Chapter 4

Finally, Robert opened his eyes.

The moment he regained a bit of strength, he glared at me. "Did you do this, you little bitch? I was doing fine! I was about to pass them! I just paused to rest, and you had them drag me out! You just couldn't stand to see your father win, could you?"

His trembling hand flew up and slapped me hard across the face. I let the impact spin me around, purposely letting my cheap, thin coat slip off my shoulder.

Revealing the horrific, dense cluster of cigarette burns scarred across my right shoulder.

The crowd gasped in horror. The collective shock finally brought Robert back to reality.

Seeing the disgust and condemnation in the eyes of the onlookers, Robert panicked. "No, it’s not what you think!"

But he had cursed at me first, slapped me in public, and the scars on my thin body spoke louder than any of his lies.

"That poor girl... look at her shoulder..."

"I heard he..."

As the whispers spread, Robert’s face turned black with rage, but he didn’t dare touch or curse at me again under the watchful eyes of the crowd.

Perhaps because of the public shame, Robert stopped picking on me as much. He spent most of his time locked in his bedroom, barely coming out.

Of course, the more likely reason was that the winter swim had severely damaged his heart. He was physically broken.

Time flew. I graduated from college and landed a great job at a multinational firm.

Meanwhile, Dylan’s addiction to gaming had ruined his grades. He couldn't even get into a decent state college and had to settle for a bottom-tier community college.

Even so, Robert didn't say a single harsh word to his golden boy. Instead, he demanded I hand over a portion of my salary to pay for Dylan's lifestyle.

I didn't argue. In fact, I became the perfect, generous daughter. Not only did I pay for Dylan’s expenses, but I also gave my parents monthly allowances.

"I have a good job now," I told them with a sweet smile. "Of course I should take care of my family."

Robert grinned from ear to ear, praising me for finally being a "good, obedient daughter."

One day, a representative from the local town council visited. They were filming a promotional documentary about "blue-collar heroes" and invited Robert to be featured. He would be filmed doing gig-work delivery in the summer heat.

He agreed instantly.

"It's too hot outside, Rob," my mom whispered, looking at the extreme heatwave alert flashing on her phone.

But I stepped in before she could convince him. "Mom, don't worry. Dad has a partner to split the shifts with. Besides, it's for a documentary. They'll probably have air-conditioned trailers for him. They won't actually leave him in the sun the whole day."

Hearing the word "air-conditioner," Robert couldn't wait to start.

On the day of the shoot, the heat waves were visible in the air. Even the cicadas were silent. My mom handed him two bottles of water.

"Drink when you're thirsty."

He worked all morning. When he came home for lunch, his skin was burnt red-black, dripping with sweat. He barely touched his food, claiming he had no appetite, and rushed back out.

My mom complained that my cooking tasted bad. I ignored her.

At 2:00 PM, the phone rang. Robert had collapsed.

When we reached the site, the ambulance was already there. Robert was being loaded onto a stretcher. I overheard a paramedic mutter, "His blood vessels practically cooked."

At the hospital, the doctor gave us the diagnosis: severe heatstroke. "We heard he chugged a massive bottle of ice water while dehydrated. He's lucky to be alive. Any later, and he'd be in a coffin."

Yet, Robert’s mouth remained stubborn. "I was just tired from the deliveries. I took a nap, and these idiots dragged me to the ER. People are going to laugh at me."

His body, however, was honest. He remained bedridden.

Because of his age and myocarditis, his recovery was painfully slow. He had to stay hospitalized.

He lost his part-time kitchen job at the local diner. With no one to talk to in the hospital, his days became incredibly boring.

So, predictably, he fell back into his old habits. Someone introduced him to a private, underground poker room.

At first, the stakes were small—just a few hundred dollars. But gambling is an addiction. It kept pulling him back.

Slowly, he started "winning."

Robert was no longer satisfied with small games. Thousands of dollars on the table made his blood pump.

He bragged to the family whenever he won. When he lost, he dismissed it as "pocket change" that he would win back tomorrow.

But I knew the truth.

This was a "pig-slaughtering" trap designed specifically for him. He would sink deeper and deeper, piling up debts until the collectors came to the door, just like in my past life.

Sure enough, it didn't take long before he was $80,000 in debt. Too terrified to tell my mom, he secretly begged me for more money.

I immediately transferred $8,000 to him. "Dad, my company is sending me to an overseas training program for two months. When I get back, I might get promoted to Vice President."

Hearing this, his eyes lit up. He looked ready to pack my bags and throw me onto the plane himself.

Once I left, two weeks passed.

I heard his debt had crossed the $200,000 mark. I didn't know if he thought I would pay it off, or if he just didn't care anymore.

I focused on my training, completely ignoring the family.

Until one day, my phone started ringing off the hook. Call after call, message after message.

I smiled. The loan sharks had finally come to collect.