Behind The Bandages Of The Billionaires Forgotten Daughter

The moment my skin suddenly fractured, splitting open and bleeding uncontrollably, my father finally admitted that my mother carried the gene for Butterfly Syndrome. He saw the outbreak—he saw me—as a plague. He took my healthy sister and stormed out, abandoning me. My mother, thankfully, seemed heartbroken. She meticulously wrapped every sharp object in the house and stayed by my side, refusing to leave. But a week later, she also vanished. She couldn’t overcome her crippling aversion to blood, or so she claimed, leaving me, who had just begun to rebuild hope, utterly alone. I understood the agonizing burden of caring for someone with Epidermolysis Bullosa (EB). I didn’t blame my parents for leaving. At least they—people of supposedly modest means—had left me their only asset: this old, run-down condo, a roof over my head. I prayed my sister, Eliza, would stay healthy, sparing our already poor family further tribulation. Unable to hold a regular job, I survived by streaming my artwork online. Then, two years later, during a random stream collaboration, I connected with the daughter of a billionaire who also had EB. And on the screen, I saw my sister. She didn’t recognize me beneath the bandages covering most of my face. She simply treated me like a stranger—a fellow patient to commiserate with. The chat exploded, comparing Eliza’s pristine appearance to my own stark, painful reality. “Ugh, average people can’t afford Butterfly Syndrome. Just look at the difference between this woman and the billionaire’s daughter.” “She said she lives alone. No wonder her condition is so much worse than the billionaire’s daughter, who’s been lovingly cared for.” “Imagine having parents who are billionaires and who stand by you even with this disease, caring for you like a normal person. I wish I had parents like that!” It hit me then. I hadn’t been abandoned because of the disease. I had been abandoned because I was unloved.

1 My sister on the screen looked flawless. If it weren’t for the word “EB” in her stream title and the expensive silk compression gloves covering her hands, no one would guess she suffered from this incredibly painful, rare condition. Eliza spoke to me with genuine kindness: “Hi there. What a coincidence to connect with a fellow EB patient. How long have you had it? Why so many wounds? Are you having trouble managing your daily life? If you’re really struggling, you can contact me off-stream. I’d be happy to offer some help.” The sudden, brutal truth had left me paralyzed. I couldn’t utter a word. The prolonged silence made Eliza look awkward. She forced a strained smile. The comments immediately turned hostile towards me: “The heiress is so genuine and kind, why is this girl giving her the cold shoulder?” “I know her type. Thinks the world owes her everything just because she’s sick.” “The heiress is fighting the same disease! Who are you to give her attitude? You deserve to be abandoned by your family!” Seeing the chat call her “the heiress,” and seeing the luxurious, meticulously curated furniture behind Eliza, a paralyzing, agonizing ache shot through my whole body. They were rich. Billionaires. No wonder they could so easily abandon the old, cramped apartment to me—the one they’d used to raise us while supposedly scrimping and saving. It was all a lie, a cruel set-up meant only for me. I trembled, unable to stop myself. Tears gushed out, blurring the insults flashing across the screen. “Stop playing the victim. You ignored the heiress first.” “She’s obviously jealous that the heiress is richer, kinder, and prettier.” Eliza’s worried, gentle voice cut through the noise: “Everyone, please stop arguing on my behalf. I apologize if I was too forward. Please don’t be mean to her.” Then, she spoke carefully to me: “Are you alright? Did I remind you of something painful?” That familiar tone dragged me back to a time we shared: a life of manufactured poverty where we leaned on each other. We would pool months of savings from odd jobs just to afford a cheap takeout meal. We’d stay up late whispering secrets, and comfort each other after a scolding from our parents. But the sister who was so close to me had participated in the deception, keeping the truth of our wealth hidden and abandoning me when I fell ill. She offered a helping hand to a stranger—someone she thought was a stranger. Why did she turn a blind eye to her own sister? If not for this accidental connection, I might have died never knowing I was betrayed by my entire family. I looked at Eliza’s genuinely concerned face and spoke, my voice raw: “Yes. You reminded me of my sister. She and my parents left me behind because they were disgusted by my disease.” A flicker of discomfort crossed Eliza’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you had a sister, or that you’d been through that.” The angry comments paused. “Seriously, lay off the insults. You’re being cruel to a patient.” “I noticed earlier that she looked upset and couldn’t answer. Now you’ve forced her to open up about something tragic.” “Exactly! The heiress streams to help people with EB, and you’ve managed to turn the first collaboration into a bullying session!” That last comment caught my attention. I spoke softly: “Are you new to streaming? When were you diagnosed with EB?” Eliza looked confused by the sudden change of topic but answered honestly: “About six months ago. We’ve been traveling all over to see specialists. My condition has improved recently, so I decided to start a stream to raise awareness.” I clenched my fists so hard my skin instantly tore and bled, but I didn’t feel the pain. 2 The agony in my heart completely eclipsed the physical pain in my hands. My father, Marcus Riley, the one who saw my bleeding body as a source of plague, could spend six months traveling the world and undergoing expensive treatments for Eliza, who suffered from the exact same disease. And my mother, Naomi, who claimed to be so faint-hearted and terrified of blood she couldn’t care for me for more than a week, somehow managed to stop fainting whenever Eliza bled. And then there was my “kind” sister. She knew firsthand how painful EB was, yet in the six months since her own diagnosis, she never once thought to seek me out. She was enjoying high-end, professional treatment while I, the idiot, genuinely believed our family was too poor to care for me and had no choice but to abandon me. My appearance startled Eliza. She didn’t know what she had said to provoke such a reaction. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” “Oh my God, she’s lost it because the heiress mentioned her family?” “But she asked the question! Why is she even streaming if she’s this fragile?” “If I were her family, I wouldn’t be able to handle her either. Clearly, not everyone can be as strong and optimistic as the heiress. She deserves her parents’ love.” Reading those words, a hysterical, tearful laugh bubbled up in my chest. If they knew that the “heiress” and I shared the same parents, would they still say that? Hearing that his daughter was being upset on her stream, my father rushed into the frame. He looked at me, my face covered in bandages, with pure contempt. “My daughter was trying to help you out of the goodness of her heart, and this is how you repay her? And you have the nerve to claim you look like her sister? These days, every stray cat and dog thinks they can claim to be a Riley! Take a look in the mirror—you don’t deserve to speak our name!” My heart had gone past aching; it was numb. Eliza merely suggested helping, and without knowing anything, he accused me of ingratitude. In his mind, only Eliza was worthy of being his daughter. I’d always known about his unconditional favoritism towards Eliza. They looked strikingly similar. I, on the other hand, didn’t resemble either parent much and had been subject to his low-grade suspicion of being illegitimate. Though a DNA test confirmed I was his daughter—a case of a grandparent’s features skipping a generation—my father remained emotionally distant. Perhaps this was why he invented the whole “poverty test.” He hid his billionaire status, hoping the struggle would either force me to become “outstanding” or give him the perfect excuse to leave me in the dark forever. The test’s result was simple: I failed to meet his approval. And then, my skin began to inexplicably tear. My EB diagnosis provided him with the perfect, respectable justification for abandonment. He hadn’t recognized me, yet his disdain was instinctive. Every word was a laceration. Eliza tried to stop him from speaking to me so harshly, but he sighed dismissively: “Eliza, not everyone is worth helping. This thing—this half-person, half-monster who frightens people on stream—would be better off dead. Look at her attitude when you tried to be kind! I will make sure she pays for upsetting my daughter!” My eyes stung, but I had no tears left. The blood soaking my bandages was practically painting half my face, increasing his disgust. “A streamer with such poor character. I will make sure the platform bans you immediately.” That final declaration filled me with absolute dread. I knew he meant it. Banning my stream—my only means of survival—was a death sentence. Had I endured all this pain for so long, only to be crushed by my own father? 3 After my mother left, I had considered giving up. My impoverished “family” had left no savings for my treatment. The old apartment I lived in wouldn’t sell for much, and if I sold it, I’d lose my final shelter. Why continue a miserable existence with EB? But Kai Jensen, my neighbor and childhood sweetheart, had forcefully taken all the sharp objects from the apartment, his furious voice shattering my despair. “I haven’t given up on you! How dare you give up on yourself!” He’d taken a leave of absence from his university abroad, working tirelessly to save money for my medical bills. No matter how hard things got, he never wavered. I had only helped him a few times after his parents died, a quiet friendship forged in mutual grief. I was damaged by my family’s blatant preference, and he was alone. We were each other’s only friend. I never imagined he’d sacrifice his future for me. Galvanized by his devotion, I pulled myself together. A year ago, I found the art streaming job. With my promise that I’d fight to live, Kai finally felt safe enough to return to school, making me swear to wait for him. For that promise, I silently endured the constant pain of my skin tearing, fighting to stay alive. Now, my one lifeline was about to be cut by my own blood. “Support the billionaire dad! This woman had such a nasty attitude towards the heiress. She’s an absolute viper!” “Just ban her. That bloodied face is horrifying. If you’re sick, stay home, don’t bother people.” “Right! Look how optimistic our heiress is! Unlike this girl—she’s gloomy, depressing, and a buzzkill.” My father’s words had reignited the mob. The stream of abuse seared my eyes, and my sanity began to fray. Should I not have tried to survive? I was just quietly drawing. Eliza was the one who initiated the connection. Why, after all this suffering, after finally finding a way to feed myself, were they determined to shatter my hope? I desperately wanted to keep my promise to Kai. But now, it felt impossible to wait for his return. Ignoring the constant tearing and bleeding of my facial skin, a wave of dizziness washed over me. I self-destructively absorbed my father’s abuse and the chat’s venom, letting the blood drain away. I couldn’t hold on anymore. What was the point of this agonizing life? Kai, I’m so sorry. I’m going to break my promise. Just then, a warm, familiar voice boomed from the other side of the screen: “Stop it! Why are you doing this to her!” 4 I stared at my mother on the screen, frozen. She saw the blood on my body. She merely winced, a brief look of discomfort. She did not clutch her head, go pale, or fall over, as she always did in my memories when my skin tore. She had been lying. All of it. Had all those years of careful instruction, of patient love, the hot milk by the desk, the open arms when I looked wistfully at Eliza in my father’s embrace, the consistent presence of my favorite food on a table full of Eliza’s favorites—had all of it been a performance? I had believed that even if Dad and Eliza left, Mom would never abandon me. Yet she left, and she had helped them perpetuate the lie until this very moment. “She’s an EB patient! Stop tormenting her!” Tears streamed down my mother’s face, her eyes filled with a sliver of guilt as she looked at me. “If we didn’t have a billionaire’s wealth, our daughter could easily look like her! Why are you being so cruel?” Then why did you abandon me, knowing full well this would happen? My tears fell again, mixing with the blood, making my face look even more terrifying. My mother quickly tried to soothe me: “I apologize on behalf of my husband. Please don’t be sad. You can continue streaming your art—the platform won’t ban you. We’ll also cover all your medical expenses for this flare-up, as compensation. Will that be enough?” The gentler her voice, the more nauseated I felt. The pure hatred in my eyes infuriated my father and the comment section once more. “Look at her face! I told you, this ungrateful wretch needs to be banned now!” “This girl is completely unhinged. The Rileys don’t owe her a thing, and they keep trying to help, but she looks at them like they’re the enemy!” “Mrs. Riley, ignore her! She’s just a psycho who was abandoned by her own family and is now jealous of your happy, generous family!” “I pitied her before, but now I think her family leaving her was probably deserved!” Eliza, startled by my expression, joined my father in trying to dissuade my mother: “Mom, I know you feel guilty about… about the gene. But you’ve done everything you can. You don’t owe anyone anything. You have Dad and me. I’m the one who looks like you both. Let’s not worry about this unrelated person. We sacrificed so much during our ‘poverty phase.’ You need to let go of your guilt.” The look of guilt faded from my mother’s face. She sighed. “You’re right. I don’t owe anyone. And I have you, Eliza, who needs my care. There’s no need to concern myself with strangers. Since this young woman doesn’t accept my compensation, then I never offered it. Marcus, do whatever you need to do.” The chat erupted in cheers, eager to see me de-platformed. My father picked up his phone to call the streaming service. Eliza’s and my mother’s words echoed in my mind. The poverty game was a test, but only for me. In my own family’s heart, I was nothing but “an unrelated person.” My fingers brushed against an X-Acto knife lying on my desk. I numbly grasped it. A single voice screamed in my head: Stop fighting. No one wants you to live. I pressed the blade against my wrist, ready to apply pressure, when the apartment door behind me flew open. Kai Jensen rushed over, snatching the knife away, his voice thick with suppressed fury: “Aubrey Riley! You promised me you would live! Why are you being so reckless!” My full name echoed through the microphone. The three Rileys on the other side froze, turning to look intently at me.