The Heiress Who Bankrupted Her Family Chapter 2

The air in the grand living room turned instantly to ice.

Giselle’s chest, which had been rising and falling in dramatic, ragged waves, hitched violently. For one telling second, her breathing completely stopped.

Realizing her slip, she immediately burst into a fit of violent, body-racking coughs, tears streaming down her pale cheeks like open faucets.

"Sister... I'm not faking..." she whimpered, leaning helplessly against Vera’s chest, her voice like cracking glass. "If you don't believe me... you can check my medical records... I really... I really am sick..."

Vera felt her heart shatter into a thousand pieces.

She looked up at me, her eyes—which shared seventy percent of my own genetics—filled with absolute, unadulterated disappointment.

"Cassandra, what kind of venomous habit did you pick up out there in the gutters?"

She didn't yell. Instead, she let out a long, heavy sigh that practically oozed exhaustion.

"Giselle has been soaked in medicine since she was a baby. You have no idea how much pain she has endured."

"Not only do you lack a single thread of sisterly affection, but you also use the most sinister assumptions to judge her."

"Do you really need to see her die right in front of you before you feel things are fair?"

I stood beneath the glow of the massive crystal chandelier, listening to my biological mother deliver her moral verdict.

To be completely honest, I felt nothing. Not a single ripple of pain.

During my time with the DeWitts and the Kenneths, I had experienced true, unbridled devotion.

My uncle in the DeWitt empire transferred fifty-one percent of his core holdings to my name the moment I arrived, terrified I might feel insecure. My older brother in the Kenneth family bought me a private Caribbean island just because I mentioned I was bored.

Compared to that, the Whitmores' cheap emotional blackmail felt like children playing in a sandbox.

"You're right, Mother," I agreed, nodding with polite sincerity.

"I really don't have any sisterly affection."

"After all, I grew up an orphan. No one ever taught me how to play happy family with the girl who stole my life for two decades."

I offered a bland, diplomatic smile. "If my presence offends you that much, just call me an Uber. I'm not picky about the car model."

Malcolm’s face darkened completely.

He had clearly never encountered anyone like me—someone who didn't take the bait, didn't care for their approval, and refused to be manipulated by guilt.

In their carefully constructed script, I was supposed to be a desperate, insecure girl from the wrong side of the tracks, begging for their acceptance or throwing envious tantrums over Giselle's luxury life.

They hadn't accounted for me standing here like an amused tourist, watching their little theater production.

"Cassandra, you don't need to keep using your tragic past to wound our parents," Malcolm said, stepping toward the leather sofa and crossing his tailored trousers with practiced elegance.

"Since you are back in the Whitmore house, you will follow Whitmore rules."

He pulled a thick, leather-bound document from beneath the coffee table and slid it across the glass surface toward me.

"This is the Whitmore Family Trust and Estate Waiver."

"To prove you didn't return out of greed for the family fortune, and to give Giselle the peace of mind she needs to recover..."

"Sign this agreement relinquishing all rights to the family inheritance."

Malcolm looked up, his tone cold and clinical. "As long as you know your place and stay quiet, the Whitmores will ensure you are provided for life. I will even make sure your engagement to the Ross family remains intact."

It was a masterclass in robber-baron logic.

He spoke as if stripping me of my birthright was a grand, merciful act of charity.

Brandon stood off to the side, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "Miss Whitmore, I suggest you take the deal while it's still on the table. Without the Whitmore name behind you, you wouldn't even have the right to stand in this room and address me."

I stared down at the beautifully bound legal document.

A quiet laugh escaped my lips.

My first adoptive father, Lord DeWitt, had faked being bedridden for two weeks just to force me to accept his corporate empire. My second adoptive father, Patriarch Kenneth, had canceled my credit card limits and left black cards at every restaurant I frequented just to force me to spend his money.

And here was my biological brother, using a disinheritance agreement to test my worth.

"Sister, please don't hold this against Malcolm..." Giselle sobbed gently from the sofa, her eyes rimmed with red. "All of this belongs to you anyway... I don't want a single penny. Malcolm is just worried we'll grow distant over money..."

She broke off into another dramatic round of coughing.

I picked up the Montblanc pen resting on the table. Without so much as flipping through the pages, I turned straight to the final line and signed my name: "Cassandra Whitmore."

Swift. Fluid. Zero hesitation.

Malcolm blinked, caught completely off guard by my compliance. Brandon’s eyebrows knit together, a flicker of suspicion flashing in his eyes.

"Done," I said, tossing the heavy pen onto the glass table with a sharp "clack".

"However, Mr. Whitmore..."

I looked Malcolm dead in the eye, the corners of my lips lifting into a faint smile.

"Since I've officially waived my rights to the Whitmore fortune..."

"...if the family ever goes bankrupt in the future, don't you dare come to me asking for a loan."