My daughter had just given birth when my son-in-law—whom I had once personally sponsored—suddenly demanded 30 million to cover expenses for a maternity center.

I was stunned. Hadn’t I already invested in that very maternity center? I’d paid in full and reserved the entire top floor months in advance to ensure my daughter could recover in peace and comfort.

But instead of gratitude, he snapped at me impatiently.

“You only care about Marla! Vivien gave birth to my child too, and I need to take care of her properly!”

Vivien. Another underprivileged student my family had sponsored.

I stood there, frozen, as he went on:

“Vivien is gentle and kind—not like that sharp-tongued shrew, Marla. I’m standing up for Vivien. Besides the maternity center fee, you also need to transfer another 80 million as compensation and alimony.”

Then he added, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world, “I’ll continue living with Marla, but you can’t stop me from seeing Vivien and the baby. After all, Marla gave birth to a daughter—a financial burden. But Vivien gave me a son. He’ll inherit the company someday.”

That was the moment I understood.

Two ungrateful brats I once saved from poverty were now scheming to take everything from me. They cheated, lied, and now dared to claim my legacy?

Over my dead body.

“Greta,” I said, my voice sharp with fury, “get the private jet ready. We’re going home.”

——

My phone didn’t stop buzzing the entire flight. Every message was from Derrick Alcott.

“Your family’s been a money pit for three generations. Vivien gave birth to a son—she saved your bloodline. She’s your family’s savior!”

“I’m not even asking you and Marla to kneel and thank her. Just transfer the money. Why are you stalling?”

“Better start sucking up now. If I’m in a good mood, maybe my son will take care of you when you’re old!”

My hands trembled with rage.

Derrick and Vivien—both of them were children I had pulled out of the mountains with my own two hands. I gave them everything.

When they struggled after college, I arranged jobs for them in my own company. When Marla Camden fell in love with Derrick, I didn’t ask for a dowry—I gave one instead. I even promised Vivien that when she married, she’d get the same treatment.

I genuinely thought I had done right by them. But now I realized I’d raised two snakes in my garden.

Without a word, I turned off my phone and instructed coldly, “Freeze all of Derrick and Vivien’s credit cards.”

They wanted to leech off me without a shred of gratitude? Fine. Let’s see how they survive without my help.

Moments later, the phone lit up again with a fresh wave of rage from Derrick.

“You crazy old hag! Did you cut off our cards?”

“You’ve got five minutes to turn them back on and transfer another 30 million—or you’ll regret it!”

A chill crawled up my spine.

I wasn’t afraid of him. But my daughter—my Marla—was still in his hands. She had just given birth. She was vulnerable. What if he—

Before I could finish the thought, a new message popped up on my screen:

“Dear Ms. Camden, your one-month reservation for the luxury top floor of the maternity center has been canceled early. Thank you for your trust…”

My heart dropped.

I had invested in that maternity center. I had paid for the entire floor. How could they just cancel?

Panicked, I called the center—only to hear his voice on the other end.

Derrick.

He sounded smug.

“Vivien deserves proper care after giving birth to my son. If you won’t pay, then I’ll kick Marla out and let Vivien move in.”

Then he chuckled.

“But don’t worry—I’m not heartless. I moved your daughter and granddaughter into the basement. At least they won’t be out on the street.”

“And I’m not trying to speak ill of her, but you really need to keep your daughter in check,” Derrick sneered over the phone. “She’s been fooling around with different men at the Postnatal Recovery Suite. What’s the matter—being raised by a single mom made her desperate for male attention? It’s disgusting. Vivien is far more pure!”

Then he hung up—just like that—before I could even respond.

My hands shook so badly I almost dropped the phone.

I had divorced shortly after Marla was born. Yes, we were a single-parent family. But so what?

I raised her myself with love and care. She’d always been gentle, quiet, and sensible—not at all like what he claimed. I knew my daughter. I knew her.

I took a steadying breath and immediately called the Postnatal Recovery Suite to reinstate her stay. Whatever happened, her health mattered most right now.

But the moment the line connected, the receptionist responded with a mocking tone.

“So you’re Marla’s mother? Figures. Like mother, like daughter.”

“What kind of shameless woman books the most luxurious room in the name of the Camden Group for a sponsored student?”

“You people from the mountains always dream of clinging to wealth. But at least teach your daughter to behave.”

“She was in the best suite, bringing in a different man every night. We’re a medical facility, not a brothel!”

“Thank goodness Mr. Harlan did the right thing—he kicked her out and gave that room to the real daughter of the Camden Group.”

“If you really care about your daughter, you’d come collect her yourself instead of making demands. You have no money, yet you act like you own the place.”

I was trembling.

My daughter—my well-mannered, innocent child—was being slandered and insulted like filth. By strangers!

And Vivien—the sponsored student I raised like my own—she was claiming to be the daughter of the Camden Group?

I slammed the phone down and turned to my assistant. “Find out exactly what happened. I want every detail. Now.”

Within half an hour, a video landed in my inbox. What I saw made my blood run cold.

Vivien, heavily pregnant, had complained of feeling unwell. To cheer her up, Derrick threw her a party.

But the party wasn’t a celebration.

It was a bet.

The guests were gambling—gambling on how to make my daughter give birth early.

They surrounded Marla, hurling insults, laughing at her tears as she tried to block out the noise.

In the video, Vivien sat calmly with a glass of juice, sneering, “All talk, no action. If you can’t even handle this, don’t bother showing up to my Camden Group’s events again.”

That was the cue.

One by one, the men turned their eyes on Marla—my daughter.

Grinning, they approached her like predators.

“Don’t blame us,” one said, pressing his foot against her swollen stomach. “You messed with the wrong rich girl. We’re just climbing the ladder.”

They escalated. Pushing. Kicking. Mocking her. Until someone reached for her waistband.

She tried to fight back—but it was a dozen against one.

All the while, Derrick sat on the couch, holding Vivien in his arms as they both laughed.

Laughed.

Tears blurred my vision as I watched my daughter—my brave, quiet child—writhing in pain, giving birth prematurely at the hospital.

Then came another clip.

Vivien slapping Marla’s face—once, twice—then leaning down with a venomous smile.

“Marla, you think being born rich makes you special? You gave birth to a useless girl. I’m carrying a boy. The boy.”

“Derrick never loved you. We’re only after your mother’s company.”

“Why should you have all the good things while I was just a sponsored student? From now on, your good life belongs to me!”

I stared at the screen, frozen, as my daughter lay weak and silent in a hospital bed, biting her lips to keep from crying.

And suddenly, I understood why she hesitated every time we had a video call. Why she always smiled through the screen, even when her eyes looked like they were begging for help.

In the end, all she said to me was a lighthearted joke:

“Mom, focus on work—but don’t forget to take care of yourself.”

I had no idea she was enduring such hell in silence.

That moment, I swore—everyone who laid a hand on my daughter would pay. Dearly.

Just then, my secretary leaned in and whispered, “Ma’am, we’ve landed. The car is waiting.”

We were en route to the Postnatal Recovery Suite when a call came through. It was that same smug manager from before, her tone dripping with disdain.

“Marla’s mother, when are you finally picking her up? Our center caters to elite clients, not mountain folks pretending to be royalty. If it weren’t for the Camden Group’s name, I wouldn’t waste time with your kind.”

She let out a cold laugh before continuing.

“Mr. Eric Harlan and the real daughter of the Camden family said you’d offended them. So we’re not obligated to be nice anymore.”

“Your daughter’s in the basement throwing a fit—first whining there’s no food, then complaining it’s too hot. So dramatic. The water still runs. She can walk out and dig through the cafeteria trash if she’s so hungry.”

I cut her off, voice low and deadly calm.

“I strongly suggest you treat my daughter with basic human decency… or I promise, you’ll regret ever being born.”

My secretary flinched.

She’d been with me for eight years—and she knew. When I spoke like that, it meant someone’s fate was already sealed.

But the manager? She just scoffed and hung up.

Seconds later, our car screeched to a halt in front of the Postnatal Recovery Suite. I didn’t wait. I marched straight to the basement, security team behind me.

Before I even turned the corner, I heard it:

Screams. Curses. My daughter’s muffled sobs.

I ran.

There she was—on her knees, cradling her infant in her arms, drenched in sweat and shaking.

“The basement’s too hot…” she cried, her voice cracking. “Please… just take the baby upstairs. I’ll stay. Do whatever you want to me… Just let her breathe…”

Vivien sneered and shoved her, sending both mother and child sprawling.

“You filthy little bitch,” she snarled. “Just like your whore of a mother. You should both die in this heat.”

She kicked again, and this time added with venom, “I might’ve gone easy on you, but your mother dared to offend us. Now? I’ll make sure you suffer every second.”

My daughter turned to Derrick, desperation in her eyes.

“Derrick… She’s your daughter too. Can’t you see she’s suffocating? Please…”

He hesitated—just for a breath.

Marla’s eyes lit with faint hope.

Then he stepped forward.

And kicked her—hard—in the stomach.

“You think that brat can compare to my son?” he snapped. “Vivien just gave me an heir. You gave me a liability.”

My blood boiled.

No mother could witness this and remain calm.

Fortunately for me, I’ve been training every day overseas for years—and it paid off.

With a snarl, I lunged forward and kicked Derrick square in the jaw. His head snapped back, and two of his teeth flew across the room.

Then I turned and slapped Vivien across the face—once, twice, three times.

Silence fell. Every onlooker froze.

Then Derrick staggered back, clutching his mouth and roaring, “What are you all waiting for?! She just assaulted the president and the Camden Group’s daughter! Beat her to death!”

The crowd jolted—but before anyone could move, my bodyguards stepped forward and blocked the path.

I grabbed Derrick by the collar, dragging his bleeding face up to mine.

“Who are you going to hit? Say it again.”

He looked at me—and finally, recognition flickered in his eyes.

“Derrick. Vivien,” I hissed, “I took you in when you had nothing. Fed you, clothed you, educated you. And this—this is how you repay me?”

I shoved him back.

“You bullied my daughter in the dark. Now I’ve come to bring your sins into the light.”