My name is Lisa Markle, and I had just turned eighteen when I packed my bags and left my small, struggling hometown for the big city, chasing the dream of a better life.
My father died young, and my mother worked herself to exhaustion selling sweet soup from a street cart to raise my two sisters and me. I couldn’t bear to see her struggle anymore, so I decided to move to the city and work as a dishwasher in a small noodle shop.
The work was grueling — every day I stood for hours, my hands soaked in greasy water and soap — but I pushed through. “Just hold on for a few years,” I told myself. “Save enough money, open a little tailoring shop, and bring Mom here so she can finally rest.”
Six months passed, and I began to adjust to city life. Then one day, he appeared. His name was Michael Cadell — around thirty-eight, tall, and always dressed impeccably in tailored suits. Every Saturday morning, he came to the shop, ordered the breakfast combo, and ate slowly, his movements calm and deliberate.
He wore an expensive watch, and his air of quiet confidence made people whisper that he was a real estate mogul who owned dozens of apartments across the city. Every time he came in, his eyes lingered on me, and his half-smile carried a mysterious air.
One evening, as I was wiping tables at the end of my shift, Michael stayed behind and asked to talk. He got straight to the point.
“Lisa,” he said calmly, “you’re young and beautiful, but life isn’t kind to people like you. I have a proposal — have a son for me. I’ll give you three billion dong. That’s enough for you to start a new life. A house, a car — whatever you want.”
His words dripped like sweet poison into my ears. Three billion dong — with that money, I could pay off Mom’s debts, open my shop, and send my little sister to college. I hesitated, but his cold, commanding gaze left me no escape.
“Alright… I’ll do it,” I whispered, my heart pounding.
Michael immediately rented a luxury apartment for me in the center of the city. Overnight, my world changed — from a cramped, stuffy room to a space filled with leather sofas and cool air conditioning.
He gave me money, fine clothes, and comfort. But in return, I had to “be there” for him whenever he wanted. At night, lying beside him, I often cried silently. “Just have the baby,” I told myself, “and everything will be fine.”
Nine months later, I was pregnant. Michael seemed pleased and began treating me more gently. But soon, strange things began to happen. He would disappear for days, his phone always off. Once, I overheard him on a tense call:
“She must never know. Do you understand? Never!”
I wanted to ask what he meant, but fear sealed my lips.
When my water broke, the pain was unbearable. I called his name over and over, and at last, he came — rushing me to an expensive private hospital. He held my hand and whispered, “Once you have the baby, you’ll have everything.”
But when I woke up after the C-section, my healthy baby boy lay beside me — and Michael was gone.
No message. No trace. His phone was disconnected. When I returned to the apartment, it was empty — every sign of him had vanished.
I panicked, clutching my newborn and crying until my body shook. Then, a strange woman appeared at the hospital — elegant, cold-eyed.
“I’m Michael’s wife,” she said icily. “Did you really think he loved you? That baby was only meant to save my son. He needed a bone marrow transplant. You were just a tool.”
The truth struck me like lightning. Michael had planned everything. His older son had leukemia and needed a biological sibling for a transplant.
The money, the promises — all lies. I wasn’t the first, but the third woman he had deceived this way.
My baby — my flesh and blood — was taken from me, and I was thrown out of the apartment with nothing.
I returned to my village, broken and humiliated. My mother could only hold me and weep. I tried to rebuild my life, but every night, memories of Michael and the child they stole from me haunted my dreams.
A year later, I saw him again — on TV. He was laughing beside his elegant wife in a real estate documentary. And there, playing next to them, was my son. My baby. He looked happy — they all did. They lived a perfect life, while I had been erased like a stain from his past.
Staring at my worn reflection in the mirror, I whispered to myself:
Will I ever find justice? Or will I spend the rest of my life as the victim of a three-billion-dong promise?
Note: This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only.
