Ch. For Adopted Daughter, My Parents Ruin Me Ch 5 For Adopted Daughter, My Parents Ruin Me Ch 5

Chapter 5 

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To my horror, it was the handwritten manuscript I’d drafted at the very beginning -even the discarded lyrics, every crossed–out line, identical to the ones I’d scrapped. 

Julienne’s tears spilled over as she spoke of her supposed inspiration, her voice trembling with rehearsed sincerity. Worse yet, she recited my own creative process back to me, detail for detail, as if she’d peeled the thoughts straight from my mind. 

A choked noise escaped me–half gasp, half denial. How? This wasn’t just theft; it was violation. 

But the reporters gave no quarter. “Proof” they demanded, cameras flashing like a 

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firing squad. My fingers scrambled across my phone, frantic, only to freeze. The drafts -every backup, every timestamped iteration -gone. 

My parents shoved through the crowd, my brother barking orders to clear the room. My mother clutched me, her whisper sharp with fury. “Those useless bodyguards–did they drop dead at the door? Letting these vultures in-” 

“Evangeline.” My brother’s grip was tight, his voice slick with false remorse. “We’ll handle this. Cormac’s burying the story. None of this changes who you are to us.” 

Liar. The word curdled in my throat. Then why hand me to Julienne like a sacrifice? Why let them carve out my voice, my music, my name? 

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Their performance of devotion turned my stomach. The pressure in my chest split open–a metallic rush filled my mouth. 

“Evangeline!” 

“Sister!” 

Darkness swallowed their panicked cries. 

The doctor’s prognosis dripped like acid. “Even with vocal reconstruction, speech will be difficult. Singing? Impossible. And the neglected injuries to her hands and legs…” A pause. “Permanent damage.” 

“Spare no expense,” my father snarled. 

My brother echoed, voice too bright. “Yes, exactly as we discussed.” His embrace was 

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a furnace; I shook like a gutted thing. 

Ah. That “discussion“-the one where they’d joked about grafting a dog’s vocal cords into my throat. Where they’d mused on severing tendons to keep me from piano keys, from ever standing unaided. 

I would’ve laughed if the void hadn’t taken me first. 

Bandages mummified my hands. Gauze strangled my neck. 

On the bedside screen, Julienne glittered between my father and brother, their linked hands a sickening tableau. My mother hurried to mute it, thumbs smearing my tears. “You’ll heal,” she lied. “Hungry? Just liquids for now–some congee?” 

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I nodded. The door clicked shut. 

Alone, I unmuted the broadcast. 

There they stood–my family, a human shield for Julienne, deflecting every reporter’s barb. Her triumph. My funeral. 

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