Revenge of the True Heiress

The thick smoke felt like countless tiny poisoned needles piercing my throat, every breath blazing with pain. My skin was scorched by the searing heat of the fire; the exposed wrist was already covered with a fine rash of red spots. Even the air seemed ablaze, burning painfully as it filled my lungs. I was trapped inside the bedroom on the second floor. The heavy wooden door was mercilessly licked by tongues of flame, while black smoke poured through the cracks, staining the entire room a grim, ash-gray. Outside the window, the scene was even more terrifying—orange-red flames wrapped around the villa's exterior like a monstrous web, holding me captive in this infernal prison. "Help! Dad! Mom! Save me!" I lunged toward the window, hammering the glass with desperate force, my nails scraping a grating sound across the cold surface. My voice was raw and torn; each cry burned my throat like sandpaper, yet below me came not frantic calls back—only merry music and the laughter of a crowd. Today was Reagan Green's birthday. This False Heiress, nurtured by the Green Family for eighteen long years, remained forever the heart of this house. They had long since forsaken me—the true daughter, only acknowledged six months ago—left to perish in the blazing fire on the second floor. My name is Quinn Green. On my eighteenth birthday, the Green Family brought me back from the countryside, and it was then I learned I was their long-lost biological daughter. But this "recognition" brought me no warmth—not a shred—because in their eyes, there was only Reagan Green. The last time I was caught in the rain, my fever soared to forty degrees, and I lay in bed trembling. Mother merely pushed the door open, threw a box of fever medicine onto the bedside table, never once touched my forehead, and hurriedly said, "Reagan's waiting for me to help pick out a new dress. Take your medicine yourself." Dad is even worse—he can't even remember my birthday, yet he starts picking out gifts for Reagan's birthday half a month early. Last year, on Reagan's birthday, he gave her a limited edition sports car, while on my eighteenth birthday, all I got was a bowl of instant noodles from a convenience store. The flames had already reached the door; the wooden door creaked ominously, as if it were about to collapse any second. The scorching heat made my head spin, and double images blurred before my eyes. I leaned against the wall, barely managing to stay standing. "Quinn! Stop shouting! It's Reagan's birthday today—don't ruin everyone's mood!" Mom's voice came from downstairs, utterly devoid of concern and brimming with impatience, as if scolding a noisy cat. "I mean, how can you be so thoughtless?" Dad's voice came next, laced with reproach, "You're grown up, yet you still don't show any understanding, insisting on causing trouble today." I leaned against the windowsill, gazing down. In front of the living room's floor-to-ceiling window, a crowd had gathered. Reagan Green, clad in a pink princess dress, was nestled amidst them, her face adorned with a sweet smile. Simon Hall stood beside her, holding a birthday cake, his gaze so tender it seemed to overflow with emotion. That's my fiance. I stared at the cold, indifferent faces below, and it felt as if an icepick had been driven deep into my heart, chilling it instantly. It turned out that in their hearts, my life was worth less than even one birthday party for Reagan Green. My consciousness blurred, the music and laughter in my ears growing distant, my body growing lighter and lighter. I thought the flames would devour me, erase me completely from this world that never wanted me.