I was the long-lost daughter of the richest family in San Francisco.

When I found my biological parents, I thought I would finally experience the love and warmth of family. But instead, devastating news came—they had been kidnapped abroad.

Even after my parents gave their entire fortune to the kidnappers, they were still not released. The kidnappers demanded another million from me.

Every day, I received videos of my parents being tortured. My father and mother were bruised and battered, and my older brother even had one of his hands cut off. Desperate to save them, I worked tirelessly and sent money to the kidnappers, praying they would show mercy to my family.

One day, while cleaning restrooms at a high-end jewelry store, I saw them—my beloved family.

My parents were dressed in luxury brands, looking completely unscathed. They generously bought jewelry worth tens of millions for their goddaughter.

My brother, Julian, both hands perfectly intact, was smoking a cigar and boasting to his friends, "I have a long-lost idiot sister. We've been playing her like a fool."

I stood frozen in the doorway of the restroom, watching them walk past me.

Dressed in my janitor's uniform, they didn't recognize me. They didn't even glance in my direction.

But I recognized them. Yet, I didn’t dare approach.

Was it really them? Weren’t they kidnapped? Why were they here, unharmed?

Unless...

It was all a lie.

A deception carefully orchestrated by my own family to get rid of me.

I looked at their goddaughter, surrounded by their love and attention, and felt a bitter ache in my heart.

Twenty years ago, I got separated from my parents.

I was picked up by Aunt Zamara, a humble bathhouse worker who raised me on her meager salary.

Meanwhile, my biological parents adopted another daughter to fill the void, showering her with love and luxury.

When I finally returned, I thought I would receive the same affection. I thought they would love me.

I never expected that they never considered me part of their family.

"Rianne, today is your birthday. Pick anything you like," my father said cheerfully.

Rianne, their goddaughter, feigned modesty with a delicate expression. "Dad, now that my sister has returned, my birthday shouldn’t be celebrated so extravagantly anymore."

My father snorted, and spat, "So what if she's back? She's nothing but a lowly thing. She'll never compare to you."

My mother, full of concern, asked, "Rianne, why would you say that? Did that dirty thing bully you? Don't worry. She won't be around anymore."

Rianne didn’t deny it; instead, she smiled ambiguously. "Thank you, Mom."

My brother, Julian, laughed and said to Rianne, "Lil sis, your birthdays should be even grander from now on. After all, that idiot is out there working her fingers to the bone to make money for us."

"I heard from a friend that she's doing all kinds of filthy, degrading work just to scrape cash. Even cleaning toilets."

My mother waved her hand dismissively, her face filled with disgust. "Enough. Just thinking about that dirty thing makes me sick."

I stood at the restroom door, tears streaming down my face as I listened.

So this was how my biological family saw me.

I remembered how indifferent my mother was to me when I first came back, keeping her distance.

Once, during dinner, I finished all the food in my bowl.

Her expression changed immediately, and she looked at me with disdain.

Aunt Zamara, despite her low income, always taught me not to waste food. She worked hard to raise me, and frugality was ingrained in me from a young age.

But to my biological mother, even this was repulsive.

My mother scolded me, saying I was like a reincarnated starving ghost, eating more than a pig, completely uncultured and ungraceful. She sneered and told me that if she ever took me out, I’d only humiliate her.

From that day forward, nothing I did was right in her eyes. Even when she walked past me, she would pinch her nose in disdain.

I cried in the shower, scrubbing myself over and over, hoping to wash away whatever made her hate me. But she just scoffed as she chided me disdainfully, “Yanna, no matter how much you wash, you’ll never get rid of the stench of poverty on you. It’s in your bones.”

Slap!

A sharp pain burned at the back of my head, snapping me out of my senses.

The manager stood behind me, yelling, “What are you doing? Slacking off? Do you need a beating to wake you up?”

“If you don’t finish cleaning the restroom before your shift ends, you can lick it clean instead!”

Not satisfied with just words, he kicked me hard, and I stumbled to the ground.

Tears, hot and uncontrollable, streamed down my face.

The manager had scolded and hit me before, but I’d never cried. I tolerated it because the pay here was good, and I could earn more money to “rescue” my so-called family faster.

I tolerated everything and gave up my dignity just for my family. But today, the pain and humiliation overwhelmed me.

“You're crying? Look at you, you jinx! Get up and get back to cleaning!”

The manager grabbed my hair and yanked me to my feet, making me cry out in pain.

My voice, filled with agony, caught the attention of my parents.

They turned their heads and met my gaze.

For a moment, I thought I would see guilt in their eyes.

But all I saw was disgust.

Their revulsion lasted only a few seconds before their expressions turned indifferent as if I were a stranger.

Then, they turned and walked away.

I couldn’t hold back any longer and shouted, “Dad! Mom! Why? Why did you lie to me? Why are you pretending not to know me?”

My father stopped and turned back, his expression cold. “Yanna, we lied to you out of pity. We let you live your little fantasy, thinking we were your family.”

“We pretended not to know you just now so you could keep living in that dream.”

“But since you insist on breaking it, don’t blame us. You made this choice.”

“If you don’t want this ‘family bond,’ then fine. You don’t have to have it anymore.”

His words felt like a dagger stabbing my heart.

I glared at him, my voice trembling as I replied, “What? This fake ‘bond’ is something you think you graciously gave me?”

My mother let out a cold laugh. “Of course. Look at you—poverty written all over your face. Do you think you’re worthy of being my daughter?”

I wiped my tears furiously and gritted my teeth. “You’re right—I’m not worthy of parents like you. You don’t deserve to be called parents at all!”

“I worked tirelessly, day and night, giving you all the money I earned. And this is how you repay me? Do you even have a conscience?”

“You’re not just unfit to be parents; you’re unfit to be human!” I shouted at the top of my lungs.

My mother’s face turned red with rage. She grabbed her handbag and threw it at me, hitting me squarely on the forehead. “I knew it! You grew up in the countryside, and it shows—filthy mouth, no manners! How dare you insult us? You’re out of control!”

The manager cautiously looked at my parents. “Sir, Madam, this girl... is she your daughter?”

Julian, my brother, spat on the ground near me. “What a joke. Does the Sanders family have a daughter who cleans toilets?”

“She’s just a conniving tramp trying to worm her way into our family for money. We’ve seen plenty like her before.”

“We pitied her and treated her kindly, and now she’s clinging to us.”

The manager nodded and bowed. “Of course, of course.”

His gaze toward me turned venomous again. “So, you’re after money, huh? Trying to scam Mr. and Mrs. Sanders? You’ve lost your mind!”

“Kneel down and apologize to them immediately!” the manager hissed.

I pulled off my rubber gloves and threw them to the ground. “I quit.”

The manager froze for a moment before sneering coldly. “Fine, quit if you want. But you won’t get a single penny of your wages.”

I nodded silently and turned to leave.

But Rianne’s soft voice stopped me. “Wait.”

The manager quickly stepped in front of me to block my way.

Rianne said, “Sis, you just insulted our parents. Shouldn’t you apologize before leaving?”

I let out a cold laugh and tried to walk away. But my mother turned to the manager and said, “I don’t want to dirty my hands. Teach her a lesson for me—I'll give you a thousand dollars for every slap.”

Without hesitation, the manager grabbed me by the neck and started slapping me hard across the face.

“One... two... three... four...” he counted excitedly, his voice full of glee.

The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.

For the past year, I had worked tirelessly, juggling three jobs every day. I lived on nothing but pickled vegetables and steamed buns, saving every penny to send to the so-called kidnappers. All I wanted was for them to treat my parents well and stop hurting them.

But now, seeing my parents, they casually threw away tens of thousands just to have someone slap me.

The jewelry store was filled with people, all watching me with gloating expressions.

I could hear their whispers.

“Who is she? Why is she being beaten?”

“Apparently, she tried to scam Mr. and Mrs. Sanders, claiming to be their long-lost daughter. Pathetic, right? She must be desperate for money.”

“Look at her. She does have a conniving face. Serves her right.”

I closed my eyes in despair.

No wonder they never brought me to public events after they found me.

No wonder they restricted my movements, forbidding me from leaving the house.

It wasn’t to protect me. They didn’t want to acknowledge my existence. They didn’t want the public to know about me.

They had already planned to cast me aside.

But why search for me in the first place?

Maybe they never truly wanted to find me. Maybe the missing daughter campaign was just a ploy to boost their reputation, to paint themselves as a family who valued love and kinship.

With Aunt Zamara's encouragement, I had spent ten years searching for my biological parents. When I finally found them, I thought they loved me, that they had been looking for me all along.

I was so naive. I threw myself into their cold, unfeeling home, only to be met with rejection and cruelty.

It took being battered and broken to realize that I was never meant to be a part of their world.

“Enough,” my father said coldly. “Let’s go. There’s no need to waste any more time here.”

The rich care deeply about appearances. I understood what he meant.

Before leaving, my mother scribbled out a check and casually tossed it on the ground.

The manager eagerly picked it up, thanking her profusely.

Then, as if to complete his task, he dragged me out of the store and delivered one final kick. “Get out of here! And stay far away!”

My face was swollen, and as I stumbled down the street, people stared and pointed at me.

Some even raised their phones, shoving them in my face to record my humiliation.

Covering my face, I ran out of the building.

It was raining outside. Cold droplets struck my battered face, making the pain even worse.

Splash!

A luxury car sped past, drenching me in muddy water.

I didn’t move in time and fell to the side of the road.

As I lay there, I recognized the car—it belonged to my parents.

They drove off, heading back to their opulent mansion, glowing in the distance.

While I was like a drenched stray dog, trudging back to the slums—a filthy, broken-down rental in the poorest part of the city.