Rising from the Ashes The Heiress They Tried to Erase Novel

Chapter 1210 Chapter 1212: She'd been sick of her old life for a long time-the leaky roof that dripped misery, the moldy corners that festered with decay, the glass shattered by flying bottles in the dead of night, the suffocating stench of alcohol when his hands closed around her throat. She refused to accept that she was that cursed, unlucky girl. She was Anti-the visionary founder of Annie Crystal, personally invited by Kiley herself, praised in elite circles as a genius designer.

And soon, she would hold more money than her mother could earn in an entire lifetime of scanning groceries at a supermarket. "How can you say such cruel things?" Her mother's voice softened suddenly, threaded with trembling sobs. "Do you have any idea how agonizing childbirth is? How grueling ten months of carrying you can be?" Anti parted her lips, but no words came. Just then, the sharp crack of a bottle shattering against a wall burst from the other end of the line. "Bang!" A coarse, savage male voice followed instantly. "Where's the money, you worthless bitch?

Why's the cash in my drawer gone?" "I don't know," her mother's voice quavered, humility ground down to dirt beneath a boot. "Maybe you took it yourself and forgot?" "Bullshit! Why the hell isn't Anti at home? Did that little brat take it to prance around at some pathetic party? Does she actually think she's some kind of socialite now?" His voice rose, thick with rage. "That's my money. Drag her back here right now-someone's interested in her, willing to fork over three thousand dollars for one night.

We fed her and housed her all these years; she owes us that much." "Are you out of your mind?" her mother screamed, desperate and cracking. "Do you even hear what you're saying? She's your daughter!" "Shut your mouth!" Anti's father snarled. "She's my daughter, which means she should be earning money for me." The call died abruptly. galησνeℓs.cøm is your update source Anti clutched the phone, her fingertips turning to ice. She didn't need to imagine what came next.

That man would seize fistfuls of her mother's hair and slam her head into the wall, lash her with a belt, spit at her, and call her a "useless woman who couldn't even give birth to a son." And Anti herself-only eight years old back then-had already mastered the art of hiding under the bed, teeth sunk into her own hand to muffle her sobs. From that day forward, she never said the word "Dad" again. She had always dreamed of being born into elegance-raised in a sprawling villa, with a father who was a polished CEO and a mother who was a graceful artist exhibiting in prestigious galleries.

She would have been their cherished daughter, learning piano with delicate fingers, sketching landscapes in the soft afternoon light, hosting refined tea parties beneath roses in bloom. But reality was a swamp that swallowed hope whole-an abyss stretching endlessly downward, without mercy. Her real family squeezed the breath from her lungs. . . .