,” I murmured. We walked out of the building, and I climbed into the back of my car. I leaned my head against the leather headrest and closed my eyes. A single memory flashed in my mind. An eight-year-old girl in a pink princess dress, looking back at me at the mall. Just one look. So bright and completely innocent. Three days later, my phone rang. It was an unrecognized local number. I picked it up. “Victoria Sinclair speaking.” Silence stretched on the other end for a few seconds. “Is this… Patience?” I held the phone to my ear, remaining silent. I could hear her breath hitching, her voice beginning to tremble. “It’s Serena. I know it’s you. I knew the moment I saw you… You look just like Dad…” I leaned back in my chair, staring out at the city. “What do you want, Serena?” Another long pause. “I want to see you,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “There are things… I need to tell you in person.” “Fine,” I said. We agreed to meet at a quiet cafe downtown at three in the afternoon. When I arrived, she was already sitting by the window. A cup of coffee sat untouched in front of her. She stood up nervously when she saw me approach. I sat down and ordered a black coffee. Her eyes welled with tears as she looked at me. “Patience…” “Don’t call me that,” I said flatly. She flinched. “I… I don’t even know where to start. Mom…” “Leave her out of this,” I interrupted. “I didn’t come here to walk down memory lane. If you have something to say, say it directly.” She lowered her eyes, her fingers twisting together so tightly her knuckles turned white.
🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “462014”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster
Leave a Reply