No More Sacrifice: The Fake Heiress Strikes Back

Anastasia Stafford stood nervously outside the lounge door, clutching her phone.

On the screen was a message from her adoptive mother, Yvette Jenkins.

[Anastasia, are you almost here? Caspian has been waiting for you forever.]

Today was her engagement day. She had specially changed into her only decent dress for the occasion.

The person she'd secretly liked since she was ten, the man whose smile could make her happy for an entire day—he was about to become her fiancé!

Anastasia took a deep breath and was about to push the door open when the voices inside made her freeze.

"Mom, do you think Anastasia suspects anything?"

It was Renee Stafford's voice, soft and sweet, with a hint of playfulness. "After all, you went to the orphanage to adopt her on the exact day the citywide blood test results came out. What are the odds of that?"

"Suspect?" Yvette's voice was casual. "With her stupid brain? She's been obediently doing whatever we say all these years, hasn't she? You say you're not feeling well, and she donates blood without a second thought. Bone marrow extraction hurts like hell—has she ever refused?"

"Mom," Renee drew out the word, "don't say it like that. I actually feel pretty guilty. Especially on Anastasia's twenty-third birthday—I pretended to have an episode, and when she heard I was in critical condition, she rushed to the hospital and donated 500 milliliters of blood. Her face was so pale, it was heartbreaking to watch."

Yvette snorted. "Heartbreaking? If her blood type didn't match yours, would she have gotten to live eighteen years of the good life with the Stafford Family? These contributions are what she owes us. When she's no longer useful, we'll just kick her out."

The blood in Anastasia's body instantly froze.

Her body swayed, and she reached out to steady herself against the wall.

Eighteen years.

A full eighteen years.

She thought she'd finally been accepted by this family, but the truth was this.

She remembered her first blood donation. She had just been adopted by the Stafford Family—she was only eight years old.

When the needle pierced her thin vein, she cried from the pain.

Yvette had held her and said, "Anastasia, saving Renee is what matters. Once Renee gets better, she can play with you."

She believed it.

When she was ten, she had her first bone marrow extraction.

After the anesthesia wore off, the pain kept her awake night after night. Yvette held her hand and said, "Anastasia is so strong. Renee's recovery depends on you."

She endured it.

From repeated blood donations to bone marrow extractions to stem cell harvesting.

She couldn't remember how many times she'd done these things. She only remembered that after each time, Yvette would pat her head and say, "Anastasia is so understanding. We didn't raise you for nothing."

So that's what she meant.

"Renee, don't worry."

A male voice spoke up—it was her fiancé, Caspian Learmond.

"I'm getting engaged to her just to make her more devoted to being your donor. Once she's completely useless, I'll break off the engagement and marry you in style."

Renee said coyly, "Caspian, treating her like this—she's so pitiful."

"Pitiful? What's pitiful about it?" Caspian's tone was flat. "I've always loved you. What is she? Just a blood bag."

Anastasia bit down hard on her lower lip, tasting blood.

So in these people's eyes, her eighteen years of sacrifice, eighteen years of trying to please them, eighteen years of swallowing her pride—all of it was expected.

Her only purpose was to be Renee's blood bag!

She wanted to leave, but her legs felt incredibly heavy.