The Billionaire's Lie

Chapter 2

Hours later, I was sitting at the dining table with Victoria, laughing about something silly from school. We were halfway through our lunch when Mary’s phone rang. She picked it up, her smile fading within seconds.

I watched her face turn pale, her hand trembling. “Alice…” she said quietly, “There’s been an accident… It’s your father.”

The world fell silent.

My fork dropped, clattering loudly against the plate. The room spun. My heartbeat thundered in my ears.My chest tightened as panic surged through me. It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.

“No, no… what do you mean an accident?” I asked, my voice shaky.

Mary didn’t answer. She just grabbed her keys and urged us toward the door.

We rushed to the hospital. The next few hours passed in a blur—just flashing ambulance lights, the blur of passing streets, hospital corridors, and the sterile smell of antiseptic that clung to my clothes.

Time stopped.

A doctor in scrubs stepped into the hallway where we sat. He looked tired, as if the weight of what he was about to say pained him.“He survived,” he began, “but barely. There was significant trauma to the brain. We’ve done everything we can, but… he’s in a persistent vegetative state. Minimal brain activity. It’s unlikely he’ll wake up.”

The words shattered me. I stood frozen, unable to move, speak, or even breathe.

“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no—he can’t be. I told him not to go. I knew something was wrong…”

Tears spilled down my cheeks as my legs gave out beneath me. Mary and Victoria rushed over, pulling me into a hug. Their arms felt warm, comforting, like family—just like they always had. They cried too, their tears soaking into my shoulder.“It’s not your fault,” Mary whispered. “You couldn’t have known, sweetheart.”

But something inside me broke that day.

I sat beside my father’s bed that night, holding his hand. His face looked peaceful, almost like he was asleep. But the machines, the tubes, the stillness—it all said otherwise. He wasn’t there. Not really. His skin was cold. His fingers limp in mine.

I stared at him, hoping—praying—that he would open his eyes, smile at me, call me “princess” like he always did. But he didn’t move. Not even a twitch.

I didn’t know it then, but that moment marked the end of my childhood.

Little did I know... the worst was still yet to come.

My stepmother, who had always been kind and loving to me, became a monster overnight. It was as if I no longer knew who she was. After hearing about my father's condition, she began to change—slowly at first, in small ways.

I remember one night asking her to help me braid my hair. She used to love doing it, always saying how long and beautiful it was. But that night, she snapped at me.

“Ask your mother to do it,” she said coldly.

The words hit me like a slap. She knew what had happened to my mother. Still, I told myself it was just her way of grieving.

But the first time she actually raised her hand against me was two weeks after the accident.

It was a chilly Sunday morning. My stepmother, Victoria, and I were sitting in the lounge, quietly enjoying the weather. All of a sudden—as if possessed by something dark—she shouted, “Alice! How dare you sit here instead of cleaning the house?!”

I thought she was joking and laughed nervously. But without warning, she stood up and slapped me so hard it echoed through the entire house.

I was frozen in shock. I couldn’t believe what had just happened.

She raised her hand again, ready to strike me a second time. I stood up quickly and began cleaning. It didn’t matter to her that this was my first time ever doing chores.

That was the beginning of my new life.

From that day forward, I became a maid in my own home. I scrubbed floors, washed clothes, polished silver. No one called me “princess” anymore. No one even called me Alice most days. I was “you” or “girl” or worse.

Back in the present, my stepmother was still yelling at me. I had been cleaning the lounge when I suddenly drifted off to sleep. I hadn’t slept well the night before and hadn’t eaten since waking up at 4 a.m.

My stepmother had made it clear: no food until all my chores were done.

That day, I was hungrier and more exhausted than usual. I didn’t even realize when I dozed off—until I was jolted awake by a splash of icy water.

After shouting at me, she delivered her final punishment: I wouldn’t be allowed to eat for the rest of the day.

That was when something inside me snapped.