Revenge of the Fake Heiress

My name is Wendy Scott, and I have lived with the Scott family for twenty-two years. These twenty-two years have been like a long, suffocating dream. No one knows that I am not truly the Scott family's daughter. This secret is like an invisible thorn, lodged deep within the recesses of my heart. The Scott parents favor sons over daughters, yet they have no son at all. Thus, this baseless cruelty falls upon me without mercy. When I was a child and broke a porcelain bowl, Mrs. Scott would seize my hair and press my face against the cold floor. "Worthless! Can't even hold a bowl properly—I shouldn't have adopted you!" Her curses were sharp and grating, like nails scraping across glass. I curled up on the floor, smelling the heavy scent of her perfume mingled with the dust beneath me—sickening and oppressive. The verbal abuse would stretch on for an entire afternoon, only ceasing when she grew exhausted from cursing, at which point she would kick me aside. If my exam scores fell short of her expectations, even by a single point, Mr. Scott's belt would mercilessly lash across my back. The biting, searing pain of the belt buckle cutting into my skin left trail after trail of bruises. I dared not cry out loud; I bit my lips hard, letting silent tears soak into my clothes. The good food and new clothes at home were never meant for me. Mrs. Scott would carefully arrange imported fruits on a plate and place it before Mr. Scott, while I could only gnaw on hardened steamed buns. During the New Year, she would buy beautiful new dresses for distant relatives' children, yet could not bear to give me even a patched old garment. I was like a superfluous shadow, curled up in the corners of the Scott family. Watching the fleeting warmth they occasionally showed, I never once found any of it meant for me. I often sat beneath the Old Locust Tree in the yard, staring absentmindedly at the birds flying overhead. Over and over in my heart, I wondered: why am I here? Where are my biological parents? It was only when I met Tim Jones that a faint light entered my life. He was the son of a distant relative of the Scott family; his parents had died early, and he was fostered elsewhere, visiting the Scott family on rare occasions. The first time I saw him, I was crouched in the corner of the stairwell, quietly weeping, with fresh wounds on my back from Mr. Scott's beating, burning with a fierce pain. He wore a clean white shirt, held a plastic bag, and gently approached me. "Are you all right?" His voice was soft and gentle, like a spring breeze. I lifted my head, tears blurring my sight as I looked at him, unable to speak. He took a strawberry-flavored candy from a plastic bag, peeled off the wrapper, and brought it to my lips: "Don't cry. Have a candy; it will make you feel better." It was the first time I tasted the sweetness of strawberry, a sweetness that flowed from my tongue deep into my heart. From then on, he always found some excuse to come see me. Sometimes he said he was passing by; other times, that he was sent by elders to deliver something. Every time he came, he would secretly bring me some snacks—a cookie, a piece of fruit, or a small bag of milk candies. After I was beaten and scolded by Mr. Scott and Mrs. Scott, he would silently hand me ointment, then sit beside me, listening as I poured out all my grievances. "Wendy Scott, you are truly wonderful." He would look earnestly into my eyes and say, "You deserve to be loved; they simply are being stupid." These words were like a warm current, nourishing my parched heart. In those dark days within the Scott family, Tim Jones was my sole solace. We grew up together, from innocent children into awkward youths. Unconsciously, our feelings changed, evolving from friendship into love. At eighteen, beneath the Old Locust Tree, he confessed his feelings to me. "Wendy Scott, I have liked you for a long time." His cheeks tinged with a faint blush, yet his eyes bore unwavering determination: "From now on, let me protect you, for a lifetime." I accepted without a moment's hesitation. In that moment, all my suffering seemed to have gained meaning. At twenty-two, we were married. The wedding was simple, devoid of grand ceremonies or a crowd of guests. Mr. Scott and Mrs. Scott never showed a kind face; Mrs. Scott even complained on my wedding day, saying that my wedding had cost the Scott family quite a lot. But I didn't care— as long as I could be with Tim Jones, I felt I had the whole world. We rented a small, modest room which, though simple, was filled with warmth. Tim Jones treated me well; he took the initiative to do housework, offered me a warm glass of water when I returned from work, and when I was occasionally saddened by thoughts of the Scott family, he held me tightly.