If Being Loved Requires Passing a Test

Three years ago, I unexpectedly awakened the true-and-fake heiress system.

The system told me that the driver's daughter, my best friend, was the real heiress.

By then, the driver and his wife were already dead in an accident.

Guilt-ridden, I ran a quiet test of my own, and then I offered to give her place back to her.

After that day, everything changed.

My parents, who had once doted on me endlessly, took to hitting and cursing me over nothing.

My sunny room was handed over to my best friend as a storeroom, and I was moved into a cramped, airless attic.

The boy who had loved me like his own life announced, on my birthday, that he was switching his bride-to-be.

I, who had once been the center of every party, was left kneeling to scrub floors, watching everyone crowd around her with envy in my chest.

My childhood sweetheart was right. All of it had belonged to her from the start. I was the one who stole her life.

I had no right to resent anything.

Until the night he drank himself senseless and let a few slurred words slip out:

"Margie, don't blame me for being cruel. Blame yourself for clinging so hard you made me feel like I couldn't breathe."

"Even your parents agreed to the hypnosis, so you'd believe there really was some system. We swapped out the hair samples we sent for testing..."

I froze, my whole body shaking, so close to dropping him on the floor.

The tears came all at once.

So all of it had only been a scam, set up because I wasn't good enough for them.

I wiped my eyes and messaged my mentor to confirm the study-abroad exchange spot.

A little sapling they'd been pruning with lies. I didn't want to be that anymore.

When I came out of the hotel, the Simmons car had already driven off.

The manager pulled out a twenty. "Here. That's your pay for today's shift."

I didn't take it.

"They said it was five hundred a day."

The manager sneered.

"The Simmons family already collected the rest. This is the cab fare they were generous enough to leave you."

"All right, all right, take the money and get lost."

"You've eaten and drunk off them free for years, and you still haggle this long over a few hundred bucks. Guess trash blood really does run dirty."

Before, whenever someone attacked my background, I would just lower my head and take it.

Now that I knew the truth, it struck me as funny, funny enough to laugh through tears.

So what was blood, what was family, if two careless lines could rewrite it all.

Holding that crumpled bill, all I could do was take the bus.

The Simmons mansion was out in the East End suburbs. A cab started at fifty, at least.

Passing a narrow alley, I was yanked inside.

A rank, foul hand clamped hard over my mouth.

"Saw you come out of that hotel. Bet you've got some cash on you. Be smart and hand it all over."

I fought with everything I had, and then a sharp knife pressed into my side, so I gave up and pulled out the only thing I had, that twenty.

The man saw it and laughed in disbelief.

"You messing with me? You walk out of a five-star hotel and try to fob me off with twenty bucks?"

"Where's your phone? Get it out. Have your family wire over a few hundred grand. Now."

I licked my cracked, chapped lips.

I said quietly, "They won't help me."

"You dial when I tell you to dial. Where's all this backtalk coming from? A few hundred grand is pocket change to a family like yours. Quit the act!"

"There's no such thing as parents who don't love their kids. Even for some useless rich brat, if this much money makes the problem go away, they'd hand it over without blinking."

I pulled out my phone in silence, and still, some small part of me held on to hope.

The day Marcia Sullivan was brought back into the Simmons house, my mother had said I was still her daughter.

If I ever got into trouble, I had to tell her.

The call went through. It rang and rang, then cut off on its own.

The thug's face darkened.

"Your dad, then. Call your dad."

I didn't say anything else. I did as he told me.

A few days ago, to get me to hand over my childhood sweetheart's heirloom bracelet, my father had personally cooked a whole table of the dishes I loved.

I hadn't eaten that well, that full, in a very long time.

On the other end, again, no one picked up.

Not long after, a message came through.

"Your mom and I are helping Marcie shoot her videos. Stop calling and ruining the takes. You've already wasted two of them."

"Just get yourself home. We left you cab fare. You're a grown woman, or are you telling me you'll get lost?"

Once, when Marcia went out for a morning run and still wasn't back by noon, my parents had been beside themselves. They rallied the whole household, combed the entire hillside, even pulled strings with their police contacts to check the security footage and find her.

They still doted on their Marcie. Just not on me, their Margie.

The thug clicked his tongue. "So you're the unwanted one, after all."

"Forget it. You've still got a bit of a face on you. No money, so you can pay with your body instead."

A crack of thunder split the night, and on reflex he shut his eyes. I bit down against the searing pain of the knife tip in my belly and hit back.

Two bucks for the bus. With the eighteen left, I bought myself a little medicine.

By the time I dragged myself home, my face had gone bone-white.

The heat was cranked all the way up, and warmth folded over me the moment I stepped inside.

I shivered anyway.

By the sofa, Mom was helping Marcia Sullivan arrange flowers. She frowned over at me.

"Why are you soaked through?"

My heart was pounding. I gathered every scrap of strength I had and forced out a smile.

"I'll wipe up the water on the floor in a bit, so Marcie doesn't slip on it."

"What are you smiling like that for? You think your mother can't tell the difference between that and a real smile? Enough. Stop putting on an act. It's an eyesore."

My mouth opened, but not a single word made it out of my throat.

Marcia tugged at her sleeve and said softly,

"Mom, where should this flower go?"

Mom turned back at once, her whole face melting into fondness. "Come here, let me show you, Marcie."

I clutched the clear plastic bag tighter.

Everything inside it was in plain view.

But the mother who used to dig out ointment the instant I got scalded by a little porridge didn't so much as glance at it.

I hauled my exhausted body up the stairs, breath coming in ragged gasps.

Out of the corner of my eye I still caught the happy little scene, the "mother and daughter" leaning close together, and my hand went to my chest before I could stop it.

The tears I'd cried dry on the way home welled up again, and a few more squeezed loose.

Mom, Margery really hurts.

The light in the little attic was broken. I'd asked the butler to fix it a few times, and every time he'd put me off.

After a while I understood this was part of the punishment too, so I stopped bringing it up.

By the moonlight I peeled the fabric away from where it had stuck to the wound, and I dropped to the floor, teeth bared against the pain.

From outside came Dad's low growl.

"It's this late and you're still banging around on the floor. What if you wake Marcie?"

"You're a grown woman and you still can't learn to behave!"

I sucked in a breath. I didn't have the strength left to answer.

Footsteps came pattering up the stairs, and then a knock at the door.

"Margery, say something!"

"Your manners get worse and worse. Now you won't even answer when an elder speaks to you."

I looked down at the wound across my stomach. I truly didn't have the strength to struggle to my feet and open the door.

"If you don't come out, I'm coming in."

Coming in would be fine, too.

I couldn't help imagining it, the look on Dad's face when he saw a cut this long.

The handle clicked as it turned.

Just as Dad was about to push the door open, Marcia's voice called up from downstairs.

"Dad, come down and see the flowers Mom and I did together!"

"I want to give them to Lance. Do you think he'll like them?"

The door creaked open a crack, and the voices outside came through clearer.

Dad's footsteps retreated, along with his fond, doting laugh.

"When has our Marcie ever given that boy anything he didn't like?"

I stared up at the ceiling and thought quietly:

Lance is allergic to pollen. He won't like them.

That was why, all these years, he never once gave me fresh flowers.

It was always garish fake ones.

Until the last time, when he threw the fake flowers at me and laughed, mocking.

"A fake heiress with fake flowers. Perfect match. No wonder you never let me give you real ones all these years. Turns out you knew exactly what you were."

Once the pain went numb, I could finally brace myself against the wall, sit up, and treat the wound.

My hand brushed my phone by accident and opened the notification I'd set to alert me.

It was a short video from Mom's public account.

It already had a few thousand likes.

Comments jumped onto the screen one after another.

"Getting shaken awake by a message from my boss telling me to go like this. She's been back three years and they still spoil her this much. I'm genuinely jealous."

"You mean the CEO couple who are always in the papers getting interviewed personally recorded a hand-dance for us? Marcie, you're the only connection I've got to the power-couple world. I'm your ride-or-die fan."

"That other one never had a single photo posted with them. Guess the real daughter really does get treated differently."

I wanted to reply and say it wasn't like that.

That in the past Mom and Dad hadn't wanted me shown in public because they loved me, because they were thinking of my safety.

But then I remembered that all along, from the very start, they knew I was the real daughter. And suddenly those words of protest wouldn't come.

While I was outside with strangers threatening my life and my honor, Mom and Dad were in a warm house recording a hand-dance with Marcia.

While I dragged my nearly broken body home through the rain, Mom was upset that Marcia's video numbers were low and rallying the whole company to go like it.

I could no longer tell whether I had ever really been loved. But in that moment, the grief was real.

When I woke the next morning, I was still on the floor.

I hadn't had the strength to climb into bed the night before, so I'd fallen asleep on the boards.

A high fever came in the night, and I drifted through fevered dreams of the way things used to be.

Back then I was still the rightful daughter of the Simmons family. My parents were busy with the business, but they never missed a single moment of my life.

The first time I emceed a school event in grade school, my mother switched an overseas meeting to a video call and rushed to the school to watch.

At ten, I parroted a commercial off the TV and kept announcing that my goal was the stars and the sea.

My father laughed and ruffled my hair, then bought and named a few small asteroids, saying I could go explore them myself one day.

At fifteen I often went to my parents' company to hang around, and every time the staff would bow and welcome the young miss.

I'd hide behind my mother, embarrassed, and she would give this knowing little smile.

"So Margie's little fantasy finally came true? What else do you want to act out? Mom will have them all play along."

It hit me then that this was a line I'd once tossed off while watching one of those over-the-top rich-family dramas: this looks so fun, I want a turn too.

Then, the year I turned eighteen, I had the accident. I woke up in the hospital and, out of nowhere, awakened a system.

Everything changed.

I dragged my heavy body to the servants' shared bathroom to wash up and change.

The breakfast cook, the one who handled the American breakfasts, had just come out of the shower. She frowned.

"Margie, why are you so pale? Are you feeling sick somewhere?"

"How about I say something to Mr. and Mrs. Simmons, so you can rest today and go see a doctor?"

Ever since Marcia had cried a few times about going hungry as a child, the only way I could earn my three meals in this house was through work.

A day of rest meant a day without food.

Even when I went out to work over the summer break to earn tuition, I still had to do chores when I came home.

And at the company, they only ever paid me exactly enough to cover the tuition, never a cent more.

So I had no money to see a doctor.

The arm she was holding had started to burn. "No, child, you really have to go to the hospital. If this fever keeps up, you'll cook your own brain."

"Where's the wound? Let me have a look."

I lifted the hem of my short sleeve, and her eyes went wide, her voice failing her.

"It's already red and swollen and starting to fester! How can you stand it? Come on, we're going to find Mrs. Simmons."

She grabbed me and started for the living room.

I tried to pull away, but the fever had drained me, and I couldn't get free.

All I could do was murmur,

"Ma'am, they won't do anything for me. Could you lend me a little money instead"

The servants in this mansion made tens of thousands a month.

I never saw a dime.

My parents said it all went toward paying off my debt to Marcia.

Her face was complicated as she tried to reassure me.

"Mr. and Mrs. Simmons may not be your birth parents, but they did raise you all these years. There's some feeling there. They won't just leave you."

"Don't worry, Margie. And if they really won't help, then I'll take you to the hospital myself."

"Never mind lending. You were always so good to everyone here. This new young miss now ah, never mind, I shouldn't say it"

Marcia had the mindset of someone poor who'd suddenly come into money. She was hard on all the household staff, picking at everything.

Quite a few who'd worked here for years couldn't take it and quit on their own.

But with my parents backing her, swapping out a few servants meant nothing.

When the cook brought me into the living room, we walked right into Marcia fussing over a vase of flowers, playing up to Lance.

"Lance, come look at the flowers I arranged just for you."

Lance, who used to frown and sneeze at the sight of fresh flowers, took the vase with a smile and set it on the table.

"Careful. It's such a big arrangement. Just let me come to you. What if you dropped it and got hurt?"

Hearing that gentle, doting voice of his, something in my chest cracked hollow.

The words were out before they'd passed through my head.

"Aren't you allergic to fresh flowers?"

Lance answered without missing a beat.

"I knew Marcia would give me flowers, so of course I took allergy medicine ahead of time."

Marcia's face flushed at that, while mine went even paler.

My mother frowned, displeased by my appearance.

"Lance is Marcia's fianc now. What are you doing out here? Margery, you'd better stop clinging to unrealistic fantasies about winning him back. Lance was only ever good to you because you were a Simmons child. Strip that away, and you're nothing."

I bowed my head. I knew this was just the daily lecture, and it didn't need an answer.

The hand on my arm tightened, and the butler cook spoke up.

"It isn't like that, ma'am. I saw how little Margery was"

I cut in at once, over her voice.

"Ma'am, I'm sick. I'd like a little money to go to the doctor."

My father, who had been reading his paper without a word, took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Margery, when did you learn to lie for money?"

"There's every kind of medicine in the cabinet here. If you're ill, go find some and take it yourself. Why must you be so precious about it?"

"When Marcia used to get sick, all she could do was curl up under the covers and wait to get better on her own. You have it easy compared to that."

My lower belly ached, and there was a dull, tight pain in my chest.

Wave after wave of dizziness pressed up into my head.

Even so, I remembered clearly: Marcia and her parents lived in the small house out back, the one for the staff.

The slightest discomfort, and she would message me at once, all sweet and coaxing, and have me send the family doctor over.

Back then I cared for her no differently than a little princess of the Simmons house. Back then, we were the closest of friends, without a single wall between us.

Lance tapped a knuckle against the table and said in a flat voice,

"Mr. Simmons, you've got it wrong. No one, however broke, would fake being sick to cheat a few hundred dollars."

I lifted my eyes and looked at him.

But he went on.

"More likely she sees how good we all are to Marcia, and she's faking illness to fish for pity. Just ignore her."

"Let's go. We still have to get Marcia to the concert hall. Tonight's her first time on stage."

Mom and Dad turned to Marcia, their faces softening.

"You're right. We shouldn't let an outsider spoil the mood. Our Marcia is performing today. We should be happy."

They rose and made ready to leave.

Marcia suddenly caught hold of Mom's sleeve.

"But we're all family. It's so lonely leaving little Margery here by herself. Let's bring her along to the concert hall."

Mom gave her an indulgent smile.

"Marcia, you're so kind. Well, if that's your wish, then let's"

"I'm not going!"

I refused, flat and final, before she could finish.

Every face in front of me darkened, and Marcia looked crushed.

The scolding came pouring in, one over the other.

"Marcia was generous enough to beg Mr. and Mrs. Simmons to take you along, and here you are, too ungrateful to know good from bad."

"Look at what all those years of manners taught you. This is what you've turned into, no breeding at all!"

"If only you had half of Marcia's sense!"

Three years ago there was an accident on stage. A stage light came down and broke both my legs, and I could never dance again.

After several surgeries, I still limped if I walked too fast.

And the concert hall left a deep scar in my mind. Just the thought of it sent an uncontrollable trembling through my whole body.

They knew all of this.

Every time I saw the therapist, they came with me.

Only the fear was never cured, and under the hypnosis I believed, with all my heart, that I'd awakened a system.

After a while, Mom sighed.

"Never mind. We won't force you. Dragging that long face along would only be bad luck anyway."

"Pour some water. We'll watch you take your pills, then we're off."

Every day, Mom oversaw my medicine herself.

So no matter how they treated me afterward, I could always convince myself,

Mom still loved me.

I closed my hand around the pills the therapist had prescribed and swallowed them without hesitation, head tipped back.

Only then did they leave, satisfied.

The cook said, worried,

"The master and the mistress have you all wrong. If you don't explain it clearly, there'll always be a thorn in your heart over it."

I said softly,

"It's all right."

"Auntie, I don't have any strength left. Could you help me pack my things?"

She froze. "You're leaving?"

Then she smiled, at peace with it. "Good. That's good. You shouldn't be trapped here."

I looked out the window at the blue sky.

Yes. I would never be trapped again in a love with no hope.