The fire roared, spitting heat and smoke into the night. Tilda Jenson lay crumpled on the dusty floor, her body too weak to move. Smoke clawed at her throat, forcing ragged coughs from her lungs. Tears streamed uncontrollably, stinging her eyes. Her hair was a wild, tangled mess; soot streaked her face—but even covered in ash, her beauty couldn't be hidden. She couldn't move. Her limbs felt like lead. Someone had drugged her. When? How? A soft, almost sing-song voice cut through the chaos. "Well, you look awful, Tilda." Kyla Jenson strolled toward her, dressed in a spotless white dress and a gas mask. Her voice was light, girlish—too innocent to belong to someone capable of cruelty. At least, that's what Tilda used to think."It was you?" Tilda rasped, eyes wide in disbelief. "You drugged me?" Kyla tilted her head, smiling faintly behind the mask. She was her sister by name only. "This is just a little test," Kyla said sweetly. "When Mom, Dad, and all our brothers come running in and see this scene… tell me, who do you think they'll believe? You? Or me?" She slipped off her mask and pressed it gently onto Tilda's face, then rubbed ash across her own cheeks. Pulling on a pair of gloves, she took out a box cutter, flicked the blade open, and dragged it across her own forearm. Blood gushed down her wrist. She dropped the cutter beside Tilda, peeled off the gloves, and slid them onto Tilda's limp hands. Then she clutched her bleeding arm, twisted her face into an expression of terror, and screamed at the top of her lungs— "Help! Daddy! Mommy! Someone help me! Tilda's gone crazy!" The warehouse doors burst open. "Kyla!"Tilda could only watch as her parents and all seven brothers rushed past her—straight to Kyla. "Dad, Mom, it hurts! It really hurts! Tilda went crazy! She tried to burn me alive—said I don't deserve to be a Jenson! She even cut me!" Their eyes swept over Kyla's bleeding arm, her tear-streaked face, the trembling little victim act she played so perfectly. Then they turned to Tilda—slumped on the floor, the gas mask still on her face, gloves on her hands, the bloody cutter right beside her. Russell Jenson's face twisted with fury. He lunged forward and kicked her in the stomach. "How the hell did I end up with a daughter like you? You disgust me!" Pain exploded through her body as the kick knocked the breath out of her. But worse than the pain in her gut was the pain in her heart. This was the same stomach that had once taken a bullet for him. She remembered—years ago, Russell had taken both girls to a business event when a man burst in waving a gun. Without thinking, Tilda had stepped in front of him. The bullet tore through her stomach. Russell didn't even look back. He grabbed Kyla and ran. It was the police—not her father—who carried her to safety. She'd spent weeks in the ICU, fighting to stay alive. Days later, the Jensons finally remembered her. They showed up at the hospital for less than an hour before leaving again—because Kyla "wasn't feeling well." Russell had looked guilty that day. But all he'd said was, "Kyla's your little sister. She's adopted, you know. She's scared she'll lose her place now that we've found you. You should be more understanding." And just like that, he was gone again—rushing home to Kyla. From the outside looking in, anyone would've thought Kyla was the real daughter. And Tilda? Just a replacement. A placeholder. Still, she'd believed him.She'd actually—pathetically—believed him. Because he was her father. Because she'd waited her whole life to find her family. Because blood was supposed to mean something. She told herself the Jensons would never truly abandon their real daughter. So she kept giving in. Again and again. Whatever Kyla wanted, she handed over. Every gift, every opportunity—Kyla picked first, and Tilda took the scraps. She convinced herself that if she kept sacrificing, kept proving her love, one day they'd finally see her. Finally love her back. Looking back now—what a joke. What a pathetic, cruel joke. Through the haze, Tilda watched as Kyla was carried out of the burning warehouse, surrounded by frantic shouts and concern. They didn't even glance her way.They left her there—like trash. The flames closed in, searing her skin, devouring every breath, every thought. She could smell herself burning. Tilda shut her eyes. A single tear slipped down her cheek. This life… I've done enough for them. I've paid the Jensons back in full—with my life, with my obsession, with every stupid ounce of hope. All of it—paid in full. If there's a next life… let's just be strangers. That night, the news broke across Slosa: An abandoned warehouse on the outskirts had gone up in flames. One body was found—badly burned. But before it could reach the hospital for autopsy, it mysteriously vanished. The next day, the Jenson Group released an official statement: "We have severed all ties with the individual we once believed to be our biological daughter. From this day forward, Kyla Jenson is the only daughter we recognize.Whatever Tilda Jenson may have done—or whatever has become of her—is no longer our concern." And just like that, the girl who once set gossip blogs on fire as the Jensons' long-lost daughter vanished from the headlines—replaced by newer, shinier scandals. Forgotten.