Chapter 4 My Birth Mother and My Rich Family

Elena Romano's POV:

After they dragged Andrew in, those thugs double-checked our ropes and gave him a few kicks for good measure. He groaned a bit before passing out on the floor.

So much for my plan to use a rock to cut the ropes.

I leaned against the wall, too tired to even curse Andrew anymore.

I was completely wiped out. My lips were cracked from dehydration, and I was so hungry I could barely move. I needed to save my energy.

The basement was dimly lit, and the longer you stayed, the more the darkness got to you.

Andrew's painful groans echoed in the dark, probably because his bones were broken.

In the morning—or at least what I guessed was morning—a refreshed-looking thug came back in. He must've had a good night's sleep.

He glanced between Andrew and me, then walked over to me. "Look at you, all pathetic and dirty. I almost forgot you were a woman."

He didn't bother untying me, just grabbed my arm and dragged me towards the door.

"What are you doing? Let go of me, you bastard!" My voice was hoarse, but I yelled as loud as I could.

Andrew's groans got louder, almost like some weird laugh.

Damn it!

My being dragged out first made Andrew feel smug.

It was like we were on a death row stage. We were both gonna die, but the one who went last felt like they won. That's how Andrew felt right then.

The thug ignored me and dragged me out of the basement, down a long hallway, and finally to a staircase.

Whatever awaited me at the top of those stairs, it was a gamble – life or death.

"Don't be so scared, sweetheart. This is good news." He pulled me up to stand and then squeezed my butt.

I squirmed to get away.

"Some rich guy paid big bucks to keep you alive. Thank God for his generosity."

"Who is he?"

"Who knows, maybe some porn producer."

He squeezed my butt again, and when I tried to dodge, he grabbed my hair. "Until I hand you over, you still belong here, so behave." He reached out and squeezed my breast through my clothes. "Maybe they think some customers will like your skinny type."

"Get off! Bastard, take your hands off me." I shouted.

This was nothing to be thankful for.

Falling into the hands of some porn producer might be worse than dying.

Those guys who bought "actors" from thugs weren't running charity organizations.

They probably had some "customized" services for customers with really twisted tastes.

They might do horrible things to me, like Hannibal the Cannibal.

My resistance made the thug lose his patience, and he punched me hard in the stomach.

I let out a painful groan.

In that moment of pain, I realized I had no chance to fight back right now.

Thinking of Andrew, who hadn't been punished yet, I asked, "What about my foster father in the basement? How are you gonna deal with him?"

"Who knows, but no one's gonna pay for him anyway." The thug shrugged. "Alright, stop worrying about that, or I'll make you suffer more. Now, to satisfy our customer, you need to clean yourself up."

He dragged me up the stairs and shoved me into a bathroom.

Cold water drenched me, and I shivered.

I held back my screams as I quickly cleaned myself and changed into the clothes he brought. It was a set of cheap, overly revealing clothes, barely covering my breasts and genitals.

"This is all we have, but it looks alright." The thug whistled.

These clothes made me suspect I was being prepped to shoot porn.

Maybe, just like he said, a porn producer bought me, and they couldn't wait to get started.

When I was brought to a room covered by a curtain, my heart was pounding with anxiety.

Maybe behind this curtain, there was a naked man ready to rape me, and the cameras in the room would record everything and upload the video online.

But to my surprise.

Behind the curtain, there were no cameras, no naked man, just a man and a woman.

The woman was sitting on a clean chair, her back straight, moving elegantly, dressed in a beautiful pink suit with a pearl necklace around her neck.

Her chestnut brown hair was held back with a hair clip decorated with small diamonds, and a few curls fell over her forehead.

She was looking at her wristwatch, which also looked expensive.

She seemed to be waiting for something, her expression anxious.

The man stood behind her with black sunglasses and a black suit, his expression serious.

They looked out of place here, more like the wealthy people you see on the news, living glamorous lives.

When I appeared, the woman stopped looking at her watch and her gaze fell on me.

Upon seeing me, her anxious expression disappeared.

She picked up a handkerchief to cover her mouth while looking me up and down, then confirmed something with the man beside her.

I noticed her gaze was filled with embarrassment and doubt when it swept over my clothes.

I guessed she might not be waiting for me?

Maybe the thug brought me to the wrong room. This well-dressed lady didn't seem to have anything to do with me.

Especially since I was still wearing this ridiculous, prostitute-like outfit.

But then she stood up and quickly walked toward me. She reached out, pulling me into a fierce embrace.

“Elena, my Elena! Thanks God，I’ve finally found you!”

“Oh , ma’am, hello? Who are you?”

I instinctively tried to push her away, but her grip was too strong.

I felt confused; this stranger seemed terrified of losing me. After my struggles, she finally realized that I was almost out of breath, and she looked at me apologetically.

According to Isabella, the woman who held me, I was her long-lost child.

She holding my hands tightly, I noticed tears welling in her beautiful eyes.

“Elena, don’t you remember me? I’m your mother! My poor baby, what have you been through all these years? You look terrible.”

“... mother?” I stared at her in shock, unable to comprehend what I was hearing.

In her story, when I was very young, I had a tantrum on the street, yelling at her, “I hate you! You’re a terrible mother!” Then I ran off, leaving her behind.

Isabella had been hurt by my words and missed her chance to bring me back.

“I regret not chasing you down that day, even if it meant facing yours anger,” she said, her eyes reddened as she dabbed at the corners with her handkerchief.

“I often wondered if what you said was true—was I really a bad mother?”

Isabella had searched tirelessly for me until her husband received a DNA match notification, which eased her years of regret. She had come to take me home.

“You were just a child; it wasn’t your fault. I’m so sorry for letting you leaving our home for so long.”

She covered her mouth with the handkerchief, obscuring her expression.

Oh God, this couldn’t be a scam, could it?

Was she really my biological mother?

Is what she said true?

I looked at her expression, unable to recall a single word of what she was saying—not even a syllable. Did I really say such terrible things?

Why was she vague about how old I was when I was abandoned?

Confusion swirled in my mind.