His Joke Killed Me

Five years after being thrown out of the Ashford estate as the exposed "fake heiress," I was diagnosed with stage four stomach cancer. I kept myself alive by doing experimental clinical trials. 

I pushed open the heavy glass doors of the clinic, clutching two crisp twenty-dollar bills. Forty bucks. That was my payout for completing the latest cycle of an experimental targeted therapy trial.

A massive hand grabbed my jacket collar and yanked me backward. 

I hit the pavement hard, stinging sharply. 

"You ungrateful brat! Why are you here? Are you trying to get Eliza killed again?!"

A vicious slap stung my face. Metallic blood instantly filled my mouth. 

I looked up, blinking through the dizzying pain. Victoria—the woman I used to call Mom—towered over me.

She was desperate to secure matching blood donors for her precious Eliza's "severe anemia" at this private clinic. 

Seeing his mother's emotional breakdown, Julian immediately snapped at the bodyguards to throw me out. 

He stared down at $40 still crumpled in my fist with absolute disgust. 

"Doing human trials for money now?" Julian scoffed, shaking his head. "Is your pride really worth this much? You're dragging the family name through the mud just to put on a show." 

I stayed on the ground and said absolutely nothing. 

My fingers were trembling uncontrollably. The orange pill bottle slipped out of my jacket pocket and rolled across the concrete. I dragged myself forward, slowly crawling to reach it

Passersby were starting to stop and stare. Julian noticed the whispers. His face flushed red with embarrassment and anger. 

"Jesus, Eleanor!" Julian barked. "Do you have to make a scene everywhere you go? Are you trying to milk public sympathy? So what if we sent you to that reform school to fix your attitude? Stop acting like we tortured you!"

I didn't answer. A vicious cramp tore through my stomach, so intense it made my vision blur. Biting down on my lip, I braced my trembling hands against the cold concrete, using every ounce of my fading strength just to push myself up. 

The visibly agonizing way I moved finally caught his attention. He realized something was genuinely wrong. He took a quick, anxious step forward, his hand instinctively reaching out to catch my arm. 

"Eleanor... are you—"

"Brother?" 

A soft, fragile voice interrupted him. Eliza walked out of the clinic's doors. She spotted me on the ground,and pulled a piece of white paper. 

"Oh my god. Eleanor." Eliza covered her mouth. "Did you seriously pay the front desk to forge this for you?" 

She held up my intake form. "A stage four stomach cancer diagnosis? Really? Are you acting out the limp, too, just to make Julian feel bad?" She shrank back, grabbing Julian's sleeve and looking up at him with wide, watery eyes. "Brother, I know she just wants to come home. It's all my fault. I shouldn't have taken her place. I'll just go back to the mountains..." 

Julian stared at the medical report. Poisioned by Eliza’s words, the brief flicker of guilt in his eyes vanished. His fists clenched tighter and tighter, his jaw muscles twitching as he ground his teeth together audibly. 

He snatched the paper from Eliza’s hand, crumpled it into a tight ball, and hurled it forcefully right at my face. 

"How dare you fake a terminal illness just to manipulate our feelings!" he roared. "I actually felt sorry for you for a split second! Is lying the only skill you have left? Don't play dead until you actually land in a coffin!"

He grabbed Eliza by the shoulder. "Let's go. Don't waste your energy on her. She's a lost cause." 

They walked toward their parked SUV.

I picked up my pill bottle, dry-swallowed two painkillers, and slowly got up. I needed money. The clinical trial cash wasn't going to cut it. I took a night-shift cleaning job at a high-end club. The pay was double because nobody wanted to deal with drunk rich assholes at three in the morning. 

Six hours later, I was squeezed into a stiff, cheap gray uniform. I wore a blue surgical mask and a black cap pulled low over my forehead. 

I slipped into VIP Room 4 with my cleaning cart. The guests had stepped out to the private terrace to smoke cigars, leaving behind a mess of empty bottles. I grabbed a garbage bag and started clearing the table. 

Then, voices drifted in from the hallway.

"Come on, Julian," a man chuckled. "Dumping your sister—sorry, the fake daughter—out on the street like that? A bit harsh, wasn't it? I heard she’s working out of a temp agency." 

Ice flooded my veins. Julian.

"There was no mix-up at the hospital," Julian said. His voice was loose, heavy with expensive bourbon. 

"Wait, what?" his friend asked, sounding fully sober now. 

"I paid a guy at the private lab to fake the DNA report," Julian laughed softly. 

I stopped breathing. 

"Eleanor was getting utterly insufferable," Julian continued, completely unfazed. "Way too spoiled. Way too arrogant. She threw a massive fit over a damn horse last year and yelled at Mom. She needed a harsh reality check. I had to step in." 

"And Eliza? That girl was a broke orphan from Appalachi. Smart, sure, but completely pathetic. I figured, why not do some charity? Give Eliza a real roof over her head, and let Eleanor taste the real world for a bit. Build some character." 

"Holy shit man," his friend muttered. "Your parents don't know?" 

"Nobody knows except that lab guy," Julian said smoothly. "I had to keep Mom and Dad in the dark. If they knew the truth, they would've felt guilty, blown the whole cover, and brought her back within a week."

"That would have completely ruined the lesson. Our family can afford to feed another mouth, who cares? Once Eleanor suffers enough and actually learns her lesson, I'll bring her back. She’s still my sister. I’m doing this for her own good. She'll thank me later."

For her own good. 

The words echoed violently in my head, vibrating louder than the high-pitched ringing in my ears. The cancer. The eviction.

All of it. My entire ruined life. It wasn't a tragic mistake. It was a lesson from my control-freak brother. 

My numb fingers simply gave out. The steel trash can slipped right out of my grip. 

Crash. 

It hit the hardwood floor, the sound exploding through the quiet room. 

The voices out in the hallway stopped dead.