She Chose the Counterfeit, My Family Chose Violence

I wanted to laugh, but my lips wouldn't move.

I tried to reply to Lauren, but my fingers were so frozen I couldn't even tap the screen.

My consciousness started to blur.

In a daze, it felt like I'd been thrown back into those years overseas.

That place was chaotic but somehow full of life.

When I was five, I was kidnapped and trafficked. I was passed from hand to hand until I ended up near the border.

It was Titus Anderson who dug me out of a pile of corpses.

He despised how filthy I was, but still gave me half a ration bar.

Titus, also known as Hawk, was a man of few words. He was also one of the best sharpshooters in the world.

He taught me how to assemble a Glock in three seconds.

He used to say that a gun was a man's partner. They were more reliable than people.

My foster mother, Freya Anderson, was an elegant lunatic.

Code-named T.N.T., she taught me how to turn ordinary cleaning products into liquid explosives. She'd always say, "If someone messes with you, blow them up. There's no need for a debate."

Then, there was Lauren.

She was my foster sister who had crawled out of the dead herself.

She always saved the best meat for me, then laughed as she broke the arms and legs of anyone who made me cry.

I gave up those days of living on the edge, yet surrounded by love, with my own hands.

It was all because I longed for my biological family.

I thought if I had that, I could have a normal home.

So, I took off the "Cheetah" mask and played the role of the obedient but timid heir to the Linder family.

Once, when I had a fever, Whitney handed me a cup of water.

I was so touched I almost cried, convinced that was what warmth felt like.

Reality slapped me hard.

Later, I learned that that cup of water was for Cameron Linder. He thought it was too hot, so he tossed it to me.

A sudden wave of pain ripped through my body, yanking me out of my memories.

It wasn't the warmth of rescue, but the sharp pain of metal smashing into bone.

A rescue worker's shovel slammed into my thigh.

I choked back a groan, my mind snapping clear.

They dragged me out of the snow roughly.

There was no stretcher or first aid as I'd imagined.

A rescue worker looked at me with utter disgust. "You're lucky to be alive. You've been buried for that long, yet you're still alive. We wasted half an hour because of you. Ms. Linder's furious."

He didn't even bother to stop the bleeding. He tossed me onto a supply cart like cargo.

I was hauled back to base camp on a bumpy ride.

The medical tent loomed before me. Warm yellow light spilled out of it. There was even the roar of a heater inside.

Two bodyguards hauled me in.

The warmth hit me, but it wasn't mine.

Cameron sat wrapped in thick cashmere. He was perched on the only soft chair.

Doctors and nurses crowded around him. Their faces were tight with concern.

"Mr. Linder, does it hurt? Quick, bring me the best ointment!"

I forced my eyelids open.

Cameron had only scraped a finger. There wasn't even blood.

The single heater was blasting hot air directly onto his hand.

I was soaked through, thigh torn open, curled in the muddy corner of the tent.

No one cared.

Alfred hurried past and saw the state I was in.

He hesitated for a second, then tossed me an old towel speckled with dirt.

"Wipe yourself off. Don't get the carpet dirty. Ms. Linder's calming Mr. Linder down. Don't go looking for trouble. Stay in that corner and don't move."

I clenched my teeth and stared at the towel.

The last bit of light in my eyes went out.

…

They threw me into an abandoned storage room.

The walls leaked cold air from every crack. It was barely better than being outside.

There was no doctor or medicine. I slumped against the wall. My thigh was still bleeding.