Theater: NovelMaster | Language: English | NEW
Synopsis
My parents burned my college acceptance letter the day they finalized the *Family Resource ROI Evaluation Matrix*.
It was typed up neatly on official-looking paper:
*Younger Daughter: Luna. Ivy League potential. Rating: S-Tier. Full family backing.*
*Elder Daughter: Stella. Mediocre ability. Rating: D-Tier. Provide minimum survival support; prepare for immediate repayment to the family.*
Without even asking for my input, they signed me up for a 12-hour factory shift on an electronics assembly line.
In their calculations, every extra day I spent in school was a waste of resources that rightfully belonged to Luna.
Years later, when Luna squandered their entire life savings abroad and they knelt on my welcome mat, begging me to buy them a retirement home, I threw that old rating sheet right in their faces.
On my eighteenth birthday, my parents rented out the private banquet hall of a restaurant and threw a lavish party with three tables full of relatives.
Luna wore an expensive, custom-made pink gown, basking in praises at the center of the room.
I wore an oversized, faded high school hoodie, tucked away in the back kitchen scrubbing grease off plates.
My father, Richard, tapped his wine glass with a butter knife.
"Everyone, quiet down. Today is a milestone, and I have an important announcement to make."
Assuming they were celebrating our coming of age, the relatives burst into polite applause.
My mother, Brenda, took out a printed chart and taped it right onto the prominent white wall in the center of the room.
The banner read: *The Family Resource Allocation & Child Utility Scorecard.*
It itemized every dime spent on us since childhood, pitted against our projected financial returns.
Luna’s column was filled with bold red plus signs, tallying up to nine hundred points.
My column was marked entirely in blue minuses, landing at negative one hundred.
"Stella, your final rating is a D," Richard announced, his voice booming as he pointed at the wall.
"Based on our evaluation, you have zero investment value."
"Starting today, we are cutting off all financial support for your college education."
"Tomorrow morning, you report to the assembly line at the electronics plant. You keep one hundred and fifty dollars a month for bare necessities. The rest of your paycheck gets wired directly to Luna for her living expenses."
The banquet hall fell dead silent.
Claire, my aunt, stood up, her face flushed with indignation.
"Richard, Brenda, they are both your flesh and blood! How can you be so blatantly biased?"
Brenda slapped the table and sneered.
"We call this rational parenting. Survival of the fittest."
"Stella lacks the brains. Investing in her is flushing cash down the toilet."
Luna casually sipped her fresh orange juice, not sparing me a single glance.
I walked to the kitchen doorway, holding a damp rag dripping with soapy water.
"What if I pay my own way through college?" I asked, looking Richard straight in the eye.
Richard slammed his fist onto the table, making the cutlery rattle.
"You think you’re smart now?"
"Every cent you earn belongs to this family! And it goes to your sister first!"
None of the relatives said another word.
They simply lowered their heads and poked at their food.
In that moment, I knew with absolute clarity: in this house, nobody was coming to save me.
I never went to that factory.
Instead, I secretly changed my college application and enrolled in an ordinary in-state public university.
To cover my tuition and rent, I worked three part-time jobs a day.
While busing tables at a diner, a server dropped a pan of boiling oil that splashed across my right forearm.
My skin blistered instantly, searing into a bright red, agonizing mess.
I collapsed to the kitchen floor, trembling from the shock.
Terrified of liability, the manager immediately dialed Brenda’s number.
When Brenda arrived at the clinic, her first words weren’t to ask if I was okay.
She stared at the dirty shirt I had on, her eyebrows knitted in disgust.
"That’s Luna’s old hand-me-down! You got grease all over it! How am I supposed to wash that out?"
The physician walked over with my chart.
"Someone needs to pay for the debridement and burn dressing at the front desk."
Brenda clutched her handbag tightly against her chest and took a step back.
"We don't have the money. Just slap some antibiotic ointment on it."
"She’s a D-tier kid. Why on earth does she need expensive medical burn gel?"
Gritting my teeth against the searing pain, I dragged myself to the counter and swiped my own debit card.
That was the exact moment I severed every shred of hope I had left for them.
During summer break after my freshman year, I took a grueling ten-hour greyhound bus back home just to collect my old high school notebooks and reference materials.
When I opened the front door, my old bedroom was gone.
It had been converted into a massive walk-in closet, stacked high with Luna’s delivery boxes and designer clothes.
My twin bed was nowhere to be seen. In its place sat a battered cardboard box holding the few books I had left behind.
Brenda leaned against the doorframe, chewing on sunflower seeds.
"What did you come back for? There’s no room for you here."
"Where’s my bed?" I asked.
"Sold it to a junk dealer. It was taking up space," she rolled her eyes. "Luna needs a proper dressing room. Take your box of garbage and get out."
I stood frozen in the hallway, holding the heavy box.
Luna walked out of the master bedroom wearing a brand-new silk robe.
"Stella, you reek of cheap diner grease. It’s disgusting."
"Step back. Don't ruin my new hardwood floors."
I stared at her designer slippers, which cost hundreds of dollars.
Then I looked down at my worn-out canvas sneakers, the soles peeling away at the sides.
Without saying a word, I turned around and walked out into the heat.
That night, I sat alone on a cold plastic bench at the bus station until sunrise.
The chilly draft blew through the terminal, making me shiver uncontrollably.
I hugged the cardboard box against my chest and whispered to myself: *Stella, you don’t have a family anymore.*
*From now on, you only have yourself.*At two in the morning, the station waiting room felt like an icebox.
I tucked the cardboard box near my boots and leaned back against the hard plastic bench to close my eyes. My phone vibrated. A text from Brenda:
"Luna is short three thousand dollars for her fall tuition. Wire your paycheck the second it hits your account."
I didn't reply.
Another buzz followed: "Stop playing dead. What good is that third-rate degree going to do you anyway? Drop out right now and get on the factory line. You’d make an extra few hundred a month."
I blocked her number without hesitation.
At four in the morning, my phone rang again. An unknown local number.
"Is this Stella? It's Mr. Miller, your high school English teacher. Your senior essay received the highest score across the entire state. The State Education Board wants to feature you in an interview. Do you have time?"
I froze.
During all four years of high school, I woke up at five every morning to memorize literature and stayed up past midnight doing practice exams. That *Evaluation Matrix* had labeled me "mediocre," yet my English literature scores had always ranked number one in the district.
"Yes," I answered softly. "I have time."
The panel was held in the auditorium of the downtown public library. Over a hundred teachers, students, and parents attended. I stood at the podium sharing my writing methods, and the applause at the end was deafening.
As people were clearing out, a well-dressed woman approached me and handed me a business card.
"Stella, I’m the director of the Horizon Scholarship Foundation. We read your essay, and we’d like to sponsor the remainder of your undergraduate degree. No strings attached."
Staring at the embossed letters on the card, my eyes stung with tears.
"Thank you."
The foundation provided a monthly stipend of two hundred and fifty dollars. Combined with my three part-time gigs, it was just enough to cover my tuition and rent.
During Thanksgiving break of my sophomore year, Luna called out of the blue.
"Stella, it's my birthday. Mom and Dad gave me three thousand dollars to throw a party at a lounge. Are you coming or what?"
"No," I said, and hung up.
Half an hour later, Brenda called from a landline.
"You won't even attend your own sister's birthday? We raised you for nothing!"
"She called. I declined."
"You have to come! Claire and the rest of the family are here! How will it look if you don't show up? Everyone will think I mistreat you!"
"Don't you?"
Silence hung on the line for two long seconds before Brenda’s voice turned shrill. "Stella, you think you’re all grown up now, don't you? Fine! If you won't come, your sister has an advanced prep boot camp next month. The fee is five hundred bucks. You're paying for it."
"I don't have the money."
"Doesn't that scholarship fund wire you money every month? How much can one girl possibly spend? Cut back on your food and help your sister out!"
I hung up on her again.
I didn't pay a single dime toward Luna's camp. Brenda called over a dozen times to scream at me, but I ignored every single one.
Later, Claire told me that Luna missed the registration deadline. Her classmates mocked her in their group chat for not being able to afford the fee. Furious, Luna smashed two phones in a tantrum, forcing Richard to buy her the latest top-tier model just to calm her down.
The summer before my senior year, I landed an internship at a major digital media company in the city.
One afternoon, while grabbing coffee in the breakroom, I overheard two colleagues talking by the counter.
"Hey, did you hear about the new writer on the content team? The one who scored perfect marks on the state essay? Rumor has it her parents tried to force her to drop out and work an assembly line."
"No way. Who would do that to their own kid?"
"Dead serious. Her parents claimed her younger sister was Ivy League material, and that she was completely worthless."
My hand holding the mug froze for a second. Hearing my own trauma reduced to office gossip still stung.
That night, back in my tiny studio apartment, I opened my laptop and searched for Luna’s name.
She had indeed gotten into a prestigious university, but before her freshman year even wrapped up, she had been placed on academic probation for failing nearly every course. I scrolled through her Instagram. Her latest post was taken at a casino in Las Vegas, captioned: *A little win.*
Someone in the comments asked: *Aren't you supposed to be in class?*
She replied: *Took a leave of absence. Needed to clear my head.*
I closed the tab and shut the laptop screen.On my college graduation day, nobody came to watch me walk the stage.
I stood by the lawn in my cap and gown, snapped a selfie, and posted it to my feed.
Two minutes later, Claire left a like and a comment: *So proud of you, Stella! Do your parents know?*
I didn't respond.
After graduation, I secured a full-time role at the media company as a content strategist. The pay wasn't lavish, but it was steady, reliable, and completely mine.
By my third year, several long-form articles I penned went viral across major platforms. The company promoted me to Content Director and doubled my base salary.
That was the exact same year Luna slunk back home.
She never finished her degree at the prestigious university, nor did she finish anything abroad.
According to Claire, Luna bounced between three different colleges overseas in two years, flunked every semester, and was ultimately expelled. Before boarding her flight back, she maxed out two credit cards Richard had given her, racking up over thirty thousand dollars in high-interest debt.
Richard and Brenda had to sell their small rental property just to settle the balance.
Back home, Luna moved into the three-bedroom condo—the only property my parents had left. She refused to look for work, ordering expensive takeout and playing video games all day.
I heard about all this while working late at the office. A coworker asked what made me smile at my screen; I flipped my phone facedown and said it was nothing.
That winter, I received my first text message from Brenda in four years.
"Stella, your sister isn't doing well. Come home and see her."
I ignored it.
She sent another: "She’s your sister after all. Let the past stay in the past."
I stared at the glowing screen for a long time, typed out a single word: *Busy.*
Then I blocked that number, too.
Six months later, Richard reached out. He called from a new number, ringing directly through the front desk of my company.
"Stella, it’s your father. Your mother's heart is acting up. She’s in the hospital. Come see her."
"Which hospital?"
"City Central. Call me when you get here."
I took a half-day off and drove back to my hometown. In the cardiology ward of City Central, Brenda was leaning comfortably against her pillows, scrolling on her phone. Her cheeks were rosy, and her bedside table was packed with fresh cherries and imported chocolates.
"Mom, what’s wrong with your heart?"
Brenda looked up, sizing me up from head to toe.
"You look skinny. Career not going well?"
"I’m doing fine."
"Fine? What’s fine about it? Your sister spent so much studying abroad, and the family is bleeding dry. You’ve been working for years—you must have fifty or sixty grand saved up by now. Hand it over so we can put down a deposit on an apartment for Luna. She’s getting married."
I looked at her, suddenly finding the whole scene utterly absurd.
"I thought you were dying of a heart condition."
Brenda blinked, caught off guard, then coughed twice into her fist. "That’s beside the point! Your sister’s wedding is what matters! As her older sister, aren't you going to contribute?"
I turned on my heel and walked out.
Richard chased after me into the hallway, shouting, "Stella, stop right there! Your mother is sick in bed and you’re just going to walk away?"
I didn't even look back.
Walking out through the hospital doors, I looked up at the sky. The winter sun was pale and weak, offering no warmth.
I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, hailed a cab, and headed straight back to the train station.
Sitting on the waiting bench, my mind drifted back to that night six years ago. The same icy air, the same isolation. But back then, I was clutching an acceptance letter that had been burned to ash, along with that wretched *Family Resource ROI Evaluation Matrix*.
My phone buzzed. A voice note from Claire.
"Stella, your mother called me, begging me to convince you to buy an apartment for Luna. I told her to get lost. Oh, and did you know? Your mother actually framed that old rating sheet and hung it in the living room. She shows it to guests, bragging about her 'scientific parenting.' Now Luna fights with her every single day. Brenda slaps the frame and yells, 'Your sister was rated D, and you were rated S! You were supposed to be the successful one!' It makes Luna smash things in rage."
I texted back two words: *Poetic justice.*The next morning, I woke up in my apartment to a barrage of missed calls.
All from Brenda.
Before I could decide whether to block the new number, my doorbell rang.
I opened the door. Richard and Brenda stood in the hallway, with Luna right behind them.
The three of them were hauling massive suitcases, looking like they intended to move in permanently.
"This place is tiny. How do you even live here?" Brenda barged in, dropping two heavy duffel bags onto the floor. "We’ll squeeze in for a few days. Your sister is having her wedding in the city, and the relatives back home are crowding our place."
Luna, wearing oversized designer sunglasses and stilettos, strolled in and cast a disgusted look around my living room.
"Stella, this place looks like a homeless shelter. You don't even have a walk-in closet."
I stood firmly in the doorway, blocking their path.
"Get out."
"What did you just say?" Richard glared, his chest puffing up.
"I said get out. This is my apartment. You aren't welcome here."
Brenda shrieked, "Are you out of your mind, Stella? I’m your mother! You’re kicking your own mother onto the street?"
"You kicked me out the day I turned eighteen," I said coldly, holding the door wide open. "Now that I'm standing on my own two feet, you suddenly remember you have an older daughter?"
Luna pulled down her sunglasses, giving me a venomous look.
"Stella, who do you think you are? How much do you even make at that stupid desk job? My fiancé owns a massive venture firm. You should be kissing my feet if you ever want a handout from us."
I looked at her, and a slow smile crept onto my face.
"Your fiancé owns a venture firm? Since when?"
Luna’s expression flickered with unease. "What's it to you?"
"Nothing. It's just that I came across a fraud alert on the regional news yesterday," I unlocked my phone, swiping to the saved article. "A self-proclaimed venture capitalist was arrested for running a multi-million-dollar Ponzi scheme. Take a look. Is this your fiancé?"
Luna snatched the phone from my hand. The color drained from her face until she was as white as a sheet.
Brenda leaned in frantically. "What is it? Luna, what does it say?"
Luna didn't utter a word. She hurled my phone violently against the floor, turned around, and bolted down the stairwell.
Brenda chased after her. "Luna! Luna, wait for me!"
Richard stood frozen in my foyer, his face turning an angry shade of purple. He looked at me, then down at my shattered screen.
"Stella, you jinx! If you ruined your sister's marriage, I will never forgive you!"
He turned and hurried after them.
I shut the door and picked up the broken pieces of my phone.
The screen was completely dead, but the cloud backups had already saved everything.
That evening, Claire sent another message.
"Stella, Luna’s fiancé was definitely picked up by federal agents. Your mother is running around begging every relative for bail money, but nobody will give her a cent. Your father went to his brother's house and was literally kicked off the porch. Your mother has been sobbing on the floor all day, screaming that you destroyed Luna’s future."
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about my eighteenth birthday.
I remembered the cold, greasy suds covering my hands.
I remembered the boiling oil blistering my arm, and how Brenda’s only concern was the grease on Luna’s old shirt.
I remembered shivering all night on a plastic bench at the bus depot, clutching that cardboard box in the drafty dark.
I flipped my phone over and went to sleep.Over the next six months, Brenda cycled through burner numbers, bombarding me with messages every few days.
Sometimes she cursed me, calling me an ungrateful monster who betrayed her own blood.
Sometimes she played the victim, whining that Luna had suffered a mental breakdown and spent her days destroying furniture.
Other times she issued orders, demanding I wire money home to cover Luna's therapy bills.
I ignored every single attempt.
Until one afternoon, Claire called me, sounding frantic.
"Stella, your mother did something catastrophic."
"What happened?"
"She took out an equity loan against their condo—mortgaged the entire place for over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars—trying to bail out that scammer fiancé. But the guy skipped bail and vanished into thin air! The money is gone. The bank is foreclosing on their home, your father collapsed from a stroke, and your mother has been kneeling on the pavement in front of their building, wailing all morning."
I held the phone in silence.
"Stella," Claire sighed deeply. "I know how horribly they treated you. But they are literally about to be homeless. Your mother came crying to me, begging me to ask... if you would let them move into your place."
"Claire."
"Yes?"
"When she sold my bed to a scrap dealer and told me to get lost with a box of old books, did she ever worry that I would be homeless?"
Claire fell silent.
"I won't help," I said evenly.
After hanging up, I sat on my sofa for a long time.
Then I stood up, walked to the bottom of my hallway closet, and pulled out an old storage container.
Inside were a few worn textbooks, the charred remains of my original college acceptance letter, and a single photograph from my eighteenth birthday. Luna stood dead center in her pink couture dress, radiant and smiling. I stood on the far edge in a faded school hoodie, half-cut out of the frame.
On the back of the photo, written in pencil, was: *Stella: D-Tier. Minimum survival support.*
I stared at those words for a long time.
Then I unlocked my phone and sent a text to Brenda’s latest number—the very night the bank seized their home and she was weeping on the sidewalk.
"Mom, is that *Family Resource ROI Evaluation Matrix* still framed on your wall?"
Ten minutes later, she replied with a raspy voice note.
Her voice was raw and broken: "Stella, what are you trying to say? Are you mocking me? I raised you for eighteen years! Is this how you pay me back?"
I typed: "The sheet said: Luna, S-Tier, full family backing. Stella, D-Tier, minimum survival support, prepare for immediate repayment."
"Yes! Rational parenting! So what? Are you denying your obligations now?"
"If Luna is S-Tier, shouldn't you be asking her for help?"
The voice note paused for two seconds, followed by Brenda’s hysterical, guttural wailing.
"She ran away! She took every last penny we had left in the safe and vanished! She doesn't care whether we live or die! Stella, you're the older sister! You can't just leave us to die on the street!"
I stared at the screen and slowly typed out my response:
"I’m D-Tier, remember? A D-Tier daughter only provides minimum survival support."
"Are you asking me to repay the family now?"
Brenda never texted back.
A few days later, Claire told me that Richard had been discharged from the hospital, though his mobility was severely compromised. Brenda had rented a windowless, damp basement room on the industrial outskirts of town for forty dollars a week.
Nobody knew where Luna had gone. Some heard she ran off with a new boyfriend; others claimed she had moved south to do low-tier promotional livestreams.
I continued working.
I was officially promoted to Senior Content Director, and my annual compensation jumped significantly.
I purchased a cozy two-bedroom condo. It wasn't enormous, but the deed was entirely in my name.
One afternoon, while unpacking boxes in my new home, I found the photocopy of the *Family Resource ROI Evaluation Matrix*—the one I had secretly peeled off the living room wall years ago.
I looked at the wrinkled paper, covered in meticulous notes in red and blue ink:
*Luna: Piano lessons. Plus points. Stella: Exam prep books. Minus points.*
*Luna: Summer camp abroad. Plus points. Stella: Prescription glasses. Minus points.*
Dozens of lines, weighing our worth down to the penny.
Looking at it now, it seemed utterly ridiculous.
I flipped the sheet over. On the back were the words I had scrawled in pen that cold night at the bus station:
*Stella: Survive.*My phone chimed.
Claire had sent a video link.
I tapped it. It showed Brenda sitting on a folded piece of cardboard outside a subway entrance, selling cheap socks from a plastic tub. Her hair was almost entirely grey, and her face was lined with deep, exhausted wrinkles.
Someone in the video asked her, "Hey lady, didn't your younger daughter get into an elite college? Why are you out here freezing on the street?"
Brenda kept her head down, refusing to speak.
A passerby chimed in, "What good is an elite degree? She's probably living it up somewhere, not caring if her mother starves."
Brenda suddenly looked up, tears streaming down her hollow cheeks.
"My younger daughter ran away... and my older daughter won't look at me... My whole life has been a waste..." Her voice cracked into muffled sobs.
Claire sent a text right after: *Stella, your mother tells everyone she meets that she’s the most miserable woman alive. The relatives on your father's side feel bad for her, and a few are saying you're heartless.*
I watched Brenda's tear-streaked face looping on my screen.
I typed back: *Claire, do you remember my eighteenth birthday? When she taped that chart to the wall and announced to everyone that I was a D-tier investment with zero future?*
Claire didn't respond for a long time.
Finally, a short message popped up: *I remember. I was sitting right there.*
I set my phone down and flattened the creased photocopy on my desk.
I grabbed a red pen and drew a bold line next to *Stella: D-Tier*.
Above it, I wrote: *Rating: Stella, S-Tier. Self-evaluated.*
I folded the paper neatly and slipped it into my desk drawer.
Outside, dusk was settling over the city skyline.
I opened a food delivery app, ordered a full meal from a nice bistro, and added an iced matcha latte.
Life went on, but from now on, I was living entirely for myself.
The phone rang again.
An unknown international number flashed on the screen.
I answered. Luna’s trembling voice came through the receiver.
"Stella..." she whimpered, "I got scammed overseas. I owe so much money to bad people... Can you... please help me just once? Just this one time?"
I listened to her broken, desperate breathing and said nothing.
"Stella? Are you there?"
"I’m here."
"Please, Stella, I know I was awful! I was spoiled, and Mom and Dad favored me, but I was just a kid! I didn't know any better! Wire me some cash, please. When I get back on my feet, I swear I'll pay you back. I'll work for you, I'll do anything—"
"Luna," I cut her off.
"Yeah?"
"When you ran away, you took every last dollar in the house. Did you know Mom and Dad are living in a squalid basement?"
Silence fell over the line.
"You didn't know, did you?" I said calmly. "Because you never bothered to ask."
"Stella, I—"
"Luna, when you were eighteen, you stood in the living room and told me I reeked of cheap grease. You told me not to dirty your new floor. Remember that?"
She didn't speak.
"I remember," I said. "I remember every single word."
I ended the call and blocked the number.
A crisp breeze swept through the balcony, fluttering the sheer curtains.
I texted Claire: *Don't ask me to forgive them. Some wounds never close.*
Claire replied immediately: *Nobody is asking you to forgive them. Just live your best life.*
I set the phone down, opened my laptop, and began working on next week’s editorial strategy.
The cursor blinked steadily against the blank document.
I stared at the screen for a moment, then typed out a working title:
*The Discarded Daughter’s Blueprint for Breaking Free.*
By the time I finished the draft, it was nearly midnight.
I stretched my arms, walked to the panoramic window, and took in the view.
The highway below stretched like a ribbon of light through the dark city.
I pulled out my phone and navigated to the very bottom of my photo album. The picture from my eighteenth birthday.
Luna in pink silk, beaming brightly.
Me on the periphery in my faded hoodie, expressionless.
I hovered over the trash icon and clicked delete.
A pop-up asked: *Delete permanently?*
I tapped *Yes.*
Gone.
I turned off the lights and went to sleep.
The next morning, while picking up an oat latte at the coffee shop downstairs, a woman called out to me.
"Stella?"
I turned around. A woman in a sharp business suit with a sleek bob was looking at me curiously.
"It’s Rachel. I sat right behind you in high school."
"Rachel?" The memory clicked. We hadn't spoken much, but she had always sat behind me, constantly glancing at my practice tests because she couldn't beat my scores.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"I work on the ninth floor."
"No way! Me too! I'm in corporate legal on twelve."
We exchanged a few pleasantries before she lowered her voice. "Stella, have you heard anything about your sister lately?"
"No. Why?"
"I saw her two nights ago. Outside that shady upscale lounge on the south side—The Gilded Room. She looked like she was working as a bottle-service hostess. I'm positive it was her. Are you... doing okay?"
I took a slow sip of my coffee.
"I'm great."
Rachel studied my calm demeanor, nodded gently, and patted my arm. "Good. Let's grab lunch sometime."
After she left, I finished my coffee in the lobby.
Only one thought crossed my mind: *Luna is working at a nightclub.*
It had nothing to do with me.
I tossed the paper cup into the recycling bin and headed for the elevator.
Inside, my phone vibrated again.
A text from Brenda’s latest burner. It contained an image.
It was a photo of the framed *Family Resource ROI Evaluation Matrix*. The glass frame was shattered, the paper yellowed and stained, but the blue and red handwriting remained visible.
Underneath, she wrote: *Stella, I was wrong. I took the chart down. Please come visit us. Your father is fading. He desperately wants to see you.*
I zoomed in on the cracked glass. Right near the bottom edge, those words still glared back:
*Stella: D-Tier. Minimum survival support. Prepare for immediate repayment.*
I stared at the words for a few seconds.
Then I typed a single word in reply:
*Repayment.*
Chapters (6)
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Watch & Promotions
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