The Birthday I Wasn't Invited To
Daisy Swift · Completed · 6.9k Words
Introduction
While kidnappers shattered my limbs and violated me to death, my family was throwing a grand party for my sister Chloe—yes, we shared the same birthday, but only hers was worth celebrating.
I called my father for help. He sneered and hung up: "Stop using this pathetic kidnapping stunt to ruin Chloe's birthday."
I called my fiancé Mark. He said with disgust: "If you're going to die, do it somewhere far away."
In the final second before the flames consumed me, I finally understood—
I was never loved in this family.
And now that I'm truly dead, now that they've discovered Chloe hired those men to kill me, now that the truth has been exposed to the world...
Will they regret it?
Or will they, as always, continue to favor Chloe and blame everything on me—the dead one?
Chapter 1
I died on my birthday.
At this very moment, my family was throwing a grand party for my sister Chloe.
Meanwhile, miles away in an abandoned warehouse, my broken body—limbs shattered by kidnappers, violated beyond measure—was being consumed by raging flames.
Before I died, a kidnapper ground his boot into my fractured wrist, forcing me to call for help.
My father's icy voice came through. "Elena, if you think you can use this pathetic kidnapping stunt to ruin Chloe's birthday party, stop immediately."
He hung up mercilessly.
In their eyes, my brutal murder was nothing but a performance to steal Chloe's spotlight.
What they didn't know was that the daughter they always called "dramatic" had finally, permanently, fallen silent in the flames.
......
Before the kidnapping, I'd been walking home.
Then a car screeched to a halt beside me.
A rough burlap sack, the acrid smell of chloroform, nauseating jolts in the darkness.
When I opened my eyes again, five masked men dragged me out like a broken rag doll.
After my father hung up on my desperate pleas, they erupted in unrestrained laughter and ruthlessly tore my dress apart.
Rough hands, foul-smelling breath, and brutal violation.
In excruciating pain and humiliation, the leader viciously grabbed my hair, forcing me to lift my tear-stained, mud-covered face.
I begged them to let me go, but that only excited them more.
"Smile. Your dear sister paid double to see you looking like a pathetic, begging piece of trash."
They humiliated me over and over, forcing me to smile and pose for photos until I passed out.
Then they pinned down my limbs and crushed them beneath their boots.
The agony nearly made me lose consciousness.
Satisfied with their sadistic pleasure, the men prepared to leave.
The leader lit a cigarette, then carelessly flicked the still-burning butt aside. It landed precisely in a puddle of leaked engine oil.
Watching the flames instantly spiral out of control and roar upward, they cursed and fled the warehouse, leaving me behind like garbage for the accidental fire.
Using my bloodied chin, I dragged myself inch by agonizing inch across the floor until I reached my fallen phone.
I captured the raging fire, my twisted, mangled limbs, and the kidnappers' sinister laughter as they left saying, "Chloe's final payment just came through"—preserving the truth forever in that phone.
With my last strength, I called Mark Sterling. My fiancé.
Jazz music and champagne glasses clinked in the background.
"Help me... Mark... fire..." My voice was a broken bellows.
"Enough, Elena!" Mark's disgust was palpable. "How long will you keep this up? Do you know how many elites are here? You're pulling this on Chloe's birthday? You disgust me."
"I'm dying..."
"If you're going to die, do it somewhere far away."
The flames engulfed me completely.
In my final second, I remembered our first date. Mark had promised: "My phone is on 24/7. If you ever call, I'll fly back immediately."
I'd laughed at him for overreacting.
Never did I imagine that when I truly needed him, he would sever my last thread of life with complete disdain.
Strangely, I felt no despair—only unprecedented relief.
I died.
Floating in mid-air, I found myself back at the Vance mansion—the place I'd desperately tried to belong to.
Mark stood at my desk, roughly flipping through my sketchbook.
It showed my mother confiscating my art and forcing me to sign Chloe's name; my father making me wipe Chloe's shoe while burning with fever; Mark draping his jacket over Chloe while I stood in shadows.
Every stroke was blood and tears I'd swallowed in silence.
Mark frowned impatiently and tossed it in the trash like diseased garbage.
That was my unspeakable pain, yet he couldn't even be bothered to look at it.
"Is she still refusing to answer?" My mother Margaret's voice dripped with disgust. "That wild orphan streak—you just can't tame it. She's ruining Chloe's birthday."
"Forget her," my father Richard scoffed. "She's always been jealous. If she doesn't show up, I'm cutting her off tomorrow."
I used to think obedience and art awards would earn me a little love. But until I died, they only cared about Chloe.
"I'll send her an ultimatum," Mark said, his annoyance replaced with refined politeness. "She'll come crawling back."
He texted: "Stop your tantrum and get back here to paint Chloe's portrait."
"Mark, you're too patient," my mother said sympathetically. "I don't understand why Elena met you first. Chloe is so much more worthy."
Mark's eyes flickered with smugness.
"Dad, Mom, Mark... still no news from sister?" Chloe's voice dripped honey.
Her phone screen showed our private chat. She'd typed: [Get played to death in the gutter, bitch. Mark, Mom, and Dad are mine alone.]
She quickly deleted it and typed instead: "Sister, please come back. I'll share everything with you."
Her eyes reddened convincingly.
"I'm so worried. She's not angry with me, is she?"
"Oh, my sweet girl." Margaret pulled her close, then snarled, "Look how kindhearted Chloe is! That ungrateful wretch doesn't deserve to be your sister!"
Mark gazed at Chloe with unmistakable affection.
Floating above, I stared at Chloe's mocking eyes behind our mother's shoulder, feeling suffocating despair.
Even if my phone held proof she'd hired my killers, what difference would it make? In my parents' eyes, I'd always be the villain.
When they uncover the truth, will they lament their choices? Or will they, like now, continue to favor Chloe, placing all the blame upon me?
"I'll grab a backup gift for Elena from the car," Mark said, checking his watch.
Chloe's eyes flashed with malice.
He returned moments later with a small box. Inside lay a cheap silver chain—nothing like the priceless ruby heirloom he'd promised but never delivered.
He sent another text: [Come back now. It's Chloe's birthday, don't embarrass her. Otherwise, I'll make you regret coming into this world.]
Stop texting, Mark. You don't need to warn me anymore.
Because from now on, your love, my parents, everything I desperately clung to—Chloe can finally have it all.
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