The Daughter They Called Cursed

On the night before the violin competition, I was dragged into a basement by a group of men and subjected to biting and trampling for three long hours.

They took turns assaulting me, treating me like a toy, filming me reaching orgasm, forcing me to stare into the camera.

The pain and humiliation tore my consciousness to shreds. I screamed, begged, until finally I couldn't make a sound.

"That's about enough," the leader said, checking his watch. "Time for the main event."

Someone dragged over a rusty iron bar.

I realized what they were going to do and desperately tried to curl up my body: "Don't touch my hands! Please—"

He sneered, "Someone paid big money to make sure these hands never play violin again."

I struggled frantically, but they pinned me down.

The iron bar came down again and again, methodically destroying my right hand.

Knuckles, metacarpals, wrist bones—every inch was smashed to pieces.

Blood splattered on the cement floor as I watched my fingers twist into impossible angles, white bone protruding through torn flesh.

Then, the iron bar turned to my legs.

Knees, shins, ankles—they dismantled me like a doll, calm and cruel.

"All done." The leader tossed the iron bar aside. "Genius violinist? Nothing but a cripple now."

They left, leaving me lying in a pool of blood.

When my fiancé's bodyguards found me, I was covered in blood and flesh wounds.

My father rushed over like a whirlwind, looked at me, and immediately burst into tears, swearing he would find those people and avenge me.

My fiancé Julian arrived, eyes red, bending down to tell me he would bring in top expert teams to operate on me, telling me I had to hold on.

But as I lay in the hospital room, consciousness flickering in and out through gaps of pain, I overheard words I was never meant to hear.

"Richard, your men went too far," Julian's voice was lowered, but still carried a hint of complaint. "I only wanted Elena unable to compete, to make way for Sophia. I didn't expect them to cripple her legs too."

Dad was silent for a moment, his tone impatient: "I didn't expect them to be so vicious either."

He paused: "But this works out well. In her current state, she can forget about any stage forever."

"You really did it," Julian said with a cold laugh. "This way, Sophia can stay in first place."

"But Elena is still my daughter," Dad's tone held a hint of hesitation. "Seeing her like this, I still feel..."

"Don't you love Sophia more?" Julian interrupted him. "That Taoist years ago said Sophia was the Winslow family's lucky star. And Elena..."

Fifteen years ago in summer, father invited a man to read our fortunes.

The man pointed at Sophia saying "This girl will bring prosperity to the family," then glanced at me, "This one's fate is too hard, clashes with family."

After that, father never looked at us the same way again.

Every competition, every performance, no matter how many awards I won, he only had eyes for Sophia.

I thought I wasn't good enough.

I lay in the hospital bed, tears sliding silently down.

So it wasn't an accident.

They had planned all of this.

For Sophia, for that ridiculous prophecy, they destroyed my hands, destroyed my life.

"That's all superstition," my dad muttered, but didn't deny his preference.

He changed the subject: "What about the surgery?"

"No rush," Julian said. "Tomorrow is Sophia's finals. What if Elena recovers early and makes a scene at the venue?"

"You mean..."

"Delay it." Julian's voice was terrifyingly calm. "Wait until after Sophia's competition."

The doctor nearby was clearly startled and blurted out: "In this situation, usually the sooner the surgery the better. If delayed..."

Julian said harshly, "Just take the money and do your job. She'll never touch a violin again anyway. What difference does it make when the surgery happens? Crippled is crippled."

The doctor immediately shut up.

"Can't you watch your mouth?" My dad cursed under his breath but didn't refute. "She's still the daughter I raised for over twenty years."

"Then give her money for a lifetime," Julian replied dismissively. "Find a top rehabilitation center, hire the best caregivers, arrange everything properly—an unfortunate genius forced to retire, with family and fiancée steadfastly by her side."

He laughed. "You keep playing the loving father, she stays disabled for life, and Sophia keeps rising. Everyone wins."

Listening to their conversation, my world crumbled bit by bit.

Every tour, every medal, every media interview, whenever I looked up to meet my father's gaze,

He was always praising Sophia—"performed well," "very talented."

I told myself that was just his way of not knowing how to express himself to me.

Who could have thought he would treat his own flesh and blood this way for a man's so-called "lucky."

I thought Julian was at least an exception.

He shielded me from reporters.

When my fingers swelled from over-practice and I couldn't even hold the bow, he stayed up late with me, icing my hands.

In public, he held my hand and said, "She is the love of my life."

Now they claim to love me while pushing me toward a life of disability.

The hospital door opened, and I quickly closed my eyes.

My dad's voice was full of concern: "Ellie, are you awake? How do you feel?"

I forced down the urge to vomit and slowly opened my eyes.

"Where's Patrick..." My voice was hoarse. "Does my brother... know?"

"He didn't answer the phone," my dad replied first.

"My hand..." I said weakly, "When can I have surgery?"

Father and Julian exchanged a glance.

"The doctor says you're too badly injured, need observation first." Father looked guilty.

Then he put on a fierce act and called the doctors over: "What are you standing there for? Hurry up and check my daughter's injuries."

If I didn't know the truth, these actions would be enough to move me to tears.

Now, I just felt sick.

The doctor hurried over.

"You have multiple external injuries," he said. "We've given you painkillers and antibiotics."

I stared at Julian and asked: "Do we... really have to wait?"

Julian's gaze flickered, then quickly steadied.

He stroked my hair, speaking patiently: "Hold on a bit longer, you'll feel better soon."

Then he smiled slightly, leaned down, and gently pressed a kiss to my forehead.

"You're my fiancée," he said softly. "How could I ever hurt you?"

At that moment, I felt a bone-chilling coldness.

After they left, my phone vibrated.

It was a text from my brother Patrick.

[Ellie, I found the world's top neurosurgeon Dr. Morrison! He's vacationing in the Maldives, I've already sent a private jet to get him. Hold on! Wait for me to come back!]