"Please… just help me. I swear I’ll take responsibility for everything!"

Inside the car, Iris Whitmore practically collapsed onto the stranger’s chest, clumsily pressing her lips to his. They were so close their breaths tangled together, heat rising off them like they were both burning up.

She was supposed to be the Whitmore Clan’s long‑lost daughter, finally getting picked up tomorrow.

But tonight, the fake daughter standing in her place—Vivian Whitmore—had actually slipped something into her drink just to keep her from going home.

As a med student, Iris knew exactly how nasty that illegal drug was.

There was no time to make an antidote. If she didn’t find someone to help her right now, she might really lose her life.

Dodging the people chasing her, she’d had no choice but to stop a random car for help.

"Come on… can’t you at least respond a little?"

Flushed and panicked, Iris moved awkwardly, the mix of shame and desperation pushing her forward.

"Get off… cough… touch me again and—"

The man she was trying to provoke sucked in a rough breath, suddenly breaking into harsh coughs. A thin line of blood slid from the corner of his lips.

Something was seriously off with him.

Gritting her teeth through the drug’s effects, Iris grabbed his wrist and checked his pulse.

She froze—he was poisoned too, and his symptoms were already flaring.

If he didn’t get treated immediately, he wasn’t going to make it.

She pulled out a precious detox pill she’d kept on her, used her mouth to feed it to him, then swiftly started inserting needles to suppress the toxin spreading through his body.

Little by little, the poison’s rampage slowed.

The man’s gaze locked onto hers, dark and suddenly dangerous.

"I saved your life," Iris said, breathing unevenly. "Now you have to save mine."

She leaned in and kissed him again—only this time, the man grabbed control in an instant, flipping the situation so fast she barely had time to react.

The cramped, shadowy car shut out every hint of what had just happened inside.

Rain hammered down harder and harder, only stopping after two long hours.

Iris Whitmore was still flushed, breathing fast, her pulse a total mess. This so‑called antidote process… way too much.

The man’s hand stayed on her waist, burning hot, like the heat refused to fade.

He tried to focus on the woman in his arms, to see her face clearly, but the drug blurred his vision into nothing.

Iris quickly straightened her clothes. Before slipping out, she plucked the jade pendant from him, leaned close to his ear, and whispered,

"This debt… I’ll pay it back."

…

The Blackwell Clan’s bodyguards rushed in at full speed.

Zachary Angelou spotted the guards assigned to protect Mr. Blackwell passed out in the front car. His heart nearly stopped as he sprinted over and yanked at the door.

"Mr. Blackwell! Are you alright?"

"I’m fine."

That low voice drifted out, still carrying a faint, hard‑to-miss heat.

Harrison Blackwell slowly opened his eyes. The brutal waves of pain from the poison had eased a little.

"Did you find the Miracle Doctor’s successor?"

"I’m sorry, sir. No trace yet."

Zachary reported with a stiff, solemn look. "I did confirm that Charles Quincy used to live hidden out here. His apprentice supposedly surpassed him in skill, but their whereabouts are extremely difficult to track."

"Your poison attacks are getting more frequent, and the hospital meds aren’t helping anymore. And heading back to Capital City from here would take too long… I’m honestly worried—"

Before he could finish, Harrison lowered the window.

The streetlight cut across his impossibly sharp profile, and there was still a dangerous edge lingering in his eyes.

Zachary Angelou stared in shock and blurted, "Mr. Blackwell, your symptoms… they’re actually gone?!"

"Some woman barged into my car just now, begging for help… she can’t have gotten far."

He’d been too weak from the poison to fight back, which was the only reason that woman managed to slip in.

Harrison Blackwell lowered his gaze. The tiny drops of blood on his trousers made his expression turn dark and unreadable.

Zachary froze, instantly catching on.

Mr. Blackwell, the man who was notoriously strict about keeping any woman at arm’s length, had actually been taken advantage of at the moment he was the most vulnerable.

"Find her. I want her… to pay the price."

That woman knew medicine. There was a real chance she was the heir to the miracle doctor he’d been searching for all this time.

That night, the Blackwell Clan sent people combing through the countryside. They didn’t find anyone—and even brushed past the Whitmore Clan’s motorcade without realizing.

…

Three hours on the road.

Iris Whitmore was finally brought back to the Whitmore Clan’s mansion in the wealthy district of Capital City.

Both luxury cars were splashed with mud.

The household staff hovered around, craning their necks, dying to see what the long‑lost young lady—rescued from some rural town—actually looked like.

Iris stepped out of the car. A canvas backpack hung off one shoulder, her outfit plain and casual. Her hair was tied into a loose ponytail under a baseball cap, revealing half of a pale, delicate face.

"She’s here! Our Whitmore girl who went missing all those years—finally home!"

Mr. Whitmore hobbled toward her with his cane, each step slow and strained.

What had happened months ago had shocked everyone—

The girl the Whitmore Clan had cherished like a jewel had ended up in the hospital… only for tests to reveal she’d been switched at birth.

After a long and exhausting search, they finally learned the truth: another new mother with the same surname had accidentally taken their real daughter to a countryside village all those years ago.

Mr. Whitmore had always valued family above everything. Even with his health failing, he insisted on finding his biological granddaughter while he was still alive.

When he saw how thin Iris Whitmore was, his heart just about cracked.

"Sweet girl, you must’ve had a rough time out there. But it’s okay now. You’ve got all of us with you," he said, his voice soft but trembling with emotion.

Iris felt the warmth of his hand, glanced up, and gave him a small smile.

"Thank you, Grandpa."

"Iris, come inside," a middle‑aged man called out as he stepped forward.

He was Victor Whitmore, the current head of the Whitmore Clan.

"I’m your father," he said, and when Jenna Whitmore came downstairs, he added, "And this is your mother."

The moment Jenna saw Iris’s plain clothes and tired look, her steps froze.

Her gaze flicked between Iris and the polished, well‑raised Vivian Whitmore, and her stomach tightened.

If this was their real daughter… how was she supposed to face the relatives in the future?

"Hello," Iris greeted softly.

They were related by blood, but meeting for the first time still felt like dealing with strangers.

Still, Iris had her own reasons for coming back to the Whitmore family.

"You don’t even call us Mom and Dad?"

Jenna’s voice carried obvious displeasure.

They’d heard Iris grew up in some poor rural corner, her adoptive parents both gone. Jenna had automatically assumed she hadn’t received any real upbringing.

"She just got home. She’s not used to us yet. No need to rush," Victor cut in quickly, trying to ease the awkward tension filling the room.

"Iris, your two brothers got swamped at work and couldn’t make it back today. You’ll see them in a few days."

The sudden return of the real daughter had everyone still in a daze.

Iris Whitmore let out a noncommittal "yeah."

Her gaze slid past Jenna Whitmore to the girl standing behind her in a designer dress—Vivian Whitmore.

"Hi… sister."

Vivian took the initiative to walk up, her every movement polished, like she’d been trained to be the perfect lady since birth.

"I’m really sorry. I accidentally took your place. But don’t worry, I won’t touch anything that belongs to you. I’ll even… give Mom, Dad, and the boys back to you."

"I don’t recognize you as my sister."

Iris stared at Vivian, who was putting on her usual act.

Ever since she shared her countryside address with the Whitmore Clan, assassins had shown up.

Last night she’d slipped up and gotten ambushed—that stain was on her.

Vivian had been terrified she’d come back alive. She kept calling the killer nonstop, asking whether the job was done, practically losing her mind over it.

Iris let out a soft, cold laugh. "Things that were never yours to begin with—what makes you think you can ‘give’ them to me?"

"My bad, I misspoke."

Vivian instantly switched to her contrite face, like flipping a switch.

"Iris, you’re being way too rude!"

Jenna Whitmore couldn’t stand seeing Vivian hurt and jumped right in. "When Vivian found out the truth, she even tried to run away from home. We had such a hard time finding her. She suffered a lot out there. The hospital mix-up wasn’t her fault—she’s a victim too. She never wronged you."

"Iris, we’ve decided Vivian will stay with us. From now on, you two are the Whitmore sisters."

In Victor Whitmore and Jenna Whitmore’s hearts…

They cared way too much about Vivian Whitmore. Not their real daughter, yet they just couldn’t cut her loose.

If Mr. Whitmore hadn’t insisted on bringing back his biological granddaughter, they would’ve dropped the search ages ago.

"Do whatever you want."

Iris Whitmore glanced at the new notification on her phone, then asked, "Which room am I staying in?"

"Big sister, you can take my room. It was supposed to be yours anyway."

Vivian pointed toward the most luxurious room on the second floor. She’d already moved all her stuff out, piling the boxes neatly by the door.

She stood there looking all harmless and sweet, a soft smile on her face, acting like she was the perfect, gentle daughter.

"I just want to stay close to Mom and Dad, you know? They raised me. And from now on, we should get along like real sisters."

Iris didn’t even bother responding. She walked straight upstairs.

She wasn’t in any rush. Other people were.

Once she reached the second floor and put down her luggage, Victor Whitmore and Jenna Whitmore appeared at the doorway. The two exchanged glances, hesitating like they didn’t know how to start.

"Iris," Victor finally said, "your mom and I need to talk to you about something."

He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Our Whitmore Clan has a marriage alliance with the Blackwell Clan. Recently, Mr. Blackwell’s family came to propose. Vivian said she’s not ready to get married yet, so… we want you to meet Mr. Blackwell."

Everyone in Capital City knew Harrison Blackwell had fallen seriously ill last year. Now he was basically seen as a dying invalid.

Jenna had always been against this marriage. She couldn’t stand the thought of Vivian suffering in the Blackwell Clan.

Iris looked up slowly, her gaze sharp enough to make them flinch.

"Vivian doesn’t want to marry him, so you’re pushing me instead?"

A cold laugh slipped from her lips.

So that was it.

Her so‑called parents brought her home… just to toss their real daughter in as a substitute.