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The biting Detroit wind cut through my worn coat. Every day was a fight, cleaning floors, dodging debt collectors, haunted by the memory of my mother, Eleanor, walking out when I was five. Then, after two decades of silence, her sleek black SUV appeared outside my rundown apartment. Eleanor, dripping in luxury, had finally resurfaced. But her return wasn't for me; it was for my bone marrow, to save her "perfect" son, Leo, who had leukemia. She demanded my "sisterly duty," then offered a pittance for my life-saving donation. Her lawyer even tried to intimidate me, threatening to expose my difficult past if I didn't comply. It was a cold, transactional exchange for the body part she needed. My bitterness festered. Abandoned, struggled, and now, I was only valuable for my biology, a pawn in her meticulously crafted perfect life. Was this my purpose? To be a disposable resource for the woman who casually discarded me? The injustice burned. But then a mysterious informant revealed Eleanor's true secret: Leo was adopted, and her entire marriage to the tech mogul Jason was built on a web of deceit she was desperate to conceal. My bone marrow wasn't just for saving a life; it was to protect her empire of lies. This wasn't a request; it was a battle. And I knew exactly how to win.