"Savannah, how’s the scholarship going? Did your teacher give you any trouble?" Dad asked.

I swallowed the anger, setting the milk down in front of him. "It’s fine. I gave up the scholarship and gave it to Scott. I also promised I won’t fight him for the next spot."

"You haven’t eaten much the past few days, have you?" I could tell he was just trying to sound like he cared. "I bought this with the money I made selling cardboard boxes."

Dad let out a relieved sigh and pushed the milk towards me. "Good, good. I heard the Harlow family is really powerful. We can't compete with them, so don’t worry. Even if I have to borrow money, I’ll make sure you finish college."

"Just drink the milk, Savannah. You’ve been looking tired. I can see you’ve lost weight, you need something to get your strength back."

Dad rubbed his forehead where Scott had hurt him, trying to sound casual about it, but I could tell he was faking it.

I still couldn’t shake the image of him kneeling outside the school gate for three days.

But now, I wasn’t sure when he was being real with me and when he was just acting.

I looked at his hands, no calluses, no signs of a hard day’s work. And my mom, even though her clothes were worn out, her face was still smooth and soft. They didn’t look like people who had ever really struggled.

The bitterness inside me bubbled up, but I couldn’t stop it.

Mom, noticing I had been standing too long, quickly helped me back to the room.

Dinner that night was a disaster. Discounted vegetables from the market—yellowing leaves, bugs crawling on them and white eggs floating in the soup.

Dad gave an awkward smile, looking embarrassed. "Savannah, your mom spent half a month’s living expenses on that cake for you. We're a little short on money right now, but we’ll make do. Once I get paid from the construction site, we’ll go grab those spicy hot wings you love."

It was hard to say anything. Everything felt fake now.

My mom started crying too, her voice trembling. "It's my fault I couldn’t give you a better life. Because of me, you couldn’t even get the scholarship... Savannah, I’m so sorry."

I stared at the sad, greenish food on the old dining table and pushed the plate toward them, my face completely blank.

"It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you. You’re both tired from work. You eat. I’m not hungry today," I said, my tone flat.

Mom and Dad exchanged a look, but I didn’t miss the flicker of disgust in their eyes.

Before, whenever they made a meal, they would always scoop the food into my bowl, saying they couldn’t finish it.

I used to feel touched and sad, thinking they were skipping meals just to keep me well-fed. Now, I knew better. They didn’t like the food. They didn’t like me.

I took a small bite, chewing through the tears that blurred my vision. But all I could taste was bitterness.

Seeing me eat, my mom sighed in relief, like she had just solved some great problem.

Then Dad’s phone alarm went off. He answered quickly, pretending it was an urgent call.

"The construction site’s rushing work before the New Year. No time for a break," he said as he grabbed his coat and stood up.

Mom followed right behind him, pulling on her cheap, patched-up cotton jacket. "We’ll stay out late setting up a stall," she said. "We need the money for your tuition next semester."

I limped after them for a few moment, keeping my distance. My heart sank as I saw Mom climb off the rundown car and step into a Bugatti.

Dad tossed his work clothes on the side of the road like trash, brushing his hands off before casually throwing his jacket over his shoulder.

I jumped into a taxi to follow them. Eventually, their car stopped at a five-star hotel.

Standing outside the restaurant, I heard Scott’s voice, dripping with fake concern. "Dad, Mom, is Savannah okay? I told them not to hurt her legs. It’ll make her injury worse."

Dad chuckled and sipped his wine, tossing a sleek black card onto the table. "She can walk, so she’s fine. You did well. She’s disabled anyway and I don’t want her drawing attention at school."

"Here’s 250 thousand dollars. Use it to reward those classmates," Dad said, sliding the money across the table.

Mom, meanwhile, couldn’t stop admiring the fur coat Scott had given her.

She ran her fingers over it, smiling like she’d won the lottery. "Who says daughters are the only ones with taste? My son is just as good—if not better! Look at this fabric, Scott. You must’ve put so much thought into it. Thank you, sweetheart. I love it!"

Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, she added, "When Savannah graduates, I’ll convince her to apply for a disability certificate. She can get a few hundred bucks a month from that. And you can just help her find a cleaning job. It’ll be good for her."

I stood outside the door, frozen, their words cutting deeper than I could’ve imagined.

Disabled. That was all I was to them. Was it my fault I had a broken leg?

I was three years old when it happened. They were too busy working to notice me, let alone care. The water boiled away on the stove and the gas exploded.

A neighbor saved me, dragged me out of the flames, but they couldn’t save my legs.

My parents had the money for my treatment, but they wouldn’t spend it. They said they needed it for their projects, their business.

I still remembered lying in that hospital bed, neighbors and doctors looking at me with pity. Mom and Dad came once. Just once. Then they disappeared, like I didn’t even exist.

That memory had haunted me for seventeen years.

And now, here they were, calling it my fault, like I had chosen this life.

Apparently, because I was a daughter, I wasn’t allowed to succeed. Because I had a broken leg, I wasn’t allowed to dream. All I was good for was a miserable, 'simple' life.

If that was how they felt, then fine. I didn’t need them.

As soon as I got home, I signed up for a management training program with a foreign company. It was far away, the pay was good and it was my chance to leave all this behind.

My dean noticed and called me up the next day. "Savannah, I saw your application. Are you sure? The conditions abroad are tough and you’re just a young girl. Why don’t you think about it? I’ll help you find something easier when the time comes."

I clenched my jaw, swallowing down the frustration building inside me.

“No, I'll just apply for this. I'm not afraid of hardship."

For twenty years, I’d gotten used to struggling. By now, nothing could shock me anymore. My teacher sighed, clearly frustrated.

"That scholarship was supposed to be yours," he said, shaking his head.

"But the university director overruled it. There’s nothing I can do. If you’re set on going abroad, I’ll submit your application for the training program. Just focus on your graduation thesis. If your paper gets picked, you’ll still get the extra point."

"The university director?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. "Who’s that?"

"The CEO of Jameson Group. Don’t you know? He donated that building when you started school here. I’m not sure how, but he’s probably related to Scott. Distant family or something."

I hung up before the tears could spill, but it didn’t stop them from sliding down my face.

Without wasting another second, I opened my phone—its cracked screen flickering in protest—and started typing my thesis.

The extra points tied to the paper was the only chance I had of paying for my plane ticket. I couldn’t afford to screw this up.

I was so deep in concentration, I didn’t notice my parents come to my room until my mom’s voice snapped me out of it.

She leaned over my shoulder and squinted at the screen. "You’re working on your graduation thesis? Savannah, you’re not graduating until next June. Why start so early?"

I nodded, not even looking up.

The cloying scent of expensive perfume clung to her clothes, a sharp contrast to the sour air in the house.

My dad, overhearing, poked his head in. His expression shifted as soon as the word "thesis" came up.

"Oh, aren’t there extra points for that?" he asked, his tone suddenly cautious. "Savannah, don’t push yourself too hard. Just graduating is enough. It isn’t meant for us. Someone else deserves it."

The "someone else" he meant? No question, it was Scott. My grip tightened on my phone as my hand started to tremble.

Mom and Dad exchanged a quick look and disappeared into their room.

I followed quietly, pressing my ear to the door.

Through the thin wood, I caught Dad’s voice. "Scott needs that scholarship. If he’s going to take over the company, his resume has to look good. She’ll understand. The extra points are for him."

"But the paper is on Savannah's phone. How do you plan to pull that off?" Mom asked, hesitant.

"Her phone is ancient," Dad said, brushing it off like it was nothing. "Tell her to get a new one, back it up and send it to Scott."

"Isn’t that a bit much?" Mom asked again, her voice quieter this time.

"What’s too much about it?" Dad shot back, frustrated. "Do you want Scott to get criticized as useless when he starts at the company?"

I didn’t even know how I got back to my room. I crawled under my blanket, but no amount of warmth could stop the chill running through me.

It wasn’t just the cold air, it was the betrayal. How could they do this to their own daughter, just for the sake of an adopted son?

It hit me like a ton of bricks. For them, I had always just been a stepping stone. Profit over people, that was what they believed.

Any sliver of love or loyalty I had left for them was completely gone in that moment.

The next morning, Dad handed me a phone, just like he said he would. But it wasn’t exactly shiny and new.

The box was dusty and he awkwardly wiped it with his sleeve before giving it to me.

"Savannah, graduation’s coming up soon. I got you a second-hand phone, almost like new, 90% at least. You should use this one. People might laugh if you’re still using that old thing when you start working," he said, pretending to be thoughtful.

I looked at him, then at Mom, who was practically beaming, waiting for me to thank them. But I just shook my head.

"No, Dad. This phone probably cost you two months' salary. You haven’t even paid back the money you borrowed for my tuition. You should return it," I said calmly.

They spent ages trying to convince me, but I didn’t budge. Eventually, Dad gave in, probably worried he would expose himself if he pushed too hard and returned it.

Mom looked pale, but she still forced a smile and called me "sensible." Watching them try so hard to keep up their act almost made me laugh.

For years, they had been pretending to be loving parents just to set Scott up for success. It was pathetic. All I ever wanted was my own shot at success, but they would do anything to make sure that wasn’t possible.

I thought I was prepared for the worst, but I wasn’t ready for what happened on the day of my graduation defense.

Scott went up third. The moment his PPT came up on the screen, my stomach dropped.

It was my work. Word for word, slide for slide—he had stolen everything.

I stood up, my anger bubbling over. Pointing at Scott’s paper, I snapped, "Scott plagiarized my thesis! I’m reporting this!"

Everyone in the room who had already gotten expensive gifts from him exchanged looks and the whispers started.

"Plagiarized from you? What proof do you even have?" one of them asked, smirking. "You couldn’t even get a scholarship. What could you possibly have written that’s worth copying?"

"Yeah, right. He’s rich. Why would he steal your work? Get over yourself."

"I think she’s just making it up to mess with him," another said. "People like her don’t deserve a diploma! Sir, you should kick her out!"

Before I could even respond, some of the students grabbed my crutches and tossed them out the door.

I hobbled over, the sound of laughter following me.

"Hey, Savannah, your problem isn’t your leg, it’s your brain!" someone laughed. "You walk like one of those characters with cerebral palsy!"

"She waddles like a duck!" another added. "How’s she even writing papers? She could barely make money selling herself!"

"And don’t forget last time," one of them chimed in. "I saw her when I tore her clothes off. She’s got a decent figure, maybe she can sell herself for something after all."

No one stepped in. The lecturer stood by, probably thinking this was all just some entertainment. He probably had orders from the university director to back Scott no matter what.

He finally spoke up, but his tone was cold. He pulled out a chair and positioned it right in front of me, like he wanted me to trip.

"Enough of this," he said. "You’ve caused trouble before, Savannah and the school has been patient. But accusing someone of plagiarism is serious. Do you have any proof?"

I just stared at him, my fists clenched so tight my nails were digging into my palms.

"No proof?" he said, his voice almost mocking. "Then I suggest you apologize to Scott. If you do, I can put in a good word with the school leaders and make sure you still graduate."

Scott sat at the podium, grinning. He casually threw a pen at my head.

"Get smart, cripple," he taunted.

I wasn’t going to back down. I didn’t care about the humiliation anymore. I made a scene and I made sure everyone in that room would remember it.