Mrs. Clifford grew more and more outrageous. In her mind, a woman should leverage her assets, and youth and beauty were a woman's greatest capital. If she could go back to her youth, she would have definitely found a rich and handsome man to marry, instead of wasting her life with a useless one. But now, with one foot in the grave, that dream was impossible for her. So, she pinned all her hopes on her daughter.
Wendy was pretty and had a respectable job; she should be able to find a rich man. The man's age wasn't an issue at all. An older man would be even better; they knew how to take care of people. This was the fastest way to get money, and she hoped her daughter would understand her difficult position. At this thought, Mrs. Clifford's murky eyes lit up.
Completely oblivious to the icy pressure on the other end of the line, she continued her pitch. "An older one would be best. If you outlive him, all his assets will be yours. You won't have to worry for the rest of your life, and your dad and I could enjoy our golden years with you." Standing nearby, Janina was so furious at these shameless words that she wanted to punch someone.
She was starting to wonder if Wendy was even their biological daughter. Did they have a daughter just to use her as a bargaining chip? If marriage was a transaction, they might as well go to a high-end club. There were plenty of rich men there. With good looks, making money would be easy. But how was that different from selling oneself? No love. No warmth. No dignity.
For Mrs. Clifford to describe what was essentially prostitution in such a noble and pure way—and to her own daughter—was utterly shameless. Just as Janina was seething, Wendy finally snapped. She let out a furious roar and hung up the phone.

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