What Remains of Her Love

Digging through a dumpster for scraps, a stream of comments suddenly popped into my vision: "Isn't that the billionaire's kidnapped daughter? Poor thing!" "Her dad's loaded, but she can't even get a decent meal. What a tragedy." "Her father, that big villain, is about to off himself. Saying all this is useless; she'll just keep suffering." Huh? So, my dad’s rich, and if I find him, I won’t starve? Following the on-screen prompts, I sprinted to a lavish villa estate and pounded on the grand gate. The man who opened it had a shock of white hair, but his face—it was undeniably, strikingly similar to mine, at least an eighty percent match. “Dad! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” 1 The man was dressed in a sleek, black silk pajama set, impeccably tailored, making his frame look surprisingly trim. In one hand, he clutched a bottle of what looked like extremely expensive, unreadable vintage wine. In the other, a small white pill bottle. His gaze was utterly vacant, devoid of any emotion—no anger, no surprise, not even a flicker of recognition for my face, which was almost a mirror image of his. He simply stared down at the pill bottle. Beside him, the butler gasped, his face paling, and lunged to grab my arm. His voice dripped with disdain. "Where did this wild child come from? Do you have any idea where you are? Mr. Walsh is not someone you can just call 'Dad'!" The butler’s grip was surprisingly strong, digging painfully into my arm. But I’d grown up wrestling street dogs for food in alleyways, so my own strength wasn't to be underestimated. I clung to the ornate, cold iron gate, refusing to let go. “I’ll call him whatever I want! That's my dad! I can tell! He looks exactly like me!” I shrieked, my voice raspy, terrified that if I didn't shout loud enough, my rich father wouldn't hear me. The butler, his face contorted with fury, snarled, “Call security! Drag this lunatic away!” Just then, another line of blood-red text flashed across my vision, punctuated by glaring exclamation points. "Mr. Walsh, the 'Walsh Tyrant,' is three minutes away from swallowing those sleeping pills. Today is the anniversary of his late wife's death; he tries to die every year on this day." "This butler is working for the wicked stepmother, deliberately trying to drive away the real daughter so Mr. Walsh dies, leaving the fake daughter to inherit everything." "If this gate closes, Mr. Walsh is doomed." My heart plummeted. Three minutes? My golden ticket, my long-term meal plan—was it about to vanish? I’d spent eighteen years scavenging, scrounging for scraps. Now that I finally had a rich dad, how could I let him die before I even got one good meal? Summoning a surge of desperate energy, I clamped my teeth onto the butler’s hand, biting down with the same ferocity I used to fend off street dogs. He yelped in pain, his grip loosening just enough. I squeezed through the gate, a tiny, determined ferret. Instead of rushing to embrace my supposed father, I bolted towards him at a full sprint. My target was clear: the pill bottle in his hand. “Dad! Don't die! I haven’t even eaten yet!” I slammed into his chest. The pill bottle flew from his hand with a sharp clatter, white pills scattering across the polished marble steps, rolling into the grass, lost to sight. Mr. Walsh, the man I’d just addressed, staggered back two steps, the red wine sloshing from his bottle, dark crimson liquid staining his expensive pajamas. It was then, for the first time, that he truly looked at me. His brows were furrowed so tightly they looked etched in stone. “Who let her in?” His voice was cold, carrying the unmistakable weight of someone long accustomed to authority, making me instinctively shrink back. The butler, clutching his bleeding hand, rushed over, his face a mask of terror. “Mr. Walsh, I’ll have her thrown out immediately! This wild girl came out of nowhere.” “I’m not leaving!” I latched onto Mr. Walsh’s leg, pressing my face, streaked with days of snot and tears, against his expensive-looking trousers. What was dignity, anyway? Could it be eaten? “Dad, I’m Daisy! I’m really your daughter! I haven’t eaten in three days. Can’t you just let me have one full meal before you kick me out?” I tilted my head back, my grimy face staring up at him, forcing out a few more tears to make myself look even more pathetic. Mr. Walsh looked down at me, his foot, which had been poised to kick me away, suddenly frozen. His gaze locked onto my face, specifically my eyes. In those dead, vacant eyes, something violently stirred, something explosive bursting to life deep within them. The comments floated past again. "The resemblance! It's uncanny! Those eyes are exactly like his late wife's!" "The Walsh Tyrant is softening! He loved that woman more than anything. This little girl is saved!" I seized the moment, crying even louder, my voice cracking. “Daisy?” Mr. Walsh’s voice was no longer icy, but laced with a faint, almost disbelieving tremor. I paused. That name was given to me by the old beggar who found me. He said the tattered cloth I was wrapped in had a strange leaf embroidered on it, like a daisy petal, so he just called me Daisy. “Yes, I’m Daisy.” I answered honestly, calculating whether this name might earn me a meal. Mr. Walsh’s body swayed violently, his face turning incredibly pale. He reached out a trembling hand, as if to touch my face, but his fingertips stopped an inch away, as though my face was a fragile illusion that would shatter at a touch. He murmured, his voice so low it was almost inaudible, yet filled with pain: “…Evening Bloom, it’s our Daisy… did you send her back?” The butler’s face also changed; he’d clearly heard the words, and a flicker of panic crossed his eyes. Sure enough, Mr. Walsh didn’t move his foot. His hand, hanging at his side, clenched into a tight fist, knuckles white. Finally, he spoke, his voice cold, to the butler. “Take her in. Clean her up.” 2 This villa was huge, like one of those bewildering mazes I’d seen outside amusement parks. The chandeliers on the ceiling shone brighter than any stars in the sky. But I wasn't in the mood to admire it. I sat at a long dining table that could easily seat twenty people, a steaming bowl of seafood porridge placed before me. Mr. Walsh’s butler, Mr. Peterson, stood nearby, his gaze dark and suspicious. Ignoring the heat, I grabbed the bowl and began to gulp it down. The warm porridge slid down my starved throat, a comforting heat chasing away the icy grip of hunger in my stomach. It was unbelievably delicious—succulent shrimp and scallops, a luxury I wouldn't even dare to dream of. “Slow down. No one’s going to take it from you.” Mr. Walsh sat at the head of the table, dressed in fresh clothes. He held a glass of red wine, swirling it gently, but not drinking, simply watching me. I chewed on a shrimp, mumbling, “No one’s going to take it from me? In the slums, if you’re a second late, there won’t even be a bone left.” Mr. Walsh’s fingers, wrapped around the wine glass, paused. His eyes darkened, as if my words had pierced him. “You’re called Daisy,” he stated, not questioning, but confirming, “Who named you?” “The old beggar who found me. He said when he picked me up, there was a daisy leaf embroidered on my swaddling clothes, so he called me Daisy.” I licked the bottom of the bowl, still wanting more, looking at him. Mr. Walsh didn’t speak, merely set his wine glass down with a heavy, thudding sound. The sorrow in his eyes was so thick it seemed ready to overflow, as if my very presence were a knife twisting in his heart. “Give her another bowl.” Mr. Peterson walked over reluctantly. “Mr. Walsh, this girl’s background is unknown. Shouldn’t we investigate first?” “I told you to serve the porridge.” Mr. Walsh’s voice was low, uninflected. But Mr. Peterson visibly shivered, immediately shut his mouth, and obediently went to fetch more. Is this the aura of a powerful CEO? I thought, a flicker of envy. Once I settled in, I’d try to scare people like that too. As I was on my third bowl, the sharp click of high heels echoed from the doorway. “Brandon, I heard we have a guest?” Before she even appeared, her voice, sickly sweet, reached us, sending shivers down my spine. The comment section exploded. "The wicked stepmother is here! That's Valerie Sterling, the culprit who stole and abandoned the little girl back then!" "The girl behind her is Chloe Walsh, the current 'heiress.' Those two have been sucking Mr. Walsh dry for years!" "Watch out, Daisy! This woman is ruthless!" I put down my bowl and wiped my mouth. Showtime. The battle was about to begin. A woman in a white designer suit walked in, impeccably maintained, looking barely past thirty. Behind her was a girl in a princess dress, around my age, rather delicate-looking, but her eyes regarded people as if they were vermin in a sewer. The moment Valerie saw me, her smile froze. In that instant, I clearly saw a flash of terror in her eyes. “Brandon, who is this?” Mr. Walsh leaned back in his chair, not even bothering to lift his eyelids. “Just a stray I picked up.” Valerie visibly relaxed, then replaced her expression with one of disdain, covering her nose with a handkerchief. “Picked up? Brandon, why are you bringing just anyone into the house? She’s so filthy, who knows what diseases she might carry?” Chloe chimed in, “Yes, Dad, look how she’s made the dining table all greasy. It’s disgusting.” I looked at the two of them, a cold smirk playing on my lips. Disgusting? Just wait. I’d show them truly disgusting. I intentionally let out a loud burp, then grinned at Chloe, revealing two rows of white teeth still flecked with green onion. “Big sister, your dress is so pretty. Is it real silk? Can I borrow it to wipe my hands?” As I spoke, I lunged towards her. Chloe shrieked, darting behind Valerie. “Mom! Look at her! She’s a lunatic!” Valerie shielded her daughter, snapping, “Mr. Peterson! Get this lunatic out of here at once!” Mr. Peterson had been waiting for that command. With a wave of his hand, several security guards moved in to surround me. I didn't budge. I just looked at Mr. Walsh with a pathetic, puppy-dog expression. “Dad, I’m still hungry.” Mr. Walsh finally reacted. He lifted his head, his gaze sweeping coldly over Valerie and Chloe, finally landing on Mr. Peterson. “Since when did you make decisions in this house?” The security guards’ steps halted abruptly. Valerie’s face paled. She forced a strained smile. “Brandon, I didn’t mean it like that. I was just worried she might hurt Chloe.” “She came back with me.” Mr. Walsh stood up and walked over to me. He towered over me, his shadow falling across me with a palpable sense of intimidation. He reached out, his long fingers cupping my chin, turning my face from side to side. “Since she called me Dad, she’s part of the Walsh family. Anyone who dares to touch her is touching me.” At those words, a pin drop could have been heard in the dining room. Valerie’s nails dug into her palms, and Chloe’s eyes glowed red with jealousy. The comment section erupted in cheers. "Mr. Walsh, the Tyrant, is awesome! That protective dad vibe is amazing!" "Valerie must be furious. All her hard work over the years, and she's losing to a random wild girl." "Daisy, quick! Hug that golden thigh! That's your shield from now on!" I didn't hesitate, seizing the opportunity. I wrapped my arms around Mr. Walsh's arm, rested my head on his shoulder, and stuck my tongue out at Valerie and Chloe. “Hear that? I’m a Walsh! From now on, I can eat as many bowls of porridge as I want!” Mr. Walsh’s body stiffened. He made to push me away, clearly disgusted. But I clung on for dear life. No way was I letting go of this golden ticket. 3 That night, I was settled into a guest room. The room was vast, far bigger than the drafty shack I used to live in. The bed was so soft it felt like sleeping on clouds; I thought I might sink right into it. But I couldn't sleep. Not because I was unaccustomed to it, but because the comments kept scrolling wildly. "Don't sleep! Someone's coming tonight to steal your hair for a DNA test!" "Valerie will definitely switch the samples to make the results show you're not related." "Once Brandon Walsh thinks you're a fraud, you're done for!" I sat up in bed. Trying to switch samples? Not on my watch. I slipped out of the room barefoot, making my way to Brandon Walsh’s bedroom door. It wasn’t locked, just a crack ajar. I cautiously peered inside. Brandon wasn’t asleep. He sat on the sofa in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, holding a photo frame. Moonlight streamed onto him, making his strong back look heartbreakingly solitary. The comments floated by: "That's a photo of his late wife, Eleanor Walsh. He looks at it every night." "He was planning to kill himself tonight, but he postponed it because Daisy showed up." A pang of unease shot through me. This man, who seemed invincible, was clearly a mess inside. I pushed the door open and walked in. Brandon whirled around, quickly flipping the photo frame face down on his lap. “Who let you in?” “Dad, I can’t sleep.” I hugged my pillow, walked to him, and plopped down on the carpet. “This bed is too soft, my back hurts. Can I just sleep on the floor here?” Brandon frowned deeply. “Go back to your own room.” “No.” I refused to budge, a tactic I’d learned from street hustlers. “I’m scared of the dark. What if some bad person comes in to steal my hair?” Brandon actually snorted, a hint of a smile touching his lips. “This is the Walsh estate. Where would a bad person come from?” “You never know. Some people look human on the outside, but you never know what they are on the inside.” I said, meaningfully. Brandon was silent for a moment, then didn’t try to send me away again. “Suit yourself.” He turned back to gaze at the moon outside the window, the lines of his profile sharp and cold in the moonlight. I spread my pillow and lay down at his feet. A while later, I heard him ask in a low voice, almost a whisper. “Do you… really think you’re my Daisy?” He wasn’t asking about my name, but something else entirely. It was a strange question, but I could feel the intense pain mixed with a fragile hope in his words. I rolled over and looked at his profile. “Whether I am or not, won’t we know after a test tomorrow? But I need to be there for the whole thing. No one’s going to switch my DNA sample.” Brandon looked down at me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “What do you know?” “I know someone doesn’t want me to be your daughter.” I didn’t spell it out, but Brandon, a man who’d clawed his way to the top in the business world, would get the hint. He snorted. “In this house, whoever I want to be my daughter, is my daughter.” Powerful. That night, I slept soundly. In the hazy depths of sleep, I felt someone gently placing a blanket over me. The movement was soft, a little clumsy, as if they were afraid to wake me.