The Ousted Daughter

My cell phone vibrated on the bar counter as I wiped a wine glass. Water droplets slid down the glass, blurring the glaring headlines on the screen. "Heiress of a prestigious family caught stealing, adopted daughter reveals shocking secrets"—the notification pierced my eyes like needles. My grip on the glass suddenly tightened; the cold surface bit sharply into my palm. Colleagues gathered in the corner, the cell phone's speaker playing the conversation clearly. "Look at Ophelia Lopez, smiling so innocently, claiming Cynthia Lopez was the one who misled her." "Oh, the true heiress ends up like this—caught stealing and thrown out of her own home. How tragic." "Things in wealthy families are truly complicated: a foster daughter rising up while the true heiress falls into ruin. No script would dare write such drama." I turned and walked into the staff lounge; the moment I locked the door behind me, I slid down against the cold door. It's been five years. I thought I had buried those unbearable memories deep inside, but the moment I see Ophelia's hypocritical face, all my wounds tear open again. Ophelia Lopez wore an exquisite white dress in the video, her eyes brimming with tears as she faced the camera. She said she was only joking with me, never expecting I would actually steal her diamond necklace. She claimed I grew up away from home, inexperienced and naive, and made a foolish mistake. After speaking, she deliberately displayed the so-called "stolen" necklace, its diamonds flashing coldly in the light. I stared at the woman on the screen, twisting truth and lies, my teeth clenched until my gums ached. The scene from five years ago surged into my mind like a tide. It was my eighteenth birthday, and Ophelia Lopez took my hand and led me into her room. She opened the jewelry box, took out the diamond necklace, and said she wanted to lend it to me for a day to take photos as a keepsake. I didn't want to touch her things at first, but she clung to my arm coquettishly, saying that since we were sisters, we didn't need to be so strict. Just as I took the necklace, the door was suddenly flung open. My biological father, Jonathan Lopez, stood in the doorway, his face ashen, followed by the butler and several servants. Ophelia Lopez immediately let go of my hand, took two steps back, her eyes instantly reddening. "Dad, it's not Cynthia's fault, it's mine... I wasn't careful with the jewelry box." She said, choking back tears. I still clenched that necklace in my hand, helplessly without a word. Jonathan Lopez didn't give me a chance to explain; he pointed to the door and shouted, "The Lopez Family has no place for someone with dirty hands like you. Get out!" I looked at him with his eyes full of disgust, then at Ophelia beside him, her head lowered but a smile hiding at the corner of her lips, and my heart felt as if it had been ripped out. "I didn't steal." I gritted my teeth, my voice trembling uncontrollably. Jonathan Lopez pulled a thick wad of cash from his wallet and slammed it onto my face. The bills scattered across the floor, some even sticking to my hair. "Take the money and disappear immediately. Don't ever let me see you again." His voice was dripping with disgust. As I walked out of the Lopez family villa, fine rain was falling. I didn't look back. I just shoved the money into the trash bin, letting the rain soak me through. The lounge door was knocked, and a colleague's voice came through: "Cynthia, Private Room 308 needs more wine. Please go." I took a deep breath, wiped the wet traces from the corner of my eyes, and stood up to straighten my uniform. The moment I pushed the door open, the figure at the end of the corridor made me hesitate. The man wore a perfectly tailored black suit, standing tall, his profile still as I remembered it. Casper Lopez, my elder brother—the one who once spoiled me like a little princess but chose silence the moment I was falsely accused. He seemed to notice me as well; turning his head, a flicker of surprise crossed his deep eyes, quickly replaced by a complex emotion. We locked eyes from several meters apart; the air seemed to freeze around us. Five years had passed since we last met. He was more mature now, a sharper ruthlessness etched between his brows from the business world. I was the first to look away, lowering my head and quickening my pace as I passed him by. As we brushed past, I caught the familiar scent of cedar on him, and my heart clenched painfully without my control. "Cynthia." He spoke suddenly, his voice low and husky. My footsteps faltered, but I didn't turn around. "You really don't want to see me?" His voice carried a faint, almost imperceptible trace of grievance. I gripped the wine list tightly and said coldly, "Mr. Lopez, I still have work to do." After speaking, I walked straight into Private Room 308 and closed the door behind me, cutting off his gaze.