The Billionaire's Ghost Daughter

I stood at the threshold of my biological parents' sprawling estate, my fingers whiteknuckling the handle of my busted suitcase.

I might as well have been an Amazon delivery driver for all the attention they gave me.

Right in front of me, my parents and my biological brother were huddled around the fake heiress who had stolen my life for the past eighteen years, cooing over her like she was made of spun glass.

Harper hid her face behind a crumpled tissue, faking loud, hitching sobs. But right over Declan's shoulder, she locked eyes with me and flashed a vicious, mocking smirk.

Declan shot me a venomous glare. He pointed a rigid finger at me, silently warning me not to step closer and upset his precious little sister.

I stared at this pictureperfect family of four clinging to each other in their private little bubble. A dry laugh scraped the back of my throat.

If I hadn't made a promise, there was no way in hell I would ever willingly step foot into this dumpster fire.

Chapter 1 My biological parents and older brother were currently busy coddling the imposter who had hijacked my life for the past eighteen years.

Meanwhile, I, the actual bloodrelated daughter, stood lingering in the doorway like an Amazon delivery driver.

I rapped my knuckles against the heavy mahogany doorframe. "So," I said, pitching my voice to cut through the crying. "Can I come in, or should I wait out here until the group hug wraps up?" My biological mother flinched, finally remembering I existed.

A flash of guilt tightened her features. "MMia, come in. Don't just stand there." Mia. She couldn't even get my name right. My name was Maren.

She was probably so used to babying Harper for the past eighteen years that my actual name didn't even register in her brain. "It's Maren," I corrected her, my tone dead flat.

I dragged my busted suitcase across the imported marble floor. Harper lifted her head, her face blotchy and wet with perfectly timed tears.

She really did look like a fragile, tragic victim. "I'm so sorry, sister. This is all my fault.

I stole your place…" "Don't sweat it." I shoved my suitcase into a corner. "You already hijacked it for eighteen years.

Another five minutes won't kill me." The grand foyer plunged into dead silence. Harper's fake sobs hitched in her throat. She clearly hadn't expected me to swing back so directly.

Declan's jaw clenched tight. "Maren, watch your mouth. Is that how you speak to your sister?" I shifted my gaze to my socalled older brother.

Twentyfive years old, CEO of a massive corporate empire, and ruthlessly cutthroat in the boardroom—or so the rumors said.

Right now, he was acting like a rabid mother hen protecting her favorite chick. "I'm just stating facts." I dropped onto the plush living room sofa.

The Italian leather yielded under my weight—it was softer than the mattress I slept on back at my adoptive parents' place. "She took my spot for eighteen years. That's the reality.

What did you want me to say? 'No worries, sis, keep my trust fund'?" "You little—" Declan took a step forward, his fists balled, but our biological father stepped between us.

My father cleared his throat, smoothing down his tailored tie. "Maren just got here. We all need time to adjust. "Harper, sweetie, go upstairs and rest.

Remember to take your meds tonight." Harper chewed on her bottom lip, shooting me a watery, pathetic glance before scurrying up the sweeping staircase.

Her posture screamed fragile and weak. But the second she turned her back to the men, the mask slipped. I saw the corner of her mouth twitch up into a nasty, triumphant smirk.

Solid acting chops. Too bad I wasn't buying tickets to her show. A private chef had prepared a massive spread for dinner.

But to accommodate Harper's supposedly fragile heart, the entire dining table was covered in glutenfree vegan salads and unseasoned, boiled chicken breast.

I stabbed a piece of plain lettuce with my silver fork.

It tasted like I was chewing on damp cardboard. "Maren, sweetheart…" My mother paused, her eyes darting nervously around the table. "Did you… did you have a good life over there?" Over there meant the hellhole I grew up in.

I dropped my fork onto the porcelain plate with a sharp clink. "Didn't your private investigators already hand you a full report?" The second the DNA results came back a match, they absolutely ran a background check on me.

Otherwise, their black SUVs wouldn't have shown up at my door so fast. "We just wanted to hear it from you," my father said, refusing to meet my eyes.

I let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "My adoptive dad was a junkie constantly dodging loan sharks.

My adoptive mom only cared about blowing money on cheap makeup to hit the dive bars.

I started scrubbing dishes at a diner when I was ten. "By the time I was fifteen, I was working three backtoback minimumwage jobs just to pay off their maxedout credit cards." I leaned back in my chair, locking eyes with them. "But you guys already knew that, right?" Tears pooled in my mother's eyes.

Her perfectly manicured hands trembled against the tablecloth. "I am so sorry, Maren. This is all my fault…" "We're eating," Declan snapped, cutting her off.

He tossed his linen napkin onto the table. "Can we not talk about this?

It ruins the appetite." I tilted my head, staring dead at him. "Does my past embarrass you, big brother?" "That's not what I meant." "Then what exactly did you mean?" "Ah!" Harper suddenly shrieked, clutching her chest and slumping forward. "My… my heart.

It hurts." The entire family instantly launched out of their seats and swarmed her. "Get her pills!" my mother cried out. "Should I call the hospital?" my father demanded. "I'm paging the private doctor right now!" Declan yelled, already pulling out his phone.

I watched with dead eyes as they hovered around her like she was a queen holding court. Harper collapsed back against the leather chair, panting weakly.

But from an angle where only I could see, she shot me a smug, calculating brow raise. It was a silent, arrogant declaration: Look closely. This is my territory. I didn't even blink.

I just picked up my fork and kept eating. Chapter 2 Her acting had definitely downgraded from her earlier performance.

Someone having a genuine heart attack wouldn't have the lung capacity to scream like that, let alone time it perfectly to interrupt my argument with Declan. Impeccable timing.

The private doctor arrived in record time. After a quick checkup, he announced it was just an emotional spike and she just needed some rest.

My mother practically carried Harper upstairs, with my father and Declan trailing right behind them like a royal escort. The massive dining room emptied out, leaving just me.

A maid stepped forward to clear the table. I waved her off. "I'm still eating." I was actually full.

But I was going to sit right here and finish my very first meal in my biological parents' house. Even if I was the only one left at the table. My phone buzzed against the table.

A text from my adoptive mother lit up the screen. [ Brat, where's the cash? Why haven't you wired this month's living expenses yet? ] My thumb hit 'Block' without a second thought.

Starting today, I wasn't giving a single red cent to anyone. My assigned bedroom was shoved at the very end of the thirdfloor hallway—a repurposed storage closet.

I shoved the door open and stopped dead in my tracks. Barely two hundred square feet. A squeaky twin bed, a flimsy wardrobe, and a cheap desk. That was it.

Peeling paint flaked off the walls, and the single window overlooked the estate's garbage dumpsters, wafting a faint, rotten stench into the room.

On my way up, I had walked past Harper's open bedroom door.

I caught a glimpse of a custom canopy bed, a walltowall walkin closet, and a private balcony overflowing with fresh blooms. The contrast was blinding.

Beatrice, one of the housemaids, lingered in the doorway. "Miss, the Madam said you'll have to make do with this room for now.

They'll move you to a better one in a few days." I pulled my lips into a tight, hollow smile. "No need. It's perfectly fine.

It's quiet." Beatrice shifted her weight, opened her mouth, but ultimately shut it and walked away. I clicked the door shut and popped open my suitcase.

It hardly held any clothes, mostly just heavy textbooks and beatup notebooks. Sitting right on top was my fullride scholarship acceptance letter to an Ivy League university.

I had practically bled for this piece of paper. My adoptive parents never paid a single cent toward my tuition. I dragged myself across the finish line purely on my own grit.

Waking up at four in the morning to scrub grease traps at a fastfood joint, then grinding through practice exams in a leaky garage until midnight.

That was how I clawed my way into a toptier school.

Meanwhile, from what I heard, Harper had burned through millions of dollars on elite prep programs and private tutors, and still only managed to scrape her way into a thirdrate state college because this family donated a whole damn library.

The irony burned. Around ten o'clock, I headed downstairs for a glass of water.

Muffled voices drifted from the cracked door of my father's study. "Maren just has this heavy, guttertrash vibe about her.

I'm terrified she's going to scare Harper." That was my mother. "Harper's heart is too fragile. She can't handle that kind of crude hostility.

Why don't we just rent an apartment for Maren near her campus?" my father suggested. "Works for me," Declan chimed in without missing a beat. "Harper's been seeing her therapist a lot lately, her emotions are all over the place.

Maren's aggressive personality is a serious liability." I stood perfectly still in the shadowed hallway, listening to my own flesh and blood plot to kick me out of the house.

Their excuse? My very existence was too much of a threat to the fake heiress's delicate heart. What an absolute joke.

I shoved the heavy mahogany door wide open. "Don't bother scheming. I'll pack my things and leave." Three heads snapped toward me, guilt instantly plastering their faces.

My mother jumped up, stammering. "Maren, you misunderstood.

That's not what we meant at all!" I raised a hand, slicing through her excuse. "I didn't misunderstand a thing. "You're scared I'll trigger Harper's condition, so you want me dumped in a campus apartment.

Makes total sense. I agree." My father's brow furrowed deep. "Maren, are you acting out because you're angry?" I met his gaze deadon, my voice flat and icy. "Not at all.

I just think it's a brilliant plan. "I'm clearly the outsider here.

I wouldn't dream of intruding on your perfect little family of four." Chapter 3 "What do you mean, outsider!" My mother panicked. "You are my biological daughter!" "Oh." I nodded slowly. "Then how come you didn't just say, 'Let's stick Harper in a dorm so she doesn't trigger Maren'?" My mother's mouth snapped shut.

Declan scrubbed a hand over his face, his patience snapping. "Maren, can you grow up? Harper is sick.

Can't you just cut her some slack?" I stared dead at him. "Declan, my junkie adoptive father once dragged me by the hair to hand me over to a street gang, all to cover a few hundred bucks for a drug debt.

I was burning up with a fever that night, could barely even stand.

You want to guess who stepped up to cut me some slack and coddle my fragile body?" Declan's jaw snapped shut, the retort dying in his throat.

I didn't let up. "Nobody cut me a break. So I learned a very simple rule—nobody in this world owes anyone a damn thing. Harper's bad heart is her problem.

What does that have to do with me?" "How can you be so coldblooded?" Declan slammed his palm onto the desk. "Coldblooded?" I let out a sharp laugh. "Your precious little sister hijacked my life for eighteen years, and I'm coldblooded for stating facts. "What about you three?

Scheming to kick out your real daughter the second she walks through the door—what does that make you?" The study plunged into a dead, suffocating silence.

I turned on my heel. "Don't sweat it. I'm moving out tomorrow. Wouldn't want to ruin the view." The next morning, I was already shoving my things into my bag.

Harper leaned against my doorframe in a set of pink silk pajamas, her face a picture of pure, wideeyed innocence. "Sister, are you leaving?" "None of your business." I didn't stop packing. "Sister," she stepped into the room, her voice dropping to a soft, pitying whisper. "You don't have to pretend to be so tough.

It must hurt so much, getting tossed out like garbage by your own flesh and blood." My hands paused. I turned to look at her.

She kept going. "When mom, dad, and Declan were plotting to kick you out last night… that must have crushed you. It's okay.

You can cry if you want." "You were eavesdropping at the door?" Her smile turned sugarsweet. "I was just walking by.

Maren, do you want to know why they don't love you?" I tilted my head. "Why?" "Because I've spent the last eighteen years in this house!

I grew up riding in elite equestrian clubs, my ballet trophies fill an entire glass display cabinet, and my sweet sixteen was held at a Beverly Hills estate.

But you…" She reached out, jabbing a Frenchmanicured finger hard into my shoulder. "You're just a piece of trash that crawled out of the slums.

You have nothing." "And?" She leaned in close, dropping her voice to a venomous hiss. "There is no place for you in this family.

Even if you have their blood, you're just extra baggage." A laugh bubbled up in my chest.

She dropped the mask way faster than I expected. "Harper," I matched her low volume. "Do you even know what DNA is?" She blinked, caught off guard. "DNA is ironclad proof running through my veins.

I don't care how many years you've played pretend in this house, and I don't care how many limitededition Hermes bags you carry—you're a fake down to your marrow.

As for me," I slapped her hand away with a sharp smack and took a step forward, backing her up. "I don't have to lift a finger.

Every single brick in this estate legally belongs to me." Her smile slipped, leaving a stark, rigid mask. "Oh, and one more thing." I grabbed the handle of my suitcase. "Who told you I was moving out?

I'm just heading to campus to grab some stuff. This is my house.

Why the hell would I leave?" I dragged my suitcase down the sweeping staircase, running straight into Declan by the front door. His eyes snagged on the luggage.

His brow furrowed. "Where are you going?" "Campus," I clipped. "I'll drive you." "No need." "I said, I'm driving you," he demanded, his tone leaving zero room for argument.

I shrugged. Whatever. Chapter 4 The interior of the car was stiflingly quiet. I couldn't be bothered to open my mouth, either.

As the car approached the campus gates, he suddenly spoke up. "Don't take last night to heart." "Oh." "Mom and Dad don't hate you.

It's just that Harper's health is genuinely fragile, and she needs the extra care." "Oh." Declan rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Can you stop just saying 'oh'?" I turned my head and stared dead at him. "What exactly do you want me to say? 'No problem, big bro, I totally understand'?

Or maybe, 'I'll take great care of sweet little sister Harper'?" "Can you just act normal for once?" "Define normal.

Faking a heart attack and bursting into tears on command like Harper?

Is that the gold standard?" "Harper is not faking it!" I rolled my eyes so hard I practically saw my own brain. "Are you actually this dense, or just playing dumb?

You really think someone having a cardiac event has the presence of mind to time it perfectly for maximum drama, all while looking like a tragic, weeping angel?" His knuckles went white against the leather steering wheel. "You don't know Harper at all." "You're right.

I don't." I shoved the car door open. "But I know what a real heart condition looks like.

My adoptive aunt had one. "When she had an episode, her lips turned blue and she couldn't gasp out a single syllable.

She definitely wasn't putting on a Broadway crying performance." I slammed the heavy car door shut. Declan sat frozen in the driver's seat for a long time, the engine idling.

The real reason I came to campus was to finalize my enrollment paperwork. My Ivy League acceptance letter was my ultimate badge of honor.

After submitting my documents, I swung by the bank. My offshore accounts were sitting on hundreds of thousands of dollars, royalties I'd earned entirely on my own.

That's right—I was actually the mysterious, anonymous author "Thirteenth Month" topping the Amazon bestseller charts.

My highIQ revenge thrillers had already been snapped up for film and TV adaptations.

Just as I was about to leave, an exclusive Amex Black Card concierge suddenly intercepted me. "Miss Maren, you have a new card.

It's a supplementary account opened for you by Declan." I took the Centurion Black Card, the ultimate symbol of wealth and privilege. The limit… no limit.

Must be nice to throw that kind of money around. But I had zero intention of swiping it. I arrived back at the estate right at lunchtime.

In the massive dining room, Harper was glued to my mother's side, whispering intimately. Spotting me, she flashed a sugarysweet smile. "Sister's home!

Come eat." I took my seat and immediately noticed my spot was shoved to the very far corner of the table, miles away from their little trio. And my tableware didn't match.

They were eating off fine bone china; I had a cheap, heavy ceramic plate. The devil really is in the details. "Maren," my mother suddenly spoke up. "Next week is Harper's birthday.

We're throwing a huge gala, and we'd like you to attend." "My birthday is next week, too," I pointed out. The air in the room instantly froze. Right.

Harper and I shared the exact same birthday—that was the whole reason the hospital mixed us up in the first place.

My mother shifted awkwardly in her chair. "Then… we can host it together." "Oh, please don't," Harper gasped, covering her mouth to feign consideration. "Sister just got back from the middle of nowhere.

She's never even worn haute couture. The elite socialites and VIPs at the gala would terrify her. Let's not force her to humiliate herself in public.

We can just buy her a cheap little cake to celebrate as a family." Let me translate that: A highprofile gala is strictly Harper territory.

Maren, you're a peasant who isn't worthy of stepping on the red carpet. My father nodded in agreement. "Harper makes a good point. Maren just got back.

It's not appropriate for her to be thrust into the spotlight." Declan chimed right in. "Maren probably hates those kinds of highsociety events anyway." Chapter 5 I dropped my fork. "You guys are unbelievable." "What?" my mother asked, her brow furrowing. "Harper and I share the exact same birthday.

You're throwing her a massive gala, inviting the city's entire elite circle, and announcing to the world that she's the heiress. And me?

I get a pathetic little family dinner." I pushed my chair back and stood up. "You're basically broadcasting to everyone that Harper is your only recognized daughter.

Even with my DNA, I'm too trashy to be seen in public." "You're overthinking this.

That's not our intention at all," my father tried to explain. "It's exactly your intention." I cut him off. "But don't sweat it.

I wouldn't be caught dead at your little party anyway." I turned on my heel and headed for the stairs.

Behind me, Harper's theatrical sobbing instantly fired up. "It's all my fault… Cancel my party. Let's throw it for Maren instead…" Cue the immediate chorus of coddling.

Same old script.

Later that night, a soft knock hit my door. "Maren, can I come in?" I kept my eyes glued to my textbook. "Come in." My mother walked in holding a steaming mug of chamomile tea. "I just had this brewed.

Try some." I didn't reach for it. "Not thirsty." She set the mug on the desk and sank onto the edge of my squeaky bed. "Maren, I know you harbor a lot of resentment." "I don't." "Let me finish." She let out a heavy sigh. "Harper's poor health is real.

She was born with a congenital heart defect. The doctors said she might not make it to twenty." I finally looked up. "So all these years, we've spoiled her.

We just want her to be happy in the limited time she has left." My mother's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Maren, can you understand that?" I held her gaze, my expression blank. "And?" "And… could you just cut her some slack?" A dry laugh scraped my throat. "Mom, let me ask you something." "What is it?" "If I was the one born with a failing heart, would you tell Harper to cut me some slack?" She froze. "You wouldn't," I answered for her. "Because in your heart, Harper is the daughter you raised for eighteen years.

I'm just a stranger who happens to share your DNA." "That's not true!" I snapped my book shut. "Mom, get out. I'm exhausted." She opened her mouth to argue, but nothing came out.

She picked up the untouched mug and slipped out the door. Deep in the night, the muffled sound of a grand piano drifted from the room next door. It was Harper practicing.

She was playing "Für Elise." And she was butchering the chords.

The next morning at the breakfast table, Harper rubbed her eyes, playing up her exhaustion. "I practiced so late last night.

I barely slept." My mother cooed over her. "Don't push yourself so hard. Your health comes first." Declan slid a plate of eggs Benedict toward her. "Eat more.

You need your strength." I sipped my black coffee in silence. "Sister," Harper suddenly locked eyes with me. "You know how to play the piano too, right?" She definitely knew I heard her mess up last night.

Was this a deliberate trap? "A little," I replied, my tone flat. "Oh, that's perfect!" she clapped her hands together like an excited toddler. "Could you teach me?

I keep messing up a few sections." My mother jumped right in. "Maren, if you have some free time, you should help her out." I set my mug down with a sharp clink. "I'm busy." The dining room filled with dead air.

A harsh crease appeared between Declan's brows. "Would it kill you to just show her?" "It would waste my time." I pushed my chair back and stood up. "Her basic fingering technique is a total disaster.

I have zero interest in starting from scratch." Chapter 6 "How would you know my basics are wrong?" Harper demanded, crossing her arms.

I gave her a flat look. "Measure three of Für Elise, your fingering was totally off. Measure seven, your tempo dragged. Measure eleven, you lost control of your dynamics.

Do you need me to keep going?" Harper's fingers dug into the silk table runner, her knuckles turning white.

I had only heard it once last night, but I'd memorized every single mistake. That was my gift. Three days before the birthday, the estate went into overdrive.

Floral arrangements, event staging, haute couture fittings—all exclusively for Harper. I was treated like a ghost. Nobody bothered to ask if I needed anything. Honestly?

I preferred the peace and quiet. That afternoon, I was reading in my room when Harper pushed the door open without knocking.

She held out a velvet box. "Sister~ I got you a birthday present." I didn't reach for it. "Don't need it." "Don't be like that, sister," she pouted, sinking onto the edge of my squeaky bed. "I genuinely want us to get along." "Do you?" "Of course." She popped the box open, revealing a necklace. "This is my absolute favorite piece.

I want you to have it." I glanced at it. An outdated, discounted Tiffany necklace from last season covered in cheap diamond chips, probably worth less than five grand.

To this family, it was basically street garbage.

But the fact that she called it her "absolute favorite" was rich. "I'll pass." I turned the page of my book. "Sister," she suddenly grabbed my wrist. "I know you hate me.

You hate me for taking your spot. But it wasn't my fault! I'm a victim too. I just wanted my real parents…" Right on cue, the crocodile tears started falling.

I yanked my hand back. "Who is this performance for?" She sobbed harder, her shoulders shaking. "I'm not acting! Do you know how much it hurts?

Every time Mom and Dad call my name, I wish so badly that I was really their daughter. But I'm not. I never will be!" The door suddenly swung open.

My mother stood in the doorway. "Harper, why are you crying?" Perfect timing. Harper launched herself into my mother's arms. "Mom, sister refused my gift.

Is it because I'm just trash? Because I don't deserve to give her anything?" My mother shot me a vicious glare. "Maren! Harper was just trying to be nice.

How could you be so cruel?" I snapped my book shut, dragging out the silence before I spoke. "First, I didn't ask her for a damn thing. Second, I have the right to say no.

Third, why the hell should I care if she cries?" "You!" My mother trembled. "How can you be so coldblooded and heartless!" Coldblooded.

Second time today I'd earned that label. "Mom," I stood up. "Did you ever stop to wonder why Harper turned on the waterworks the exact second you walked by?" "What is that supposed to mean?" "It means she's putting on a show." I walked toward the door. "She knows your exact schedule.

She knew exactly when you'd pass my room, so she timed this little gift drop perfectly.

The whole point was to make you think I'm bullying her." My mother shook her head in denial. "Harper would never do that!" "Believe what you want." I pushed past them. "Excuse me.

I'm going out." When I reached the top of the stairs, I glanced back. Buried in my mother's embrace, Harper shot me a nasty, victorious smirk. I just smiled back.

I'd survived the slums; I'd seen cheap tricks a million times worse than this. The day before the birthday, a package arrived for me.

It was my Ivy League class schedule and dorm assignment. I had applied for early movein, which meant I could pack up and leave by next week. Perfect.

Saved me the trouble of ruining their aesthetic any longer. Chapter 7 That evening, the estate was packed with relatives arriving early for tomorrow's gala.

Everyone swarmed Harper, showering her with compliments about how gorgeous and wellbehaved she was. Nobody spared a single glance at me sitting in the corner.

Until an old woman marched over. "You're Maren?" I looked up. It was the matriarch of the family, my father's mother. "Grandmother," I said, standing up.

She raked her critical eyes up and down my frame. "You certainly look like a member of this family." Look like. Not are.

The wording was deliberately sharp. "I heard you had it rough out there." "It was manageable." "Manageable?" She let out a cold scoff. "I've heard exactly what kind of lowlifes your adoptive parents are.

What kind of future could a child raised in that kind of filth possibly have?" I met her glare with dead, calm eyes. "You're right, Grandmother.

I haven't amounted to much." She blinked, thrown off by my immediate agreement. "Not like Harper," I continued smoothly. "Raised in luxury, mastering piano and ballet.

Oh, right—which college did she get into again?" The old woman's jaw tightened.

Harper's bought admission to a thirdrate state school was the family's dirty little secret. "Your actual granddaughter here might not have burned through the family trust fund, but I got lucky.

I secured a fullride scholarship to an Ivy League." I stared down at her from my full height. "Do you need me to translate my Harvard acceptance letter for you?" The old woman stumbled back, her face flushing a mottled purple. "You little