Chapter 3

She lowered her voice, but because I was deaf, I had become hyper-sensitive to lip-reading. I clearly read her next words: "...Now that this child is back, the house will never have peace. You know she was... well, she was a mistake from the start. Seeing her around just makes my skin crawl..."

A mistake? That word was like a key, violently thrusting into the rusted lock of my memories, scraping loudly.

My head began to throb with blinding pain. Fragmented, chaotic scenes flashed before my eyes: dim lights, Helen arguing with a tall man who wasn't David, Helen pointing hysterically at a younger version of me, her lips moving rapidly... I desperately tried to make out her lips—

"She's a mistake! We can't keep her!"

My heart skipped a beat!

I grabbed the stair railing to keep myself from collapsing.

Just then, Chloe appeared behind me out of nowhere. Holding a glass of water, she wore an innocent smile. Moving her lips slowly so only I could read them, she said, "Did you hear that? You're a mistake. You shouldn't have come back."

She "accidentally" tripped. The glass of water splashed all over me. She gasped dramatically, "Oh! Maya, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to!"

Hearing the commotion, Helen and Sarah looked over. Helen immediately glared at me and barked:

"What is wrong with you? Watch where you're walking! You frightened Chloe!"

The ice-cold water soaking through my clothes was nothing compared to the absolute chill freezing my heart.

Looking at Helen's frantic protection of Chloe, and comparing it to what she had just told Sarah, a terrifying theory began to take shape.

I didn't get lost.

My kidnapping was not an accident.

Helen's cold eyes, Chloe's taunts, Helen's word "mistake"...

All these puzzle pieces spun wildly in my mind.

The floodgates of my memory cracked open.

That rainy night, the traffickers didn't snatch me by force.

It was Helen... She was holding my hand, and she handed me over to a strange man.

She even shoved something into that man's hands...

Then, she let go of my hand, turned away, and walked off without once looking back.

I remembered.

That memory burned into my soul like a red-hot iron.

It turned out that the cupcake wasn't even a "buyout fee."

It was just a pathetic, self-inflicted insult I had chased after, following a carefully orchestrated abandonment.

The real "buyout fee" had already been paid by her own hands on that rainy night five years ago.

And I, like a fool, had tried to buy back my stolen family with a soggy cupcake.

The truth spread through my veins like venom.

I didn't cry. I didn't scream.

I simply turned around and went back to my cold guest room.

Outside, the night was pitch-black.

But I knew everything had changed.

I needed evidence.

I needed to find the whole truth.

Then, in my own way, I would demand justice for myself—for the girl who had struggled in the dark for five long years.

Cakes rot. Maternal love can be bought and sold.

But a person's will to survive and the strength to rebuild themselves cannot be priced, let alone bought out.

After that night, I became a silent ghost in the house.

I ate on time, followed the doctor's orders, and even cooperated with the therapy sessions David arranged.

But I barely spoke. I communicated mostly through gestures, written notes, or complete silence.

My silence put Helen and Chloe at ease.

They probably thought I had accepted my fate, or that I was completely broken.

I started observing the house closely, especially Helen and Chloe.

Chloe could barely hide her smugness. She relished having all the attention to herself.

Sometimes, she would deliberately show off the new dresses Helen bought her, or mimic Helen calling her "baby" right in front of me.

Helen did show her the kind of warmth and patience I had never received. That natural motherly love stabbed my heart like tiny, endless needles, reminding me that I was just an unwanted "mistake."

But I didn't care about that anymore.

I needed evidence.

I quietly kept tabs on Helen's phone and schedule.

She had an old, locked jewelry box stored on the very top shelf of her closet.

When I was little and mischievous, I had seen her open it. It didn't seem to hold jewelry, but rather random, old documents.

My chance came on a Wednesday afternoon.

Helen and Chloe went to a flower-arranging class. David was at the office, and the housekeeper had the day off. The house was empty.

Taking a deep breath, I slipped into Helen's closet.

Stepping onto a stool, I reached the jewelry box.

The lock was an old-fashioned, simple one.

Using a thin bobby pin—a shameful skill I had picked up during my dark years in captivity—I carefully picked at the lock.

Click. It opened.

My hands trembled as I lifted the lid.