SARAI
She coughed again—deep, dry, like it scraped her chest from the inside.
I sat at the edge of the bed, holding the spoon near her mouth. “Just a little, Mom.”
She shook her head. “Tastes like metal.”
“I know,” I whispered. “But you gotta eat something.”
Another cough rattled her ribs, and I saw her wince. Her skin looked like wax under the lamp, too pale for someone who used to smile so loud it filled rooms.
Now she barely opened her eyes.
I’d been watching her fade for months, maybe longer, and no matter how strong I tried to be, I couldn’t stop it. Not with soup. Not with money I didn’t have. Not with stupid hope.
Still, I lifted the spoon again. She sipped. Barely.
I looked around the apartment—walls peeling, sink leaking, air stale and heavy with medicine and sadness. I hated this place. Hated how small it made her. How useless I felt inside it.
“Did you sleep?” I asked her.
She gave me a weak smile. “You ask me that every day.”
“‘Cause I hope one day you’ll say yes.”
She didn’t answer. Her head sank back into the pillow, and her eyes fluttered shut. I thought she was dozing off again, but then she said something—quiet, hoarse.
“Sarai…”
“Yeah?”
“I should’ve told you sooner.”
I blinked. “Told me what?”
A pause. Her breath was short. Strained.
Then: “Your father… his name is Donovan Ward.”
The spoon nearly slipped from my hand.
“What?” I whispered.
She didn’t open her eyes. “You deserve to know.”
I stood up too fast, heart pounding. “Wait—what are you talking about?”
She didn’t answer. Just coughed again, harder this time. Her whole body shook.
I grabbed her hand. “Mom, tell me what you mean.”
Still nothing. Her face twisted like she was in pain, and I fumbled for her medicine, then the oxygen, then anything.
But she didn’t say another word that night.
---
She died three days later.
I didn’t cry when the nurses told me. I didn’t scream or fall or anything dramatic. I just stood there. Staring at the wall. Like maybe if I didn’t blink, I wouldn’t believe it yet.
They said it was peaceful. But I didn’t feel peace.
I felt empty.
Like someone had carved something out of me and left a hole too big to fill.
---
I buried her alone.
There were no family, no neighbors, no church ladies showing up with casseroles. Just me. A stiff black coat I borrowed from someone at work. And a cheap wooden box with her name carved in it.
The sky was gray. The ground was cold. And I didn’t say a word.
Because what was there to say?
She was the only thing I had.
And now she was gone.
---
After the funeral, I came back to the apartment. It felt even smaller now. The silence wasn’t silence—it was absence.
I sat on her bed, still made up the way the nurses left it, and I pressed my fingers to the mattress like she might still be there.
Then I saw it. Folded under the pillow. A yellowing piece of paper with her handwriting on it.
Just one sentence:
> “His name is Donovan Ward.”
I stared at it for a long time.
I knew that name.
Everyone did.
Donovan Ward—CEO of Ward Media Group. Billionaire. Untouchable. Clean-cut and camera-perfect. The kind of man who smiled on magazine covers while probably signing checks that ruined lives.
I Googled him.
Of course I did.
There he was. Flanked by his wife—Lilith Ward—and his stepson. I recognized the face. Cassian Ward. Always on finance blogs. Rumors, gossip, stories. Some called him ruthless. Others called him brilliant.
None of them called him mine.
---
I sat in that room all night, thinking.
Not crying. Not even breathing right.
Just thinking.
Why didn’t she tell me sooner? Why did she let me grow up hungry, watching her work double shifts and cough blood into paper towels—while he was out there, living like a king?
Why did he leave?
And why did he get to keep everything?
---
I didn’t know what I was going to do at first. I didn’t have a plan. Just this rage in my chest I couldn’t swallow.
Then I saw the internship listing. A public ad. For college students looking to “gain experience in a high-level media environment.”
It was stupid. Too perfect. Too convenient. But I didn’t care.
I applied. With a fake last name, fake school email, and the same essay I wrote last semester for my scholarship application.
A week later, I got the offer.
---
I didn’t tell anyone.
Didn’t pack much either.
Just enough to not look suspicious.
Then I got on the train, put my earbuds in, and stared out the window like my whole life wasn’t about to flip upside down.
I wasn't going there to meet my father. I wasn't going to beg or cry or knock on some gold door and say “Hi, I’m the daughter you forgot.”
No.
I was going to get inside.
And tear down everything he built.
---
I didn’t have money. I didn’t have power. But I had the truth.
And I was going to use it.
