“Don’t even think about asking me for money. Leave now and stop wasting my time.”

My words hung in the air like a slap, and my father’s face twisted in anguish. For a moment, he stood frozen, the hurt and anger warring within him. Then, with a surge of strength, he lashed out, his palm striking my cheek with a sharp crack that echoed across the crowd.

“How dare you!” he yelled, his voice raw and trembling. “Have you forgotten that the capital for your business came from me and your mother? She scrimped and saved her entire life and never once asked you for anything. And now that you’ve made money, you want to cut ties with us?”

His words hit harder than the slap, and the onlookers erupted into murmurs of approval, some even stepping closer as if to shield him, anticipating my retaliation.

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. The sting was grounding, helping me shove down the boiling rage.

“Her car accident was her fate,” I said coldly, my voice unwavering. “It’s not like I caused it, so why should I pay? No matter what you say today, I won’t give a single cent.”

The crowd gasped audibly, and my father’s face contorted in a mix of disbelief and despair. Before he could utter another word, his phone rang. He answered it shakily, holding it to his ear.

“I’m sorry,” a doctor’s voice said clearly, audible even to those nearby. “The patient has been delayed too long and can’t be saved anymore.”

My father stumbled backward as if struck, his body collapsing under the weight of the words. His breaths came in ragged gasps, and then a violent cough shook him, red flecks appearing on his lips.

“How could this happen?” he rasped, his voice cracking as he choked on his tears. “It’s all my fault. I’m useless!”

The crowd turned on me, their anger boiling over. Phones were raised, their lenses capturing every moment.

“Someone like her doesn’t deserve to be a boss! A heartless company like this should go bankrupt!”

“That’s right! If she treats her parents like this, how can she run a business properly?”

I didn’t flinch. Instead, I smirked, the cold expression only fueling their outrage. Without a word, I turned and walked back into my office, leaving the chaos behind.

...

Minutes later, Ginny, my assistant, barged in, her face pale with worry, clutching her phone tightly.

“Ma'am the situation’s escalated,” she said, her voice trembling. “People are live-streaming outside the company!”

I raised an eyebrow, glancing at the screen she held out to me. The viewership had already skyrocketed past a million, and the comment section was flooded with vitriol.

[This is why I’m terrified of raising kids. You never know if they’ll turn out like her.]

[Look at her dad. He's so modestly dressed. Such an honest man! This is heartbreaking.]

On the live stream, John sat on the pavement, tears streaming down his face as he cried into the camera.

“My unfilial daughter started her business with money borrowed by her mother,” he sobbed. “We worked tirelessly on construction sites year-round for her, only to end up like this.”

His words stirred something deep within me. I hated that they were true.

Back when other girls in our village had no choice but to marry for dowries, my mother had sold everything she could to let me retake my exams. When I fell ill, she climbed the mountains to gather medicinal herbs, risking her life every time.

Everyone in the village had praised my parents for cherishing me like the apple of their eye. I was the envy of every child.

“Boss, what should we do?” Ginny asked nervously, her voice pulling me from the past. “Should we bring them inside to handle this? Leaving them at the company entrance like this isn’t sustainable.”

Snapping back to the present, I shook my head coldly. “Don’t worry about anything else. Just call the police and report them for causing a disturbance.”

The police arrived within minutes, shutting down the livestream and dispersing the crowd. My father’s cries were drowned out by the authorities' commands, and soon, the commotion was silenced.

...

Later that evening, my phone buzzed with a message. It was from my father.

[Kelsey, I won’t ask for anything else. I have no savings left. Could you at least pay for your mother’s funeral? It doesn't have to be an expensive coffin. I'll be satisfied as long as she has a place to rest in peace.]

I laughed bitterly, the sound harsh and humorless. Without hesitation, I typed my reply.

“Pay for a coffin? Impossible. If you can't afford one, cremate her. Why make things so complicated?”

Within moments, another message came through, his desperation seeping through the words.

“Kelsey! How can you say that? She’s your mother! Do you even have a conscience left?”

My father, furious beyond reason, called me again.

His name flashed on my phone screen, but I didn’t answer. I hung up, letting the call go dead without hesitation.

After work, I drove home, the tension from the day heavy on my shoulders. As I approached my door and reached for my keys, a hand suddenly clamped over my mouth. A surge of panic gripped me as I was dragged into a dark corner.

“You’re that ungrateful daughter who let her mother die, right?” a voice hissed in my ear. “We’re here to avenge your parents!”

I struggled hard, jerking my body against their hold until I managed to break free. My heart pounded as I stepped back and pointed to the surveillance camera mounted in the corner above us.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded, forcing steel into my voice. “That camera captures everything with a 360-degree view. If you touch me, not one of you will get away with it.”

The group hesitated, exchanging glances. Then, one of them sneered, his face twisted with disdain.

“We’re acting on behalf of justice! Do you know how many people online want to expose you? Even if you call the police, no one will side with you.”

As they continued their tirade, I shifted my stance, glancing behind them out of the corner of my eye. My mind raced, piecing together a plan.

When they moved closer, I lunged, grabbing the leader by the arm and slamming him hard against the wall. He cried out in pain, and I used the momentary chaos to turn and sprint toward the back of the hallway.

Luckily, I spotted an open elevator just in time. I darted inside, slamming the button for the doors to close. Once they slid shut, I quickly dialed the police. My voice was sharp, but my hands shook as I described what had happened.

The elevator let me out on the upper floor, where I found a hidden spot to wait for. Minutes passed like hours as the group's angry shouts echoed through the halls.

“You shameless woman! How dare you hit our leader?”

Just as they spotted me and moved in to attack, I heard the unmistakable sound of heavy boots pounding up the stairs. The police arrived, their presence an immediate wall of authority that separated me from the mob.

The officers restrained the group, but one of them wasn’t ready to give up so easily. He pulled out a camera and thrust it toward the nearest officer.

“Look at this!” he yelled. “We’ve been live-streaming everything. This woman is the ungrateful daughter who deliberately let her mother die. We’re just doing what everyone wants us to do!”

I tilted my head just enough to peek at the live stream on his screen.

Over 100,000 viewers were watching, and the title blared:

[Taking Down the Ungrateful Daughter—Justice Served with Gifts.]

I couldn’t help but let out a sharp, bitter laugh. Justice? These people weren’t heroes. They were opportunists, hungry for attention under the guise of righteousness.

The officers weren’t swayed. “No matter the reason, trespassing on someone else’s property is against the law,” one said firmly. The live stream was promptly shut down, and the group was escorted out.

Before the feed disappeared, I caught a final glimpse of the comment section:

[This woman just has a punchable face. I’d love to slap her a couple of times.]

[What she did to her mother is unforgivable. She deserves whatever she gets.]

I clenched my fists tightly, feeling a surge of emotions threatening to break through. But I swallowed them down and turned toward my apartment, forcing myself to stay calm.

...

Later that evening, the property management team called to apologize.

“Ma'am, we’re sorry about the incident,” the manager said, his tone filled with contrition. “There was a shift change, and we failed to monitor the situation properly. Please rest assured, this won’t happen again.”

I lived in a luxury apartment complex, one known for its top-notch security and exclusivity. Their excuse of a “momentary lapse” was laughable.

I stared at the phone briefly, then replied coolly, “Don’t get caught up in what’s happening online. Just focus on doing your jobs.”

“Of course, Ma'am,” the manager stammered.

“Today, I was lucky nothing happened to me,” I continued, my tone turning icy. “If something had, you’d all be held accountable, too.”

They hurriedly agreed, their apologies growing more fervent.

Satisfied, I hung up.

However, the incident had only added fuel to the fire online. The frenzy grew louder, with new theories and speculations popping up about my relationship with my parents. Some wondered if there was deep-seated hatred between us. Most mocked me, branding me as cold and incapable of love.

I saw it all. Every comment, every post. And I felt nothing.

I stayed home for the next two days, avoiding the outside world. As the public outrage escalated, many of my employees chose to resign. I didn’t stop them, approving each resignation without hesitation.

On the evening of the second day, my phone buzzed with a new message from my father.

He had sent a photo of a mourning hall, simple and somber.

“Your mother’s seventh day is coming up,” the message read. “I borrowed money to buy her a coffin. Can you come to the funeral?”

I stared at the screen for a long time, and the words blurred in my vision.

“Don’t worry,” my father said over the phone, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. “As long as you come to send your mother off on her final journey, I promise I’ll never bother you again.”

The words barely registered before I replied, my tone sharp and dismissive. “When she’s buried has nothing to do with me. I’m not going.”

There was a long pause on the other end before my father sent several voice messages. His words tumbled over one another, jumbled and incoherent, his anger spilling out in fragments. I didn’t bother to listen to them all.

A while later, the doctor called me.

"Your father has suddenly collapsed, possibly from a heart attack," the doctor said, her voice calm yet urgent. "Can you come to the hospital as soon as possible?"

“I’m busy and can’t make it,” I replied flatly, then hung up.

The phone rang again. And again. But I ignored every call, placing the device on silent.

Instead, I ordered takeout, turned on a show, and spent a relaxed afternoon at home, shutting out the world's noise.

...

By that evening, my father had regained consciousness. He messaged me, saying he’d contacted a mediation program and wanted me to participate in two days.

“Kelsey,” the message read. “I’m old now. I hope you can be more obedient and stop worrying me.”

This time, I replied. “Alright, see you then.”

For the past two days, he had been posting photos of himself in the hospital on social media.

Each picture captured him looking frail and pitiable, his captions dripping with self-pity:

[When you get old, you really start to feel lonely.]

The posts garnered attention from relatives who eagerly chimed in, tagging me in their comments.

[Your father has always been so good to you. Now that he’s in the hospital, where are you?]

The messages piled up, relentless in their attempts to guilt me.

Finally, I blocked them all.

...

When mediation day finally came, I took my time getting ready. My custom-tailored suit fit like a glove, my makeup was on point, and I had my trusty Chanel bag in hand.

As I stepped out the door, I exuded the confidence and poise of a woman in complete command of herself.

I knew the scale of attention this program commanded. Headlines about my refusal to pay for my mother’s surgery had dominated the trending charts for nearly a week. Today, I would face the spectacle head-on, determined to maintain control over my narrative.

When I arrived, I spotted my father immediately. He sat leaning on the sofa in a hospital gown, his face pale and haggard.

His hair, noticeably whiter in just a few days, added to the image of frailty he wanted to project.

I sneered inwardly. The sympathy card—of course.

The host, picking up on my expression, couldn’t hold back and jumped straight in. “Miss Mitchell, seeing your father in such a state, do you feel even the slightest bit of pity?”

At the question, my father clasped his hands together nervously. His eyes flickered up to meet mine, filled with a desperate mix of hope and fear. I met his gaze coldly.

“No,” I said.

The single word landed like a bomb in the room. Gasps rippled through the audience, followed by a surge of whispers.

“I thought she was just acting, but she really has no heart!”

“Exactly! Look at her father—how can she stay so unmoved?”

The host’s expression twisted into barely veiled disdain as they pressed further.

“Miss Mitchell, I must ask, how can you be so cold?” They leaned forward, their tone sharpening. “We’ve done some background research, and your neighbors and acquaintances all said that your parents cherished you like a treasure—even spoiled you! Don’t you think your actions are unbelievably heartless?”

The audience murmured in agreement, their judgmental eyes pinned on me. But I didn’t flinch. Instead, I let out a faint laugh, my composure unshaken.

“That’s because they don’t deserve to be my parents,” I said coolly.

The room erupted. Gasps, exclamations, and murmurs filled the air. My father began coughing violently, his face contorting in shock and pain.

“How can you say something like that?” he choked out between coughs. “Kelsey, are you trying to kill me?”

Tears welled in his eyes as he looked at me, his voice trembling with emotion. “I came here today only to try and mend our relationship. Why must you speak so harshly?”