3 million dollars – that’s the price Jim Marshall offered me to take the place of my sister, who passed away a long time ago, and stay by his side for a year.
“Evelyn, you killed Emma. You should spend your life drowning in guilt, never to be loved,” he said, tossing a thick stack of money at me. His cold eyes narrowed as he looked down on me, his expression filled with contempt.
In the bar, he used a wooden cane to lift my chin, disregarding the last shreds of my dignity, treating me like some pet he was buying at a market.
Everyone around watched with amusement, eager to see my reaction.
They were all former classmates from college. To them, I was always the girl who prided herself on being untouchable, refusing any charity, even when I was dirt poor.
3 million dollars – let’s be honest, that’s more than I’m worth.
So, what would I choose?
Without much hesitation, I grabbed the cane, forcing a smile onto my face.
“All right, Mr. Marshall,” I replied. “From now on, I’m in your care.”
2Jim quickly shook off my hand in disgust, his eyes filled with loathing.
His abrupt rejection made me stumble and fall to the ground. My waist collided with the edge of the table, and pain shot through me, but I kept that forced smile on my face.
This was the last shred of dignity I could cling to.
I needed those 3 million dollars.
The crowd laughed louder, their voices dripping with mockery and admiration for Jim.
“Classic Jim! I remember Evelyn from college – she thought she was better than everyone else, too good to accept anyone’s help. Didn’t she always say something like, ‘Poverty doesn’t mean you lack ambition’? Ha! Guess we just didn’t offer enough money!”
“Right? Evelyn, I remember you used to act all high and mighty back then!”
“That’s why Jim is the best! Come on, let’s toast to him!”
My family, the Joneses, were once well-regarded. But after my mom passed, my father brought his longtime mistress and her daughter into the house.
From then on, I was an outsider in my own home.
My half-sister, Emma, became the cherished princess of the Jones family, while I was nothing but a shadow, an insect lurking in the corners.
Even creatures in the darkness dream of the light.
I studied hard and pushed myself to succeed.
My mom always taught me that even if you’re poor, you should still have ambition. I lived by her words, becoming independent and strong.
Back in the day, all those rich boys who tried to win me over with their money – I rejected them all.
But that pride, that sense of ambition, has now been crushed to pieces, not even a shred left.
And I became the joke in everyone’s eyes.
3Originally, Jim Marshall and I had nothing to do with each other, like two parallel lines that would never cross. But everything changed after Emma died. From that moment on, he hated me.
He believed that I was the one who killed her.
But Emma died from a heart condition – nothing more, nothing less.
Emma and I never got along. No matter how hard I tried to avoid her or steer clear of any conflict, she would always go out of her way to pick a fight with me.
In her eyes, being the daughter of a mistress was a shameful label.
But if I, the daughter of the “real wife,” were out of the picture, she could finally stand in the light, untainted.
So, the phrase Emma used most often when talking to me was: “Evelyn, if I were you, I’d have killed myself a long time ago.”
After all, I was the one with an absent father, a deceased mother, a stepmother who despised me, and a stepsister who constantly tormented me.
But in the end, it was Emma who died first.
That day, she planned another one of her nasty tricks. She sent me a message to meet her at the equipment storage room, intending to lock me in there for the entire night.
How did I know? I overheard her scheming with her friends on a phone call.
So that night, I didn’t go to the equipment room.
Emma went there alone. Her heart condition suddenly flared up, and without anyone to help her in time, she died.
My stepmother later told Jim that it was me who had lured Emma to the equipment room.
And that was the beginning of his hatred toward me.
He never believed me, no matter how much I tried to explain myself.
Driven by the memory of his deceased “perfect girl,” and because I happened to resemble her, he sought me out.
He wanted me to be her replacement.
If it had been any other time, I would have outright refused such an absurd arrangement.
But life played a cruel joke on me.
I was terrified that if I didn’t agree, I might be the next to die.
4The taunts and insults from everyone at the party were completely unfiltered, every foul word imaginable was thrown my way.
I did my best to block out their voices.
Jim ordered me to pour him a drink, and I obediently did as he asked.
He told me to sing a song to entertain the crowd, and I went up on stage.
He then made me down several shots of whiskey, and even though it made me sick, I forced myself to drink.
Then, some of our old college classmates started jeering, saying they’d always noticed I had a nice figure, but I often wore loose, casual clothes, so they’d never gotten a good look at me.
They smirked and laughed. “Jim, any chance you could let us catch a glimpse of that tiny waist tonight?”
My grip tightened around the glass in my hand.
I’d tolerated their filthy words up until now, but to not even have control over my own body?
I looked over at Jim, who was lounging lazily on the leather sofa, one leg crossed over the other. His long fingers held a cigarette, the smoke curling around his face, making his features appear blurred.
I could barely make out his cold eyes as they glanced at me, giving me a command: “What are you waiting for? Take it off.”
He sat there like a god, looking down on everyone with arrogance, while I was nothing but an insignificant mortal.
I set my glass down, the alcohol burning in my stomach, and forced myself to speak. “I’m afraid I can’t comply.”
A faint, barely noticeable anger flashed in Jim’s eyes, irritated by my defiance.
He flicked the ash off his cigarette and spoke in an icy tone: “You’re nothing more than my pet now. When I tell you to do something, you do it. Understand?”
“I think you’re mistaken, Mr. Marshall. The 3 million you paid was to make me Emma’s replacement,” I replied, standing up straight, refusing to bow to him. “Since when does being a replacement mean stripping in front of a crowd?”
Jim paused.
There was a collective gasp around us.
“There she goes, acting all high and mighty again. You took the money – why the act?”
“God, I hate women who pretend to be virtuous but still take what they’re offered!”
“Seriously, does she think she’s the tragic, beautiful heroine of some movie or something?”
5All eyes were locked on me, as if they wouldn’t let me leave without stripping.
Thankfully, Jim didn’t force me. He simply gave me a long, piercing stare.
Then he stood up, walked over, and gripped my chin tightly, looking down at me. “If you’re going to be a replacement, then learn to act the part.”
He wanted me to be like Emma Jones.
And what kind of person was Emma Jones?
To everyone else, she was a delicate, fragile flower – a precious gem that needed to be handled with care, a girl who would shed tears over a dead butterfly on the roadside, saying, “How tragic.”
But only I knew her true nature.
To frame me, she once killed my pet kitten.
How did she do it? She tore out its intestines and gutted it, then tossed the remains into the studio where I worked part-time.
She stood in front of everyone and cried, “Oh my God, Evelyn! How could you treat your pet like this?”
Then she ran into Jim’s arms, sobbing, “Sister, I know you don’t like animals, but you could have given it away instead of killing it!”
That day, I felt like I was suffocating, as if I were dying.
I went at her in a rage, desperate to avenge my kitten.
But no one would listen to me. They all stood behind Emma, supporting her.
I became the monster who abused animals, condemned and ridiculed by everyone.
How could I possibly learn to be as cruel and deceitful as Emma?
A wave of nausea washed over me as the alcohol took hold, and I felt disoriented.
I could barely make out the mocking voices around me, along with Jim’s cold, indifferent tone: “For someone as wicked as you, you should learn from Emma’s kindness.”
6When I woke up, it was already the next morning.
The partygoers were long gone, leaving behind nothing but a mess.
I picked myself up off the floor, my head pounding from the alcohol. It took a while before the memories of the previous night started to come back.
A bitter smile tugged at my lips.
I’d drunk too much and passed out – just like before. No one cared. They just left me there, as always, to fend for myself.
Suddenly, a sharp pain tore through my chest. I doubled over, clutching my mouth as I coughed until a metallic taste filled my throat.
The warm, salty blood pooled in my mouth, seeping through my fingers.
I paused, then pulled out my phone and called a cab to take me to the hospital.
When the doctor saw me, he greeted me with a familiar nod. “Miss Jones,” he said, “back for more medication?”
Late-stage leukemia.
I’d been dealing with this for a long time.
This was Dr. Sam Harding, my primary physician.
I’d heard that if his child were still alive, he would’ve been a gentle, loving father. But fate wasn’t kind – his child died in a car accident at the age of six.
His wife couldn’t handle the grief and left him. He’s remained alone ever since, never remarrying, never having more children.
Dr. Harding often told me that if his child had lived, they’d be around my age now.
So, when I was first diagnosed, he was the only one who relentlessly urged me to get hospitalized and undergo surgery.
I told him I couldn’t afford it.
He got upset, even offering to cover the costs himself.
But Dr. Harding was just an ordinary man. No matter how much money he had, it would never be enough to fight a disease like mine.
I declined his offer.
That was until Jim Marshall approached me, and I agreed to his proposition.
All I had to do was play a role, and I’d get 3 million dollars out of it – enough to cover everything.
It’s what they owed me, after all.
When Emma was alive, I could at least take on part-time jobs at school to earn some extra cash.
But after she died, and after I graduated, Jim and my stepmother made sure I became blacklisted. They pulled strings behind the scenes, and suddenly, I was barred from every major company.
I had a degree from a top university, the skills to land a good job that would let me live a decent life.
But they made sure that didn’t happen. They used their power to sentence me to a life of failure.
In the end, I could only work in small shops, scraping by with meager wages, barely able to afford my painkillers.
How did my life end up this way? How did I become such a failure?
I still don’t have the answer.
I nodded. “Please prescribe me more medication. And if possible, increase the dosage for the painkillers. The previous amount isn’t helping anymore.”
Dr. Harding looked at me sternly, speaking with the weight of his concern. “Miss Jones, you can’t keep putting this off any longer.”
I knew that.
I could feel my body deteriorating.
I shook my head. “Just a bit longer. If I can make it to next year…”
The agreement I had with Jim had a one-year deadline.