I Was Abandoned, I’ll Take Back My Life

Chapter 4

The day I returned to the Lawrence estate, it was drizzling.

The black SUV stopped on the cobblestone driveway. I stepped out, and the rain soaked through my cheap black trench coat immediately.

At the porch stood a middle-aged man in a gray suit—the stereotypical butler—hair perfectly combed. He gave me a measured look.

“Miss Vivian,” he bowed slightly, “Master and Madam are waiting.”

I followed him down a long corridor, flanked by manicured English gardens. In the distance, Victorian-style white buildings emerged through the mist. The rain blurred everything into the look of a faded oil painting.

When we reached the main house, he stopped.

“Miss Vivian,” he said without turning, “a word of warning.”

“Go ahead.”

“Your sister’s room is in the west wing,” he paused, “Master and Madam… care for her deeply. They hope you… won’t disappoint them.”

I glanced down at my ill-fitting shoes.

“Thank you for the warning.”

When I pushed open the main door, I saw them.

My “biological parents.”

Father, Don Felipe Lawrence, sat on the main sofa, amber whiskey in hand. Older than I remembered, graying at the temples, dark circles from years of insomnia.

Mother sat beside him, immaculate, a picture of a wealthy woman, her face betraying nothing at my arrival.

“So this is Vivian” Father said, low and measured. “All grown up.”

“Yes,” I answered.

A few tense seconds of silence.

Mother suddenly stood, walked toward me, and touched my face. Her hand was icy, like a serpent.

“You resemble her,” she whispered. “Just like your sister as a child.”

She withdrew and turned to Father. “When can we do the marrow match”

“In three days,” he replied. “The doctors say Vivian needs to stabilize first.”

“Then make it fast,” Mother said, tone devoid of warmth. “Mia can’t wait.”

Mia.

So my “twin sister” was named Mia.

I was assigned a small guest room in the east wing. Spartan, almost like a storage closet. The only decent furniture a single bed and a chipped five-drawer dresser.

At night, I heard footsteps in the corridor.

Someone lingered at my door, never knocking.

The next morning, I met Mia in the dining room.

She sat in a wheelchair, pushed by a maid. Her face was pale as paper, IV lines in the backs of her hands.

“Vivian” she said weakly, smiling.

“It’s me.”

“You really came back.” Her eyes reddened. “I thought… I thought you were dead.”

She reached for my hand. Cold. Fragile, like a porcelain doll.

I looked at the puncture marks from the IV on her hand.

For a moment, a chord inside me trembled.

Just a moment.

“Sister,” I whispered, “don’t worry. I’ll save you.”