Chapter 6

My phone chimed.

Claire had sent a video link.

I tapped it. It showed Brenda sitting on a folded piece of cardboard outside a subway entrance, selling cheap socks from a plastic tub. Her hair was almost entirely grey, and her face was lined with deep, exhausted wrinkles.

Someone in the video asked her, "Hey lady, didn't your younger daughter get into an elite college? Why are you out here freezing on the street?"

Brenda kept her head down, refusing to speak.

A passerby chimed in, "What good is an elite degree? She's probably living it up somewhere, not caring if her mother starves."

Brenda suddenly looked up, tears streaming down her hollow cheeks.

"My younger daughter ran away... and my older daughter won't look at me... My whole life has been a waste..." Her voice cracked into muffled sobs.

Claire sent a text right after: *Stella, your mother tells everyone she meets that she’s the most miserable woman alive. The relatives on your father's side feel bad for her, and a few are saying you're heartless.*

I watched Brenda's tear-streaked face looping on my screen.

I typed back: *Claire, do you remember my eighteenth birthday? When she taped that chart to the wall and announced to everyone that I was a D-tier investment with zero future?*

Claire didn't respond for a long time.

Finally, a short message popped up: *I remember. I was sitting right there.*

I set my phone down and flattened the creased photocopy on my desk.

I grabbed a red pen and drew a bold line next to *Stella: D-Tier*.

Above it, I wrote: *Rating: Stella, S-Tier. Self-evaluated.*

I folded the paper neatly and slipped it into my desk drawer.

Outside, dusk was settling over the city skyline.

I opened a food delivery app, ordered a full meal from a nice bistro, and added an iced matcha latte.

Life went on, but from now on, I was living entirely for myself.

The phone rang again.

An unknown international number flashed on the screen.

I answered. Luna’s trembling voice came through the receiver.

"Stella..." she whimpered, "I got scammed overseas. I owe so much money to bad people... Can you... please help me just once? Just this one time?"

I listened to her broken, desperate breathing and said nothing.

"Stella? Are you there?"

"I’m here."

"Please, Stella, I know I was awful! I was spoiled, and Mom and Dad favored me, but I was just a kid! I didn't know any better! Wire me some cash, please. When I get back on my feet, I swear I'll pay you back. I'll work for you, I'll do anything—"

"Luna," I cut her off.

"Yeah?"

"When you ran away, you took every last dollar in the house. Did you know Mom and Dad are living in a squalid basement?"

Silence fell over the line.

"You didn't know, did you?" I said calmly. "Because you never bothered to ask."

"Stella, I—"

"Luna, when you were eighteen, you stood in the living room and told me I reeked of cheap grease. You told me not to dirty your new floor. Remember that?"

She didn't speak.

"I remember," I said. "I remember every single word."

I ended the call and blocked the number.

A crisp breeze swept through the balcony, fluttering the sheer curtains.

I texted Claire: *Don't ask me to forgive them. Some wounds never close.*

Claire replied immediately: *Nobody is asking you to forgive them. Just live your best life.*

I set the phone down, opened my laptop, and began working on next week’s editorial strategy.

The cursor blinked steadily against the blank document.

I stared at the screen for a moment, then typed out a working title:

*The Discarded Daughter’s Blueprint for Breaking Free.*

By the time I finished the draft, it was nearly midnight.

I stretched my arms, walked to the panoramic window, and took in the view.

The highway below stretched like a ribbon of light through the dark city.

I pulled out my phone and navigated to the very bottom of my photo album. The picture from my eighteenth birthday.

Luna in pink silk, beaming brightly.

Me on the periphery in my faded hoodie, expressionless.

I hovered over the trash icon and clicked delete.

A pop-up asked: *Delete permanently?*

I tapped *Yes.*

Gone.

I turned off the lights and went to sleep.

The next morning, while picking up an oat latte at the coffee shop downstairs, a woman called out to me.

"Stella?"

I turned around. A woman in a sharp business suit with a sleek bob was looking at me curiously.

"It’s Rachel. I sat right behind you in high school."

"Rachel?" The memory clicked. We hadn't spoken much, but she had always sat behind me, constantly glancing at my practice tests because she couldn't beat my scores.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I work on the ninth floor."

"No way! Me too! I'm in corporate legal on twelve."

We exchanged a few pleasantries before she lowered her voice. "Stella, have you heard anything about your sister lately?"

"No. Why?"

"I saw her two nights ago. Outside that shady upscale lounge on the south side—The Gilded Room. She looked like she was working as a bottle-service hostess. I'm positive it was her. Are you... doing okay?"

I took a slow sip of my coffee.

"I'm great."

Rachel studied my calm demeanor, nodded gently, and patted my arm. "Good. Let's grab lunch sometime."

After she left, I finished my coffee in the lobby.

Only one thought crossed my mind: *Luna is working at a nightclub.*

It had nothing to do with me.

I tossed the paper cup into the recycling bin and headed for the elevator.

Inside, my phone vibrated again.

A text from Brenda’s latest burner. It contained an image.

It was a photo of the framed *Family Resource ROI Evaluation Matrix*. The glass frame was shattered, the paper yellowed and stained, but the blue and red handwriting remained visible.

Underneath, she wrote: *Stella, I was wrong. I took the chart down. Please come visit us. Your father is fading. He desperately wants to see you.*

I zoomed in on the cracked glass. Right near the bottom edge, those words still glared back:

*Stella: D-Tier. Minimum survival support. Prepare for immediate repayment.*

I stared at the words for a few seconds.

Then I typed a single word in reply:

*Repayment.*