All 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.”

When 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.