Author: Momo Chan

I stepped out of the car to buy my daughter her favorite strawberry gelato. But when I returned, the backseat was empty. My little girl was gone. For the next four years, I lost my mind. I tore the city apart searching for her, chasing dead ends ninety-nine times. My mother wept until her vision faded to shadows. My husband, Dominic Astor, only looked at me with venomous disgust. “Until you find our daughter, don’t even think about living in peace!” After my hundredth failed attempt, my heart finally turned to ash. I swallowed a handful of lethal pills. As the poison dragged me into the dark, I heard Dominic talking to the poor scholarship student I used to sponsor. “Dom, baby. It’s been four years. When are you going to tell Caroline that Cici has been hidden away at your private estate in London this whole time?” Dominic’s voice was ice. “There is no rush. She used her family’s money to force you to drop out of college. She threw those divorce papers in my face. She needs to learn that actions have consequences.” “Until her pride is completely broken, I am not stopping.” A single tear slipped down my cheek as my soul floated out of my heavy, lifeless body. Dominic. You finally got exactly what you wanted. 1 I chose to die in my daughter’s nursery, just to be close to the lingering scent of her baby powder. The private elevator dinged. Dominic stepped into the penthouse, bringing a gust of cold night air with him. He loosened his silk tie and swept his gaze over the dark, empty living room. “Caroline still isn’t back? Let me guess. She bought into another scam artist’s fake tip and dragged herself to some godforsaken slum.” Sophie clung to his arm like a spineless vine, giggling softly. “I have never seen an upper-crust heiress act so incredibly stupid. She believes literally anything people tell her.” “Dom, remember last time? She heard a rumor about Cici and ran straight into the slums by the docks. She almost got herself killed. By the time your security team found her, her clothes were torn and she was waving a piece of broken glass around like a lunatic. Who knows if those filthy men down there touched her…” Dominic’s eyes turned lethal. He shoved her away. Sophie caught the shift in his mood instantly. She swallowed her words, stepping close again to wrap her arms around his neck. She breathed heavily against his jaw. “It has been so long since you came to my place. I missed you.” Dominic grabbed her waist and pinned her against the velvet sofa. A cruel, mocking smirk touched his lips. “You really are a wicked little thing. You know exactly how to please a man, unlike her. If she had just swallowed her pride and looked the other way, her position as Mrs. Astor would be untouchable.” “But no. She had to use her family trust to ruin your education. She dared to threaten me with a divorce. If I don’t crush that rebellious streak of hers, the Astor name becomes a joke.” The harsh sound of fabric tearing echoed in the quiet living room. Expensive tailoring and shredded silk drifted to the floor. Right here, in the home we built together, they tangled together without a shred of shame. My spirit drifted near the ceiling. I thought dying meant I would not feel pain anymore. Yet my chest ached like someone was carving out my heart with a rusty spoon. Once upon a time, this proud man had fallen to his knees in front of me. He had gripped my wrists, his usually cold eyes brimming with desperate tears. “Caro, please do not leave! I was drunk. I thought she was you! I kicked her out already, I swear. Just believe me this one time. Do not say the word divorce!” I was dead set on walking out that door. So he grabbed a priceless antique crystal decanter, smashed it against the marble floor, and drove a jagged shard right into his own neck. It was fast. Brutal. Without a second of hesitation. I did not even have time to scream. I threw myself at him, pressing my hands against the wound, but the blood just kept pouring through my fingers. I cried until my voice gave out into pathetic hiccups. Dominic fought to stay conscious. His rough thumb brushed across my tear-soaked cheek. “If I die, let this be my penance. I just want you to forgive me. Live a good life with Cici.” He did not die. And I was foolish enough to let my heart soften. After months of agony and therapy, I chose to forgive him. I never imagined my forgiveness would buy me four years of being tortured like a clueless animal. Their heavy breathing finally stopped late into the night. Dominic lit a cigarette, staring at the front door with a tight frown. “Where the hell is she? It is past midnight and she hasn’t even bothered to text.” He snatched his phone off the coffee table, a muscle ticking in his jaw, and dialed my number. In the dead silence of the penthouse, a sharp, familiar ringtone started playing. It was coming from the locked nursery next door. Dominic’s hand froze mid-air. 2 A flicker of malicious joy crossed Sophie’s eyes before she forced a look of pure worry. “Dom, why is Caroline in there? Does that mean… she heard everything we just said?” Dominic’s face darkened. He buttoned his dress shirt, pushed past her, and marched straight toward the closed nursery door. My soul drifted right behind him. I watched his palm grip the brass handle. His knuckles turned stark white. He hesitated for three seconds. Then, a hollow click. The door swung open. My body lay stiffly curled under the blankets, my back facing the door. Dominic stared at my unmoving figure, a bitter scoff leaving his lips. “Caroline, since you heard everything, I won’t bother hiding it. Yes, Cici is at my estate in London. But you brought this on yourself! You were the one who used your parents’ money to force Sophie out of school. You were the one who threatened me with divorce!” His tone was glacial, dripping with arrogant charity. “As long as you drop this high-and-mighty attitude, the title of Mrs. Astor is still yours. No one is taking it from you.” The room was deathly quiet. Dominic waited. When I did not move, his expression turned toxic. “Playing the silent treatment game? Fine. Let us see how long you can starve yourself!” He slammed the door so hard the walls shook. I looked at his retreating back, wishing I could scream at him to stop. No matter how much he hated me, I was still his wife. He should just cremate me already. I wanted to go find Cici in the afterlife, not be chained to my own rotting corpse. But a ghost cannot speak. Ten minutes later, the front door opened again. Dominic marched back inside. This time, he was dragging a tiny, stumbling figure by the hand. It was Cici. My sweet, beautiful Cici. The daughter I had hallucinated about for four agonizing years. “You spent four years acting like a lunatic looking for her! Well, I had her flown back from London today. Are you happy now?” Dominic sneered, tossing the crying child onto the foot of the bed. He turned around, grabbed Sophie, and walked out, locking the door behind him. Animal. Absolute monster. How could he lock a terrified, weeping child in a dark room with a dead body! Cici pounded her tiny fists against the heavy wood until her palms swelled, but the door did not budge. The room was pitch black. She was terrified of the strange, unmoving shape under the blankets, too scared to even sob out loud. She backed into the corner, hugging her knees, her little shoulders trembling violently. I fell to my knees in front of her, trying so desperately to wrap my arms around her. “Cici, baby, do not be scared. Mommy is right here. Even as a ghost, Mommy will never let anything hurt you…” But my glowing hands just phased right through her tiny, shaking frame. Eventually, Cici cried herself to sleep on the rug, inches away from my corpse. When morning light filtered through the blinds, Cici sat up, rubbing her swollen red eyes. She peeked timidly at my face. My skin had taken on a sickening, bruised purple hue. She waited for a long time. Finally, her stomach growled. “Auntie? Can you wake up? I am so hungry…” The figure on the bed remained dead still. Cici dropped her head in disappointment. Suddenly, her eyes lit up. She reached out and picked up the empty pill bottle I had dropped on the floor. “Wow! Pretty candies!” Two highly toxic pills were still rolling around at the bottom of the plastic bottle. Cici tipped them eagerly into her palm. “Auntie, I am just going to eat two. I am so sorry. I am just really, really hungry.” “NO!” I unleashed a bloodcurdling scream, but the living could not hear me. Right at that exact second, the bedroom door was kicked open. Dominic had come in to check if I was ready to surrender. Instead, he walked right into a nightmare. His eyes widened in raw panic. He lunged forward, snatching the bottle. He read the warning label and grabbed Cici’s jaw, prying her little mouth open with his fingers. “Spit it out! Spit it out right now! You stupid girl!” Cici wailed in absolute terror. “Daddy, please do not hit me! I will not do it again!” Only when he was certain she had not swallowed them did Dominic let go, his face completely drained of blood. He turned his gaze to the bed. The exhaustion and disgust in his eyes were suffocating. Sophie peeked in from the hallway and let out a dramatic gasp. “Caroline! Even if you are mad at us, you cannot poison your own child! She is just a baby! You are actually trying to kill her!” Dominic turned his head away, refusing to look at me for another second. If he had taken just one step closer, he would have felt my freezing, hardened skin. He would have smelled the faint, sweet rot of decay hanging in the air. But he did not. He just scooped Cici up and walked away without looking back. Sophie trailed right behind him, a smug smile playing on her lips. Dominic drove them to the most exclusive brunch spot in the city. He ordered a massive spread of imported pastries and delicacies. Cici ate like she had been starving for days. But Dominic could not eat. He pushed away his expensive cup of tea and started chain-smoking, his leg bouncing restlessly. He unlocked his phone. Our message thread was still frozen from two days ago. No matter how stubborn his wife was, she had never dropped off the grid like this. Suddenly, a cold sweat broke out across his back. A terrifying thought snapped into his brain. “No… something is wrong. She is too quiet.” His face went totally white. He shoved his chair back, completely ignoring a startled Cici, and sprinted like a madman toward the parking valet. 3 Sophie chased after him, gasping for breath as she grabbed his jacket just before he got into the driver’s seat. “Dom, baby, calm down! Actually, I saw Caroline sneak out to the kitchen in the middle of the night. I tried to say hello, but she ignored me. She shoved me against the counter and told me to mind my own business…” Sophie let go of his jacket, biting her bottom lip, looking like the perfect victim. “Dom, do you think… Caroline is still refusing to forgive us?” Dominic’s foot froze just outside the car door. He let out a slow, shaky breath. The panic vanished, instantly replaced by a wave of cynical rage. “Of course. Pretending to go on a hunger strike while sneaking food. Even using Cici’s life to put on a sick little show. She really outdid herself this time.” With a dark sneer, Dominic walked right back into the restaurant, banishing every urge to go home. My soul drifted back to the empty, echoing penthouse. A few hours later, I heard frantic, stumbling footsteps rushing through the foyer. It was my mother. After four years of crying over my missing daughter, her eyesight was almost completely gone. She tapped her white cane against the walls, holding a thermal flask tight to her chest. “Caro? Honey, where are you? Mom brought you your favorite ribs…” She fumbled for the nursery door handle and pushed it open. Her trembling hands reached out, brushing against the bed. When her fingers finally touched my freezing, rigid face, a scream of pure, shredded agony ripped through the silence of the penthouse. Watching my mother clutch my rotting corpse, sobbing until she was choking on her own breath, my ghost actually felt physical pain. Hours later, the tears stopped. Her face hardened into something unrecognizable. To prevent Dominic from ever touching my body again, she quietly hired a discreet private funeral service. They wrapped me up and took me away before the sun even set. The next time anyone opened that front door, it was three days later. Dominic walked in, smelling heavily of bourbon. He peeled a clinging Sophie off his arm and kicked the nursery door open. “Caroline! How long are you going to keep up this pathetic act? Enough is enough!” He was greeted by nothing but a perfectly stripped, empty bed. Dominic’s heart skipped a beat. A weird, hollow feeling hit his chest. Then, his pride kicked back in. “Good! Perfect! You think you can run away? Go ahead and die out there on the streets! Do not ever come back!” He stormed into the master suite and ripped open my walk-in closet. Seeing all my designer bags and clothes still sitting on the shelves, he let out a heavy sigh of relief. The very next morning, Dominic ordered a dozen maids to pack up Sophie’s things. He moved her into the penthouse with all the fanfare of a new queen taking her throne. For the next few days, Dominic played the ruthless corporate king in the boardroom and the charming bachelor at high-society galas with Sophie on his arm. Everything looked perfect on the surface. But his eyes grew darker and more violently restless every single day. He spent hours just staring at a blank phone screen. On the seventh day of my disappearance, Dominic snapped. He drove to the family mansion, grabbed Cici by the arm, and shoved his phone into her face. “Call your mother! Tell her to drag herself home right now!” Cici shook like a leaf, bursting into terrified tears. Dominic’s eyes were totally bloodshot. “Are you completely useless? All you do is cry! You cannot even say one word? What good are you!” “Daddy, please… Mommy? Are you there? I am so scared…” Dominic cut the recording and sent the audio file to my phone. He typed out a follow-up message with shaking fingers: “Caroline, I have Cici. If you are not back in this house in thirty minutes, you will never see her again for the rest of your life.” Sophie watched the whole meltdown from the doorway. She let out a soft, pitying sigh. “Dom, you do not have to do this. You know how stubborn she is. She will come back when she realizes she has no money. Besides, it seems like she doesn’t even care about Cici that much…” Dominic did not hear a single word. He was hyper-fixated on the chat screen. Nothing. He dialed my number. Again. And again. And again. When the robotic ‘voicemail’ prompt played for the fiftieth time, he let out a primal roar and hurled his phone directly at the marble wall, shattering it into a million pieces. 4 Sophie flinched, her face draining of color. She had never seen Dominic, a man who always possessed terrifying self-control, lose his mind like this. “Dom… since she is being this heartless, just file for divorce! With the Astor legal team, you can leave her with absolutely nothing. Why are you doing this to yourself?” The word “divorce” hit Dominic’s brain like a flaming knife. A manic, almost unhinged laugh ripped from his throat. “Divorce? She thinks she has the right to divorce me?” He forced himself to breathe. He knelt down, picked up the cracked, sparking phone, and dialed my mother’s number. It rang and rang. Right before it went to voicemail, the line clicked open. Dominic did not even say hello. He barked into the receiver, “Helena! Is Caroline hiding at your place? Put her on the phone right now. I am done playing games!” Dead silence on the other end. Then, a raspy, broken sob crackled through the speaker. “Dominic Astor. You absolute monster… You drove my little girl into an early grave. Are you happy now? You will never, ever touch her again!” The call disconnected. A sharp dial tone buzzed in the air. Dominic froze like he had been struck by lightning. The blood rushed out of his head, leaving a ringing in his ears. But his massive ego fought back against the crushing tsunami of terror. Veins popped on his forehead. Sweat soaked through his expensive shirt. He frantically typed a message to my number on the shattered screen. “Caroline, so you got your mother in on the act too? Dragging an old woman into our fight, have you no shame?! If you want a divorce so badly, crawl back here and sign the papers! Do not force me to destroy your family’s business!” Message sent. Delivered. Left on unread. Standing nearby, Sophie only heard the word “divorce.” Pure, unfiltered greed lit up her eyes. She practically jogged toward the master bedroom, desperate to hunt down our marriage certificates. But before she even opened a drawer, chaotic, violent noises erupted from the living room. Dominic was acting like a rabid dog. He snatched up the weeping Cici from the sofa, practically crushing her against his chest, and stormed out the front door, radiating a terrifying, murderous energy. “Wait! Dom! Where are you taking her?!” The heavy oak door slammed shut in her face. Out on the midnight highway, Dominic’s sports car weaved through traffic like a guided missile. My soul was sitting in the backseat, wrapping my phantom arms tightly around Cici, who was so terrified she could barely breathe. Dominic, you absolute lunatic! If you want to kill yourself, leave my daughter out of it! I watched the street signs blur past. We were heading straight for my mother’s estate. Five minutes later, the tires screeched against the asphalt. The car aggressively hopped the curb, parking directly in front of the Sinclair manor’s iron gates. The second Dominic stepped out of the car, he looked up. Hanging high on both sides of the heavy wooden doors were massive, undeniable white and black floral wreaths. The ultimate symbol of a funeral. “No. No, this is impossible.” “Caroline! Stop faking! Open this damn door!” He looked like a trapped beast. He hammered his fists violently against the heavy oak, even as his legs buckled underneath him. “Do not use this kind of sick, twisted prank to curse yourself! If you have the guts, come out here and face me!” “That is enough!”

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The night I left my marriage with nothing, I wandered the streets of New York alone. A small ad on the side of the road caught my eye: [Looking for a stepmom. Age and looks don’t matter. Must be patient with kid. Room and board included.]() Room and board included. That’s what got me. That same night, I dragged my suitcase to the address on the ad. I walked straight into the mansion of Natpphan Sterling — the richest man in New York. George, the butler, stiff and condescending. “Mr. Sterling is looking for a mother for his child. Not a wife for himself. I need you to be very clear on that.” “Mr. Sterling is an exceptional man. Don’t get any… ideas.” I kept my head slightly down, eyes forward. Honestly, this job was perfect for me. To put it simply, they just needed a high-end nanny. I had only gotten divorced that morning. Remarriage? Couldn’t be further from my mind. But taking care of a kid and having a roof was a lifeline for me. I nodded respectfully. “I understand. I won’t get any ideas. You have my word.” George gave a curt nod and led me to the dining room. At a massive long table, a young father and his son were locked in a silent battle. The man sat there holding a bowl and a spoon, his expression dark. The boy bit his lip and refused to budge. Neither of them was backing down. The man pinched the bridge of his nose and lowered his voice. “Just one bite, Luca. One tiny bite. Can you do that for me?” George stepped forward and spoke to Nathan. “Sir, another applicant is here. This one seems honest.” The man slowly turned around. He wore simple black dress pants and a white shirt, a little bit of mashed potato stuck to his shirt. That handsome face — I’d seen it on the cover of Forbes before. A minute ago, I was worried this whole thing might be a scam. Now I could relax. He had no reason to trick some broke woman like me. His deep-set eyes swept over me, cool and brief. “What’s your name?” I said. “Claire Bennett.” He gave a barely perceptible nod. “Give it a try.” Then he stood, walked over to the sofa, crossed his arms, and leaned back to watch me. So this was interview. Feeding a child was probably harder for him than closing a multi-billion dollar deal. I had to nail this. If I could stay, at least I wouldn’t be sleeping on the street tonight. I put on what I hoped was a warm, motherly smile and walked toward the boy.

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I lay on the delivery bed. The contractions were coming faster now, one after another. My husband, Adrian Lang, held my hand, his eyes soft with concern. “Hang in there, Serena. We’ll meet our baby soon.” I was trembling from the pain, but I still forced a smile. Then a nurse walked in with a syringe. I thought it was the epidural. But Adrian let go of my hand and stepped back. The needle pierced my skin. Then I heard his voice. “Get the dose right. Make sure she doesn’t deliver before Vanessa.” My eyes flew open. I stared at him in shock. He glanced at his watch. “Vanessa’s already six centimeters dilated. Buy us two more hours.” I wanted to scream. I wanted to fight back. But the drug was already in my system. The contractions suddenly weakened, as if something inside me had been forced still. … They moved me to a temporary room in the basement. Adrian’s sister, Chloe Lang, stood in the doorway, idly turning a scalpel in her hand. “Don’t blame Adrian, Serena.” “The baby Vanessa’s carrying is my brother’s only child.” She smiled. “It’s a boy and he’ll be the Lang family’s first grandson.” Her gaze dropped to my stomach. “So what if you go into labor first?” “You’re only carrying a girl.” I covered my belly with both hands. Another wave of pain broke through the medication, and my vision blurred. “Call a doctor. I’m about to give birth. Please…” Chloe laughed. She walked over and crouched in front of me, then tapped my cheek lightly with the scalpel. “Give birth?” “That drug will keep working for another three hours.” “Vanessa’s already in the delivery room.” “So stay here and wait.” “After her baby is born safely, you can have yours.” She rose to her feet and looked at the bodyguard outside. “Keep an eye on her.” “If she dares to scream, gag her.” The door slammed shut. The basement was lit by a single dim emergency light. I lay on the floor as blood slowly spread beneath me. Adrian had taken my phone the moment we arrived at the hospital. He said radiation wasn’t good for the baby. Now I understood. He was afraid I’d call someone. I curled up and tried to breathe through the pain. But all I could see was Adrian’s face. Cold. Calm. Like I meant nothing to him. Not his wife. Not the woman carrying his child. Three months ago, his older brother died in a car accident. He left behind his pregnant wife, Vanessa. At the funeral, old Mr. Lang held Vanessa’s hand, tears streaming down his face. “That child has to be born safe.” “The Lang family can’t lose its heir.” Back then, I even felt sorry for her. I stepped forward and said, “Dad, don’t worry. Adrian and I will raise our baby well too.” He looked at me and said nothing. Only now did I understand. He had already given up on my child. “Ah—” Another contraction tore through me. This one was stronger. The drug was wearing off. The baby was coming. I crawled to the door and pounded on it with all the strength I had left. “Someone! Please! I’m about to give birth!” “Please save my baby!” No one answered. I kept screaming until my throat turned raw. At last, I heard the bodyguard’s impatient voice from outside. “What the hell are you yelling for?” “Miss Lang told you to wait, so wait.” “But my baby—” He cut me off with a sneer. “If it dies, it dies.” “That’s your bad luck.” Then he spat out one last cruel sentence. “That’s what you get for carrying a girl.” My whole body went cold. I collapsed onto the floor. This wasn’t fate. They were trying to kill my baby.

I had no idea how long I had been trapped in that basement. The bleeding only got worse. Everything beneath me was soaked with blood. Just as the edges of my vision began to blur, the door swung open. It was not Chloe. It was not the bodyguard. It was the Lang family’s doctor, Carter. The second he saw me, all the color drained from his face. “Serena? What are you doing down here?” “Adrian told me you were resting in one of the VIP rooms.” I tried to answer. Nothing came out. Tears spilled down my face as I lifted a trembling hand to my stomach. Carter rushed over and dropped to his knees beside me. The moment he examined me, his expression changed. “Oh God.” “The baby’s crowning.” “Your water already broke.” “I need to get you into surgery right now.” He reached down to lift me, but the second my body shifted, a hot gush poured between my legs. Blood. So much blood. Carter’s hands started shaking. He turned toward the doorway and shouted, “I need help in here!” “She’s bleeding heavily!” But the hallway outside was empty. This private hospital belonged to the Lang family. Tonight, the entire building had been cleared for Vanessa’s delivery. All the doctors and nurses were upstairs, gathered outside her delivery suite. Carter yanked out his phone and tried to call for help. But there was no signal in the basement. “I’m taking you upstairs,” he said through clenched teeth. “Stay with me.” Then he bent down, gathered me into his arms, and ran. Or tried to. The stairwell felt endless. Every step sent a brutal jolt through my body. The pain was so intense I thought I might black out at any second. I could feel the baby dropping lower and lower. But she still would not come. The drug was still in my system. My contractions were weak and uneven. That was the worst part. “Doctor…” I clutched at his coat, barely able to force the words out. “If it comes down to it… save my baby.” “Don’t say that.” “You’re both going to make it.” At last, he reached the first floor and rushed toward the operating room. But the moment we got there, both of us froze. The OR doors were wide open. Inside, there was nothing. The surgical lights were gone. The operating table was gone. The monitors, the oxygen equipment, every last piece of medical machinery… Gone. The room was completely empty except for the wall outlets. Carter stood there in stunned disbelief. A strangled sound died in his throat. “How is this possible?” “I checked everything myself this afternoon…” Footsteps echoed down the hall. Chloe approached with two nurses behind her. The moment she saw us, one brow lifted. “Carter? What are you doing down here?” “Vanessa is upstairs in the delivery room.” “Why come all the way down here?” Carter pointed at the empty operating room. His voice shook. “Where is the equipment?” “Who cleared out this room?” Chloe looked at him with wide, innocent eyes. “We moved everything upstairs.” “Vanessa’s having a C-section, so of course she gets priority.” “If anything happens during surgery, she’ll need all the equipment close at hand.” “We couldn’t risk leaving her in a standard OR.” As she said it, her gaze shifted to me. Then she smiled. “Oh. Serena, you’re in labor?” “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.” “Vanessa comes first.” “So you’ll just have to hold on a little longer.” I stared at her beautiful, smiling face. Suddenly, I remembered something she had said to me six months ago. Back then, we were out shopping together. She had slipped her arm through mine and smiled up at me sweetly. “You’re so good to me, Serena.” “Better than any real sister.” That day alone, I spent over a hundred thousand dollars on designer bags for her. Looking back now, I was a fool.

Carter rushed into the nurses’ station like a man possessed. He tore through every cabinet, searching for emergency supplies. There was nothing. The shelves were empty. No clamps. No gauze. Not even basic medication. “Where are the drugs?” he shouted. “The meds to stop the bleeding. The ones to induce stronger contractions. Where are they?” A nurse lowered her head. “They were all taken to the third floor.” Carter froze. “What do you mean?” Her voice dropped even lower. “Mr. Lang ordered that everything be prioritized for Ms. Vanessa.” Carter slammed his fist against the cabinet. Then he turned to look at me. His eyes were red. His lips trembled. “I’m sorry, Serena.” “I’m so sorry.” “There’s nothing I can do.” Chloe walked over and lightly patted his shoulder. “Carter, don’t worry.” “Vanessa hasn’t delivered yet.” “Once she’s done, they’ll move the equipment back downstairs.” She glanced at my stomach and added in an almost careless tone, “Besides, even if the baby comes now, so what?” “It’s only a girl.” “If she dies, she dies.” “The Lang family won’t care about one little girl.” I stared at her. At the girl I had loved like my own little sister for three years. Then, with every ounce of strength I had left, I forced out two words. “You bastard.” Chloe’s expression darkened at once. She bent down and leaned close to my ear, her voice barely above a whisper. “Go ahead. Curse all you want.” “Once you give birth, you’ll be too weak to fight back. And when that happens, I’ll make sure you stay quiet.” “By then, Vanessa will take your place.” “As for you…” She straightened and smiled brightly. “If my brother is feeling merciful, maybe he’ll let you live. You can stay in the house. As a servant.” Carter could not hold back anymore. “Miss Lang, this is murder!” “Murder?” Chloe gave a cold little laugh. “Watch what you say, Carter.” “Women die in childbirth every day. That’s hardly unusual.” “Besides, this is a family matter. You’re an outsider. This is none of your business.” Then she motioned to the bodyguards. “Take Carter away. Leave Serena to me.” Two bodyguards stepped forward immediately. They grabbed Carter by the arms and dragged him toward the door. He struggled against them and shouted back at me, “Serena, listen to me! Try to keep the contractions going! Press your acupoints! Stay awake!” “Don’t give up! Your baby still has a chance!” His voice grew fainter and fainter. Then Chloe shut the door and turned back to me. She pulled a phone from her pocket and started a video call. “Adrian,” she said sweetly, “Serena’s about to give birth. Do you want to take a look?” A second later, Adrian’s face appeared on the screen. He was standing outside a delivery room. Doctors and nurses moved quickly behind him. “Chloe, stop messing around. Vanessa’s condition is unstable. The baby’s heart rate is dropping.” Chloe tilted the phone toward me. “Look at Serena,” she said lightly. “She’s bleeding a lot. Do you think she’s about to die?” Adrian looked at the screen. He frowned for a second. Then he looked away. “She can wait.” “Once Vanessa delivers, the doctors can go downstairs.” “Chloe, keep an eye on her. I can’t leave right now.” The call ended. Chloe put her phone away and shrugged. “You heard him.” “To Adrian, Vanessa comes first.” “As for you…” “You were nothing more than a womb.” “Now that you’re no longer useful, you get thrown away.” I closed my eyes. I refused to look at her again. Slowly, I slid one hand behind my back and felt along the inner lining of my dress. It was still there. A tiny device, no bigger than a button. My father had given it to me. I could still hear his voice from that day. “Serena, the Lang family is dangerous. If anything ever happens to you, press this.” Back then, I laughed and told him he was worrying too much. “Dad, I don’t need it. Adrian is good to me. So is everyone in the Lang family.” Now I understood how foolish I had been. I hooked a fingernail under the protective cover. Pried it open. Then pressed the button. There was no sound. No light. But I knew the signal had gone out. My father once told me that if I ever used it, someone would get to me within thirty minutes. But thirty minutes… could my baby make it that long?

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They say my husband loves me. They also say he sent me my fiancé’s severed legs in a Tiffany box on my eighteenth birthday — with a note that read: “Be mine.” To get me to marry him, Damien Moretti chopped off my fiancé’s legs. Wrapped them in red ribbon. Called it a present. So I returned the favor. Had him grabbed. Cut the tendon clean out of one leg. Carved out one of his eyes for good measure. He didn’t scream. Didn’t curse me out. He laughed. “See, baby? Told you. You and me — we’re the same animal. Born for each other.” And the worst part? I laughed too. Because that twisted son of a bitch was right. Eight years. Eight years of bullets, bodies, and bad decisions dressed up as love. Then she showed up. Some pretty little thing.Eyes too big and too innocent to be real. The kind of girl men write poems about and women. Sienna Russo. She walked up to my door. In a white dress. Like she belonged. “Damien told me himself,” she said, chin up, lips pouted. “You’re filthy, Aria. He’s done slumming. Girls like me are what he keeps now.” I let her finish. Even gave her a little nod. Sure, sweetheart. Whatever helps you sleep. Then I pulled the blade off my thigh and opened her face like an envelope. “Pretty little angel, huh?” I purred while she screamed. “Let’s see how the boys like you with the wings ripped off.” Her shrieking was the best music I’d heard all week. I snapped a picture. Sent it to Damien. Trash on my doorstep. Yours, I think. Ten minutes. That’s how long it takes him to come tearing through my door, gun bulging under his jacket. “What the fuck did you do, Aria?” I exhale smoke right at his face. “Took out the trash. A ‘thank you’ would be nice.” His jaw locks. That dead eye of his flickers — red, wrong, like something crawled into the socket and stayed there. “You don’t touch what’s mine. You know better than that.” I tilt my head. Tap my ear. Frown. “Sorry — couldn’t catch that over all the yipping. Come again?” “Aria—” Sienna throws herself against his chest, sobbing into the silk. “Damien — kill her! Kill her for me! Look what she did to my face! She did it ’cause she’s jealous — ’cause you love me!” He shoves her off. Sees the meat where her cheek used to be. His good eye goes black. The gun snaps up. Cold against my forehead. Safety clicks off. “Aria Lombardi.” Voice colder than the steel. “You went too far.” “She’s a kid. She’s not like us.” I smile. Push the barrel aside with one lazy finger. Blow smoke between his lips. “Oh? So what now, Don? Gonna pull the trigger? Even the score for your little pet?” Closer. My mouth ghosts his jaw. “Or maybe…” I drag it out, sweet as poison. “You wanna cut up my face too? Make us match? Couples therapy?” “You know I’m not that stupid bitch. You know what comes after.” The knife is already kissing his liver. He hisses. His men flood the room. Six guns trained on me. He just looks at me. Long. Quiet. Then he laughs. Soft. Almost fond. He waves one hand. “Out. All of you. I didn’t fucking call you. Out.” The room clears. “Aria. You’re really something else.” “Right back at you, Don. You taught me well.” To make me ugly, just like him, he sent me my fiancé’s legs in a box tied with red ribbon. To drag me to the altar, he wrapped his hand around mine and shoved a blade straight through my fiancé’s heart. He whispered in my ear, blood drying on his cheek, love burning in his one good eye: “Once you’re dirty as me, no man on earth will want you. Just me. Always just me.” He pulled me out of the light and buried me in the dirt with him. The white gardenia is red now. Soaked through. You don’t wash that out. And now he likes them clean? Cute. “What’s the matter, Don? Don’t like your gift?” I drag the tip of my knife slow across his shirt. “Right — silly me. You like to take legs off. I went easy on her. Real soft touch. I’ll do better next time. Promise.” Sienna shrieks into his sleeve, yanking on him, begging him to make me pay. He stares at me. A long, long time. Then he turns. Picks her up. Carries her out. At the door, he doesn’t look back. “Remember this, Aria. We’re not done.” The fallout comes faster than I thought.

That night, Damien drags every doctor on the Family payroll out of bed. One scar on her face, and I bury every last one of you. Word reaches me while I’m out by the tank, feeding my sharks. “Easy, baby. You’ve been hungry, haven’t you?” I tap the glass. “Mama’s got you.” Matteo stands behind me, jaw clenched, draping a coat over my shoulders. “He’s out of line this time, Donna. Eight years — and he’s never once turned on you for a woman.” “That chair he sits in? You handed it to him. The Family is his because you let it be.” I just shake my head. Smile a little. “He’s a toy, Matteo. Let him throw his fit. When he’s done, I’ll be the one zipping the bag.” I press a finger to Matteo’s lips. Soft warning. “And watch the word ‘Family.’ On paper, we’re a holding company now. Don’t slip.” I turn back to the tank — to the row of pretty little fish Damien spent years raising. His pride and joy. “Drop them in. Useless things don’t get to live in my house.” A hundred shiny little bodies. Thrashing. Darting. Nowhere to hide. The sharks don’t miss. I watch it all turn red, one fish at a time, and I laugh out loud. Hasn’t been that fun in months. I snap a photo. Send it. Fun, huh? Wasn’t enough though. Stock the tank better next time, Don. He doesn’t text back. He calls. Video. I pick up — and there she is. Sienna. Smug little smile under the bandages. “Aw. Sorry it’s not him, babe?” “News flash — he didn’t dump me. He swore he’d make you pay. Pulled every doctor your family’s got out of bed for me.” “Heard you can’t sleep without a needle these days. Sweet dreams tonight?” She leans in. Lets the robe slip. Bite marks all down her collarbone. “You’re filthy, Aria. You make me sick.” “Me? My hands are clean.” I smile. “Clean? Pity. Clean girls don’t last long in the Moretti house, sweetheart.” Line dies. Matteo walks in. Folder under his arm. “Donna. The items. We found them. Black-market auction. Tomorrow night.” Finally. “Eight years.” I exhale. “Wire five hundred million. Tomorrow, I bring them home.” The auction floor. Old money. Old blood. Old enemies in tuxedos. And of course — them. Sienna’s hanging off Damien’s arm. Spots me. Lights up. “Ms. Lombardi! Small world. Something here catch your eye too?” She tilts her head, sweet as syrup. “Pity. Damien said everything tonight’s mine. Little ‘sorry’ gift.” Damien feels my eyes. Pats her hand like she’s a nervous puppy. “That’s right. I said it.” “You crossed a line last time. Call this even.” “Don’t be difficult, Aria.” Cute. Last spring, I put forty of his enemies in the ground for him. He kissed the blood off my hands and called me his good girl. Now Sienna pouts, and suddenly I’m the difficult one. I look straight at him. Voice soft. “You didn’t see the pictures last night, Don?” “Guess not. Otherwise you wouldn’t be in such a good mood, would you?” His face freezes. Head snaps to her. She stammers. Just some stupid fish, baby — didn’t look important. So I deleted them for you— His breath goes sharp. “Who the hell told you you could touch my phone?” One tear. The words die in his throat. “Forget it. Auction first. We’ll talk at home.” The bidding starts. Damien doesn’t even glance at the catalog. Just lifts one finger. Don’s Privilege. The whole room sucks in air. My face goes to stone. Lot after lot. His. Then the last three roll out — and I’m on my feet. My mother’s pearls. The crucifix my father had blessed in Palermo. My grandfather’s painting — the only thing of his I have left. I grab the runner by the sleeve. “Those three. Mine. I don’t care what they cost.” The man goes white. Voice shaking. “Donna — please. You know the rule. Don’s Privilege. Don’t make me die for this. Please — go talk to Don Moretti yourself.” I walk to Damien’s private box. Push the door open. I don’t even get the words out. Sienna’s manicured finger is already on the screen, pointing at the three lots glowing under the spotlight. “Damien, baby. Those three? I love them. I want them.”

Damien stiffens. “You just said this stuff was tacky.” “Yeah, but now I want them. You’re not gonna give them to me? Me and the baby are gonna be upset. When he’s born, I’ll tell him his daddy’s a cheap bastard!” My breath stops. I look at her stomach. Still flat. So that’s why a woman dared to walk into my house. She’s carrying his. Damien’s face goes cold. “Aria. I already promised Sienna. If you like them, I’ll find you something else later.” “You know what these mean to me!” Eight years ago, my Family was bled dry by old enemies. Everything that mattered to me — vanished. I killed a hundred of their men. But the one at the top? He wouldn’t talk. He wanted me to suffer. In the end, it was Damien who did it. Tortured him for a whole month. Damien’s voice grinds, anger barely held in. “They’re dead people’s junk. Why do you care so much?” “I told you I’ll make it up to you. This one goes to Sienna. You owe her this.” Sienna steps forward. Smiles. “Right, Ms. Lombardi. Mom and Dad are dead. Keeping their stuff just makes it hurt more, doesn’t it?” “You think maybe they died like that because you racked up too much bad karma? I heard they got their arms and legs chopped off. Sewn up into dolls. First time I heard that, I almost passed out!” The words drive into my heart. Rip me open. I slam her face-down on the table. Pull the knife from my thigh. Press it to her wrist. “You talk too much.” “The pearls — or your hand. Pick one!” Damien is on his feet. Kicks the knife out of my grip. I draw my gun. Press it to her belly. “Aria! Let her go!” “Sienna’s only telling the truth. You’ve killed plenty of people — you can’t handle a little honesty?” “If your parents hadn’t made so many enemies, they wouldn’t have died that way! Look at yourself right now. I don’t even recognize you anymore!” The gun jerks in my hand. Almost goes off. I’m shaking. All of me. He knows exactly why my parents died. The men who came that night , they were coming for him. Not us. They grabbed three of us at once. My father. My mother. Damien. Then they made me choose. Save my parents — Damien dies. Save Damien — my parents die. At the end, Mom and Dad looked at me. Said they were too old. Said they couldn’t protect me anymore. Said the Family would have to be left in Damien’s hands. They weren’t murdered. They put the bullet in their own heads. So I wouldn’t have to choose. After they were gone, the enemies let Damien walk. But they took my parents’ bodies with them. By the time I tracked the bastards down, the place was empty. All that was left were two rotting dolls. Stitched together. Limb by limb. I dug their grave with my bare hands. Ten fingertips down to the bone. The whole time I dug, Damien knelt beside me. Hours. Didn’t move. He smashed his forehead into the headstone until it split open. Swore on his life he’d protect me. That same night, he carved my name into his chest with his knife. “Aria is my heart. From now on — where I am, you are.” “You’re my life.” I grind the cigarette out behind Sienna’s ear. Smile down at her. Wide. Wrong. Then I slowly let her go. “You’re right. They wouldn’t like what I’ve become.” Sienna throws herself sobbing into Damien’s arms. “She’s a psycho!” He just stares at me. I slide my hand into my pocket. He tenses. Instantly. Until he sees what I pull out — a man’s gold band. He breathes out. “Got a present for you, Don. Let me put it on for you myself. Okay?” He lets go of Sienna. Walks to me. Holds out his hand. Obedient. Like muscle memory. The blade flashes. His ring finger drops to the floor. I laugh. Out loud. Wild. “Damien, this is what you owe me!” “I’m taking it back. Piece. By. Piece!” I twirl the knife between my fingers and step toward Sienna.

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Twenty years ago, my dad was in a car accident. My mom, a top-tier lawyer, used her entire fortune and all her legal expertise to win the case for the culprit. All because the culprit was the man she loved but couldn’t have. Later, that man was acquitted and released, while my dad died. Twenty years later, I became the “Ironclad Lawyer,” a name that struck fear into the hearts of many in the legal community. A man knelt outside my firm, begging someone to take his wife’s hit-and-run case. The perpetrator brazenly boasted that no one in Evergreen City would dare touch his wife’s case because his mother was a legal titan. I flipped open the familiar, sickening family photo. With a cold sneer, I slammed the retainer agreement onto the table. “I’ll take this case.” In the emergency surgery ward’s hallway. A middle-aged man stepped forward. “Mr. Miller, thank you for agreeing to help us…” He was the husband of the injured delivery driver, whose leg was broken. I didn’t speak. I looked down, flipping through the perpetrator’s medical records and the synchronized police accident report in my hands. One hundred and forty miles per hour, in a city zone. A few steps away, the VIP room door was ajar. I turned my head slightly. On the hospital bed, the young perpetrator lay with his eyes closed. His face was pale. But the curve of his eye socket and brow bone. They were exactly like that person’s. Footsteps interrupted my thoughts. A woman in a high-end tailored suit walked out of the room. She was Ethan Campbell’s fiancée. She glanced at the unsigned settlement agreement in my hand. Her face hardened. “Two hundred thousand dollars.” “To hire you as my litigation lawyer. What do you say?” I pulled my gaze away from the hospital bed. I took out my old, rusted fountain pen from my pocket. My thumb twirled the cap around and around. “Ma’am.” I looked at her. “He’s facing charges for a hit-and-run.” The woman paused, then let out a cold laugh. She turned and gestured to the bodyguard behind her. A black briefcase was placed on the floor, its lid springing open. It was full of neatly stacked bundles of cash. The elevator at the end of the hallway chimed. The law firm’s director, Mr. Harrison, ran out, drenched in sweat. He didn’t even look at me, heading straight for the woman. He bowed profusely. “Ms. Davis, please calm down first. Alex isn’t thinking straight today.” He turned, grabbing my arm, and practically dragged me to the corner of the hallway. “Alex, are you trying to drag the firm down with you?” I didn’t move. He pointed at the VIP room, his hand trembling. “Do you know who’s lying in that bed?” He swallowed hard. “His mother is Eleanor Vance.” “A titan in the entire Evergreen City legal community.” “How many people in law enforcement and the judiciary have attended her lectures?” The director panted, continuing to pressure me. “The Campbell family naming you is giving you an out.” He patted the briefcase. “A poor person’s leg isn’t worth much, but the Campbell family’s reputation cannot be tarnished.” He stared into my eyes. “This is your livelihood; don’t jeopardize your career.” The woman approached. She didn’t even glance at the director, staring only at me. “Professor Vance has connections everywhere.” She lifted her chin, her voice dripping with contempt. “My fiancé merely had an unfortunate run-in with some nobody from the lower class.” She kicked aside the crumpled delivery bag nearby. “Are you really going to trade her broken leg for the Campbells’ humiliation?” “Tell me, who gave you the guts?” The hallway fell silent. The delivery driver’s husband sat paralyzed on the floor, not even daring to cry out. I slowly lifted my eyelids. My hands were in my pockets. “Director.” “Legal fees can buy services.” I walked back to the briefcase. “But they can’t buy my conscience.” The woman’s face completely fell. The director gasped. I raised my hand, pointing towards the VIP room. “No matter how powerful your connections, they can’t absolve him.” “No matter how much money, it can’t reattach that man’s leg.” “As for the Campbell family’s reputation.” I threw the report in my hand back onto the pile of cash. “What does that have to do with me?” I moved closer to the woman, staring into her eyes. “I’m going to make sure that driver goes to jail, for the sake of that delivery worker.” The muscles in the woman’s face twitched twice. She stared at me, grinding her teeth. “Fine.” “Alex Miller, I hope you truly understand who you’ve just offended.” *Bang.* She spun around and slammed the VIP room door shut. The director’s face was ashen. He pointed at me, unable to squeeze out a complete sentence for a long time. “You… you’re finished!” He stomped his foot. “You’ve offended the Campbells; you’ll never make it in Evergreen City!” The director scrambled into the elevator. Only I and the delivery driver’s husband were left in the hallway. I stood rooted to the spot. My hand in my pocket, gripping that old fountain pen. Offending the powerful. In their eyes, that was a dead end. But they didn’t know. I had been waiting for this opportunity for twenty long years. I pulled out my phone. “Grandma, it’s me. That thing… you can bring it now.”

I locked the retainer agreement in my drawer. The office door was pushed open. A faint scent of sandalwood drifted in first. Subtle, expensive, like the incense offered before Buddha in a temple. I looked up. A man in a sharp, dark suit stood at the doorway. His hair was meticulously combed, a string of prayer beads wrapped around his left wrist, and he held a document in his right hand. His steps were steady. As if nothing could rush him. He placed the document on my desk. I glanced at the official seal. Evergreen City Accident Victims’ Relief Fund. How ironic. “Mr. Miller.” His voice was incredibly calm. “Ms. Davis is young and impulsive; I apologize on her behalf.” He flicked his prayer beads. “I’m David Campbell, Ethan’s father.” I didn’t respond. He gestured to the document on the table. “This is a million-dollar special assistance fund from the foundation.” “Donated in your name to the injured delivery worker.” He paused, as if carefully choosing his words. “At the same time, the foundation would like to hire you as Chief Legal Counsel, with an annual salary of three million dollars.” He looked up at me. “The condition is that you withdraw from this case.” I leaned back in my chair. “Mr. Campbell, what are you trying to do…?” “Help you.” He interrupted, his tone so sincere it didn’t sound like a negotiation. “Life is tough for people in the lower class. If they fight this case to the bitter end, the long litigation period will only cut off their basic living expenses.” He sighed softly. “You get a respectable job, he gets life-saving money. It’s good for everyone.” “Mr. Miller, I’ve done twenty years of charity work, built dozens of schools.” “I understand the struggles of the underprivileged all too well.” As he said this, his eyes even had a hint of moisture. Filled with compassion for humanity. “Mr. Campbell.” I spoke. “Hit-and-run is a criminal offense.” I looked into his eyes. “Charity money can’t buy an acquittal from the court.” He scrutinized me. As if appraising a mistakenly priced item. “Mr. Miller.” His tone shifted; it was still soft, but there was something underlying it. “Everyone says you’re an Ironclad Lawyer.” He leaned forward. “Today, I’ve finally witnessed it myself.” I didn’t move. He continued to stare at me. “Why are you so set on going against my son? What do you gain?” “Not enough leverage? Or are you just trying to leverage the Campbell name for your own career?” He leaned closer, his voice even lower. “Let me be clear.” “You won’t earn much from taking on a messy case like this, and you’ll offend an entire network of people.” He pointed at me. “My wife’s former students are everywhere in law enforcement and the judiciary.” “Do you really think you, a single lawyer, can go against the entire legal community of Evergreen City?” “Mr. Campbell.” I stood up. “The fundamental principles of justice won’t be wiped away by your family’s dirty tricks.” I walked around the desk, to the door, and opened it. “Take your dirty money and get out.” The veneer of respectability on his face shattered. “People who clawed their way up from the bottom just don’t understand rules.” He stood up, his voice icy. “You’ll see.” I stood still, my shoulders trembling. Twenty years ago. My dad’s body was shattered in the middle of the road. And the killer’s husband had just been sitting in front of me. Wearing prayer beads, fidgeting with a million-dollar check, talking to me about charity, about the struggles of the poor. I lowered my head and let out a soft laugh. David Campbell couldn’t handle this. So next, it would be her turn. The legal titan who used “procedural justice” to acquit her husband, the killer. My mother, Eleanor Vance. The door was kicked open. The law firm director rushed in. “Notice of Investigation for Professional Misconduct.” “Alex Miller, you’ve been suspended indefinitely.” I glanced at the signatory. Just moments ago. How efficient. “Professor Vance spoke a single word, and the State Bar Association dared to rubber-stamp it.” “Do you think you’re representing a delivery driver’s case?” He took a breath. “You’re sending your entire professional career to the guillotine of the Campbell family!” The director was about to say more. The door opened. A scent of rich wood wafted in first.

I looked up. Eleanor Vance stood at the doorway. Dressed in a black skirt, with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Her posture was ramrod straight, her steps measured and deliberate. Exactly like the legal titan on television. The director turned, looking as if his throat had been squeezed. He retreated to the corner, then backed out the door. The door closed. Only she and I were left in the office. Twenty years. I was finally sitting across from this woman. She pulled out a chair and sat down calmly. Without a hint of anger. Even with a smile. “Mr. Miller.” Her voice was deep, steady, like she was lecturing from a podium. “Evergreen City hasn’t seen a young man of such integrity as you in a long time.” She looked at me. “Speaking up for the underprivileged, excellent.” My hand in my pocket clenched around the old fountain pen. She took off her glasses, slowly polishing them with a soft cloth. “Ethan’s incident was an accident.” “Young people driving carelessly, everyone has done it.” “If you’re willing to drop this now, I’ll recommend you for the position of Deputy Secretary-General of the State Legal Society.” She looked at me, her tone so sincere, as if mentoring a protégé. “Young man, you need to look at the bigger picture.” I took out the old fountain pen from my pocket and twirled the cap with my thumb. “Professor Vance.” “Twenty years ago, the severe hit-and-run case on Eastwood Highway in Evergreen City.” “That battle made your name famous and placed you on the path to becoming a legal titan.” Eleanor Vance’s hand, polishing her glasses, stopped. “What exactly are you trying to say?” I stood up, hands braced on the desk, staring into her eyes. “I want to ask Professor Vance.” “Back then, you proclaimed procedural justice, upholding every letter of the law.” “But what about now?” I snatched up the ‘Notice of Investigation for Professional Misconduct.’ “No evidence collection, no defense, no hearing required!” “With just one word from you, the State Bar Association bypassed all proper procedures and blacklisted a practicing lawyer in ten minutes!” “Where is your so-called procedural justice now?!” The office instantly fell silent. “You use privilege to oppress victims, and dirty hands to interfere with justice.” “To protect your hit-and-run son, you’ve trampled on the very beliefs you championed your entire life!” “Eleanor Vance, is this your original intention as a lawyer?!” Eleanor Vance took a deep breath. The gentle, scholarly facade on her face shattered. Replaced by cold arrogance. “What a sharp-tongued young man.” “You want to talk to me about intentions? About procedure?” She stood up, meticulously adjusting her cuffs. “Twenty years ago, I still needed to rely on procedural justice to win the cases I needed to win.” “But twenty years later, in Evergreen City…” She abruptly leaned forward. “I am justice. I am the rule!” “Tomorrow, all city media will receive irrefutable evidence of your professional misconduct and extortion against the Campbell family.” She walked to the door, not even looking back. “Try to fight me, and you won’t even get through the courthouse doors.” The next morning. All major media outlets in Evergreen City simultaneously published reports. “Renowned lawyer Alex Miller accused of professional misconduct and extorting millions from the Campbell family; the State Bar Association has launched an investigation.” The accompanying image was a screenshot of me standing beside the briefcase. The law firm director’s call came in. My partnership status revoked. My lawyer’s license frozen. Judges and prosecutors I had worked with before all blocked me overnight. A text message from an unknown number popped up on my phone. [Young man, in Evergreen City, no one can change the rules I set.] Immediately after, the delivery driver’s husband called. Someone had told his wife that if she signed the settlement, the Campbell family would cover all remaining medical expenses. If not, she couldn’t even keep her current hospital bed. “Mr. Miller… should we sign it?” I gripped my phone. “Don’t sign. Wait for me.”

An edited recording was uploaded online. The footage of me telling the delivery driver’s husband, “I’ll take this case,” was transformed into ‘irrefutable evidence’ of a lawyer first demanding exorbitant fees, then inciting the client to reject a settlement. The last bit of public sympathy vanished. My name became synonymous with “crooked lawyer.” My personal information was dug up. My home address, the schools I attended. I turned off my phone. Sitting in my half-empty office. The door was pushed open. It was Grandma. She had come from the countryside. Her hands were covered in cracked skin, with decades of ingrained dirt in her fingernails that wouldn’t wash away. It was these hands. That had saved dollar by dollar for all my tuition, from elementary school to law school. “I know what you’re doing.” Grandma looked up. Tears streamed down her face. “But I’m scared.” “When your dad left, the road… it was all shattered…” “I… I didn’t even receive a single intact piece of his clothing…” Grandma covered her mouth. Her shoulders shook violently. “I’ve already lost a son.” “Alex, I can’t lose you too.” “Let it go…” I knelt down. And held her hands. “Grandma, this time is different.” I looked up. “Every debt owed will be paid, not a single one less.” “Did you bring that thing?” “I did, but I’m afraid…” “It’s okay, I’m here.” The next day. The Campbell family held a public press conference. The live stream started simultaneously, reaching over a million viewers within ten minutes. Eleanor Vance was the first to take the stage. Her prayer beads were replaced by a charity medal on her chest. Her tone was gentle, her eyes filled with perfectly placed tears. “I’ve done twenty years of charity work, built forty-three schools, and sponsored over two thousand underprivileged students.” “We are all heartbroken by the delivery driver’s injury.” “We immediately offered full medical compensation and lost wages.” “But that lawyer rejected all goodwill, determined to drag this family into court.” Her voice trembled. “I just want to ask one thing: who is truly harming that delivery driver?” The comments section exploded. [Ms. Campbell is right! That lawyer isn’t helping the delivery woman at all, just using a poor person to get famous!] [Could someone who’s done charity for twenty years be a bad person? It’s the suspended lawyer who’s full of dirty tricks!] Ethan Campbell was wheeled onto the stage. His arm was bandaged, his face pale. He kept his head down, his voice so soft it seemed fragile. “What happened that day… I know it was my fault.” “I’ve been blaming myself ever since, unable to sleep at night.” “I’m willing to take full responsibility and compensate for all damages.” “But that lawyer… he doesn’t want money, he doesn’t want a settlement; he wants to send me to jail.” He looked up. Tears fell. “I’m only twenty-four this year.” “I just made a mistake…” Eleanor Vance walked onto the stage, placing a sympathetic hand on Ethan’s wheelchair. She took the microphone and scanned the audience. “The law is not without compassion.” “Ethan is still a child; he has his whole life ahead of him.” “As a seasoned legal professional, and as a mother.” “I will never allow anyone with ulterior motives to use public opinion to ruin my son’s life!” *Bang!* The side door of the venue burst open. All cameras abruptly turned. I walked in, step by step, wearing my lawyer’s robe. “What a touching display of mother-son affection.” “But why didn’t you protect my father like that back then?” I looked at Eleanor Vance on stage, who was staring in shock, and spoke each word distinctly. “My dearest, Mother.”

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While walking and live streaming to my followers, I smiled weakly at the camera and slowly collapsed. As my viewers frantically called for help in the chat, armed sentries appeared in everyone’s view. I let myself faint, falling against a soldier’s solid chest. In my previous life, my advisor Dr. Marcus Reed stole core experimental data and sold it overseas. But the security footage showed me as the last person to access the lab. Two minutes after I left, a fire erupted, triggering an explosion in the research building and destroying all evidence. I had been asleep in my dorm. No one could provide me with an alibi. Convicted of arson causing massive property damage, I was sentenced to life in prison. I eventually died in a prison fight. When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the day of the fire. Since he could forge surveillance evidence against me, I would use ironclad proof to tear off his hypocritical mask. Without me as his scapegoat, how could he convince the university to accept responsibility for hundreds of millions in losses? **1.** I had been live streaming for half an hour of walking. Without any beauty filters, my face had become visibly pale. The chat comments had shifted from “This streamer is actually a PhD student, such advanced concepts!” and “Holy crap, the method she’s explaining could solve my current technical problem!” to “Streamer, do you researchers not exercise? You’re breathing really hard!” and “I recognize this road. Just a few more steps ahead, there’s a military base. Go there for help, you look like you’re about to pass out!” and “Oh my God, someone’s about to collapse right on my phone screen!” I looked up at the screen weakly. You could clearly see my forehead covered in cold sweat.”I really don’t feel well. Probably low blood sugar. I’m sorry.” Comments flooded the screen: “Stop talking! Someone please save her!” “Soldiers, help! This citizen is about to die!” Finally, I saw the base gates. I used my last bit of strength to hurry forward, stumbling as I crossed the yellow line. “Halt! State your purpose!” The sentry at the gate raised his weapon. Seeing someone with a selfie stick charging straight past the security line, he immediately went on alert. I kept my head down. The camera could capture my pale face and half-closed eyes, but the sentry couldn’t see. From his perspective, an unidentified person was ignoring his warning and rushing toward the military installation. One sentry raised his rifle while another called for backup, approaching me cautiously. Then I crashed heavily into him and collapsed limply to the ground. Squinting at the time through barely open eyes: 9:48 PM. Seven minutes until the fire. I gasped heavily as my tense nerves suddenly relaxed, and my consciousness began to fade. I felt someone shaking me. Struggling to open my eyes, unable to see the face clearly, I tried to speak loudly but my voice came out barely audible, until he put his ear close to my mouth. “I’m sorry… I’m not a threat… I’m still streaming. Could you help me turn it off?” The last thing the stream captured was a military cap. As consciousness faded, I saw my previous life. Being dragged out of bed with the covers ripped off became my lifelong nightmare. Standing in thin pajamas, surrounded by police and university administrators, facing their harsh questions about why I set the fire, all I could do was weakly deny it. “I didn’t do it.” Nothing else. As the cold handcuffs locked around my wrists, I felt my entire life being shackled. During my days and nights in prison, I ran through countless scenarios. The best possibility was that it had been an electrical short circuit, not intentional arson, which might have meant a lighter sentence. But I had no way to prove that the last person to access the lab wasn’t me. The surveillance clearly showed me entering and leaving the building. The lab access logs showed my credentials. The evidence was solid enough to crush me. It wasn’t until a year later, when my advisor took a teaching position in America and published research results based on my core technology, that I understood. The fire’s purpose wasn’t to destroy something, but to cover something up. And now, without my cooperation, who else could help him smuggle things right under everyone’s noses? **2.** I felt someone moving me. I struggled to open my eyes. My vision was too blurry. I could only desperately grab onto whoever was wearing the uniform. “Miss, let go so the medic can examine you.” I didn’t want a medic. I didn’t want to go to the hospital. I needed to stay under the base’s surveillance. Someone was prying my fingers open. It hurt. Tears streamed down continuously, but I refused to let go no matter what, using every ounce of strength. “She’s probably scared from earlier. Nothing serious, just low blood sugar. Since she won’t let go, just carry her to the duty room.” I stopped struggling, letting them carry me through the base gates. I stared up at the security camera at the entrance. Such solid evidence. Someone put a piece of candy in my mouth. Slowly, I regained a bit of strength and could sit up. A group of people surrounded me. None of the stern, cold faces from my previous life. Their concerned expressions made tears pour down my face. “Miss, feeling better?” Seeing some life return to my eyes, a lieutenant next to me asked with concern. The grievance in my heart surged up like a flood breaking through a dam, unstoppable. I began sobbing uncontrollably. The clock on the wall seemed like a countdown, bringing me closer to safety. 9:50 PM. Marcus Reed must already be in the lab copying my data, right? I had considered reporting him to catch him in the act, but then I realized he hadn’t just forged my access card but had also tampered with the university’s surveillance footage. That wasn’t something a newly returned PhD advisor of less than a year could accomplish alone. 9:53 PM. My crying turned to hiccups. The people around me went from being flustered to calm, handing me water and tissues. Marcus had already locked up and left. I didn’t know what method he used to start the fire. Theoretically, the lab had comprehensive power cutoff protection and fire prevention measures. How could it catch fire so easily, let alone spread and cause an explosion in the research building? 9:54 PM. My emotions gradually settled. The lieutenant’s voice couldn’t suppress his amusement: “Miss, you’re the best crier I’ve ever seen.” I smiled sheepishly, pursing my lips. I had been terrified by what happened to me, but also grateful for my second chance. Heaven knows, when I discovered I had been reborn one hour before the fire, the burst of joy nearly overwhelmed me. “Can’t stay in the dorm!” was my only thought at the time. I grabbed my essentials and immediately escaped. Sitting in the taxi, I came back to my senses and started thinking about what else I could do. I usually recorded some videos without showing my face, sharing study tips and methods. Now I decided to stream with my face visible, letting all my viewers bear witness for me. Collapsing at the military base gate was pure coincidence. When I was reborn, I had been up for over twenty hours and was about to sleep. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been sleeping so deeply that I didn’t even know a fire had started. The combined mental and physical pressure was too much. Given my current condition, the low blood sugar hit at just the right time. “Should I call an ambulance for you?” The lieutenant looked at me with a smile. “You’re still frighteningly pale.” 9:55 PM. The second hand seemed to tick against my heart. “Yes, thank you so much.” I stopped my sniffling and thanked him. **3.** The fire trucks arrived before the ambulance. Several fire engines rushed past with sirens blaring. Through the window, I stared blankly as the red lights disappeared into the distance. “We’ve verified all your documents. Here, keep them safe.” I snapped back to attention and accepted the documents the lieutenant handed me. All my IDs: driver’s license, student card, lab access card. “Don’t worry, we’ll go with you to the hospital.” His hearty voice gave me an immense sense of security, so much so that I fell asleep before the ambulance arrived, until my body was suddenly yanked, nearly throwing me out of bed. “Olivia Summers, you’re suspected of arson. We need you to cooperate with our investigation!” The same cold, severe voice from my previous life made me shiver. My head was still somewhat foggy. I looked at the crowd before me without focus and asked in confusion, “What?” “You think hospitalizing yourself will clear you of guilt?” The dean’s voice was hoarse, looking like he hadn’t slept all night. “Olivia Summers, you were caught on surveillance fleeing after committing arson.” Marcus Reed still had that refined, scholarly demeanor, using the gentlest tone to condemn me. “You’ve made no progress on your experiments recently and put too much pressure on yourself.” “I told her I wouldn’t let her delay graduation, but who knew she’d be so extreme? She’d rather destroy everything than admit she wasn’t capable.” He explained to the dean and police like a caring mentor. “This is definitely her fault, but I hope you can go easy on her given her youth and give her a lighter sentence.” The police ignored his soft pleas and said coldly to me, “She’s an adult. She needs to take responsibility for her actions.” “What exactly happened?” I asked, looking completely confused. “Still pretending!” The dean pointed at me furiously. “Last night, minutes after you left the lab, it caught fire!” “The fire spread and caused an explosion. Half the research building was destroyed!” “The entire campus stayed up all night, but you had the nerve to hide in a hospital and sleep!” He turned to the police in frustration. “Captain Wilson, take her away. I have nothing more to say to her.” “I never went near the academic building last night.” I propped myself up on the hospital bed, leaning forward, desperately trying to make them believe me. “I have no reason to burn down the building. Please believe me!” No matter how sincere or anxious I was, everyone around me looked at me coldly, as if I were a clown throwing a tantrum. “You should be grateful no one was hurt, or we wouldn’t be speaking to you so nicely.” “I’m the captain of the city’s detective unit. I’m officially notifying you that you’re under arrest. Take her!” He grabbed my arm and pulled me out of bed roughly. I stood barefoot on the floor. The icy tiles sent a chill that froze my heart. The female officer next to me gripped my wrist tightly, the cold handcuffs about to snap shut. “What are you doing!” A forceful shout from the doorway interrupted her action. A young man in military uniform stood holding a food container, frowning as he glared at the room full of people. “Who are you?” Marcus asked gently. “Are you Olivia’s boyfriend?” One sentence immediately diminished the authority conveyed by the uniform. “The lieutenant sent me to look after her.” The young soldier ignored Marcus and spoke directly to Captain Wilson in his police uniform. “What’s going on? She’s still a patient!” “She’s suspected of arson causing major property damage. We need to take her to the station.” Captain Wilson responded matter-of-factly. The soldier looked at me with difficulty. Seeing my pleading eyes, he thought for a moment, then stepped directly in front of me. “I’m going with her, and I’ll notify our lieutenant. You’re not taking her anywhere otherwise.”

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My daughter always loves to tell the “truth.” I asked her, “Is Mommy pretty?” She said, “Mom, I’m telling the truth—you’re the ugliest mom in the whole kindergarten.” When my mother-in-law pointed at my nose and called me wasteful for buying my daughter an expensive backpack, I asked her how she felt about it. She said, “Honestly? I’m actually pretty happy when you get yelled at, Mom.” My husband jokingly asked her if she’d take care of me when I got old. She said, “I’m not taking care of her. When she’s old, she should just die already.” My heart sank. But she just smiled with her eyes crinkling: “I’m just telling the truth!” Later, when officers came for a household registration check, they asked my daughter a few routine questions. Once again, she told the “truth.” But this time, she regretted it for the rest of her life. **01** During the household registration check, police officers came to our door. My seven-year-old daughter blinked her big eyes and asked: “Why do you need to register all this?” The officer ruffled my daughter’s hair: “It’s for government policy, and also to prevent human trafficking.” My daughter nodded, then suddenly her face lit up with realization: “Oh, I get it! You’re looking for traffickers! That’s my mom, isn’t it?” “She said it herself yesterday—she kidnapped me!” The officer’s smile instantly froze on his face. I stared at my daughter in shock, catching the cunning flash in her eyes as my mind went numb. My daughter had always enjoyed saying these “truths” to cause me pain and embarrassment. Yesterday I wouldn’t let her eat too many snacks, so she said I was an evil mother and that she didn’t want to be my daughter. I’d been angry at the time: “You’re right, you’re not my daughter. I kidnapped you!” She’d immediately said she didn’t believe it. But I never expected that today she’d take the very thing she claimed not to believe and present it as “the truth” to the police. The officer’s expression as he looked at me had already changed. I forced out a dry laugh: “She was misbehaving yesterday, so I said something I didn’t mean. I didn’t think she’d take it seriously.” The officer’s brow finally relaxed, and he told my daughter: “Sweetie, you can’t joke about things like this. If your mom gets mistaken for a trafficker, she could go to jail.” When I saw my daughter nod, my racing heart calmed down. I thought that would be the end of it. But the next second, my daughter’s face turned completely sincere: “But my mom can’t have children. If I wasn’t kidnapped, how else did I get here?” The officer’s gaze became scrutinizing and suspicious as he looked at me. I quickly explained: “After I had my daughter, I got an IUD. When she says I can’t have children, that’s probably what she means.” I tugged at my daughter’s hand, signaling her to stop talking. But she wouldn’t listen: “No, Mom couldn’t have kids even when she first got married, but I’m already this old.” I didn’t know how a seven-year-old girl could think of this angle. But when you examined her words closely, it was hard not to become suspicious. My husband and I had been married for six years, and I’d had an IUD for six years—so how could we have a seven-year-old daughter? The officer had obviously thought of this too, and his expression grew serious. “Let me see the child’s birth certificate.” My heart dropped. We didn’t have a birth certificate for my daughter. Six years ago, I’d desperately rescued her from a trafficker—she’d been a kidnapped child. When the police pulled up her biological parents’ file, they were too shocked to speak. My husband’s and my expressions went through several changes. Our only thought at the time was: “If we send this child back to her biological parents, living might be worse than death for her.” My husband and I couldn’t bear it, so we’d raised her until now. My daughter probably thought what I’d said was just something said in anger, but she didn’t know that angry words could also be the truth. We hadn’t told her because we were afraid she’d feel like she was living under someone else’s roof. But now, if I didn’t come clean, I might actually be taken away by the police. Just as I was about to speak, my daughter suddenly shouted: “Oh! I just remembered!” “Mom got pregnant before marriage! She got pregnant with me first, then got married! That’s what adults mean when they talk about being improper before marriage!” I froze in place. If what my daughter said were actually true, I’d probably want to crawl into a hole right now. But my silence at this moment was due to a chill in my heart. My daughter thought she’d hurt me, and the corners of her mouth curved up with excitement. “Mom, I’m just telling the truth to help clear things up. Don’t be mad at me, okay?” The officer’s complicated gaze withdrew from me as he continued registering information. In a corner no one was watching, my hands clenched tight, desperately suppressing the surge of emotions. This wasn’t the first time my daughter had done something like this… **02** When she was in kindergarten, she often praised other people’s mothers in front of me, saying how beautiful they were. I asked her, “Isn’t Mommy beautiful?” But my daughter stared right into my eyes and said, “Mom’s not beautiful at all!” “Mom is the ugliest mom in the whole kindergarten!” I froze instantly. Seeing my daughter’s eyes smiling and looking so happy, I couldn’t help but say: “When you talk like that, it really hurts Mommy’s feelings.” But unexpectedly, my daughter said very seriously: “But teacher says good children should always tell the truth!” I was speechless for a moment, feeling vaguely that something was off. Logically, children should have a natural filter when it comes to the people who raised them, including their appearance. But my daughter seemed different. Later, when my daughter started elementary school, I spent a hundred dollars on an Elsa princess backpack she liked. When my mother-in-law found out the price, she pointed at my nose and called me wasteful. But my daughter treated her grandmother’s scolding as background noise and spun around dancing in the living room. I couldn’t help but ask my daughter: “You heard Grandma yelling at me. Don’t you have any thoughts about that?” My daughter’s eyes rolled around, and finally she looked at me intently: “I do! I feel really happy!” Seeing the genuine smile on my daughter’s face, my expression instantly froze. My daughter stared at me for a long time, then said: “Mom, don’t be angry. I’m just telling the truth.” Last month, my daughter got sick and I took care of her around the clock for a whole month. My husband saw that I’d lost a lot of weight and asked my daughter tenderly, “Mom took care of you growing up. Will you take care of Mom when she’s old?” My daughter glanced at me, pouted and said: “No way! When Mom gets old, she should just die already!” My husband’s body stiffened, and the color drained completely from my face. What’s worse, when my daughter saw our reaction, she actually started dancing around happily. I didn’t say another word the whole way home. My daughter even asked me: “Mom, are you unhappy again because of my truth?” That night, I barely slept at all. My husband also tossed and turned, and suddenly said in the silence: “What she says… it’s probably just jokes, right?” Even he didn’t sound certain. Every time I was in pain because of my daughter’s words, a glint of secret pleasure would flash in her eyes. Then she’d use the same trick again, blocking any response from me with “I’m just telling the truth.” Thinking of this, I could barely control my emotions. I quickly opened the door, wanting to see the officer out. “Officer!” My daughter called out just in time to stop the officer who had one foot out the door. “If I find out Mom really is a trafficker, can I call the police?” The officer looked at my daughter with a complicated expression, then looked at me. Finally, he slipped a contact card into my daughter’s hand before leaving. **03** After the police left, my daughter tilted her head and studied me. When she saw that my expression hadn’t changed, disappointment flashed in her eyes. I couldn’t help but ask my daughter: “Why did you say those things to the officer just now?” My daughter put her hands on her hips and tilted her head back, looking completely matter-of-fact: “I’m a good kid who tells the truth!” “You should blame yourself, Mom! You’re the one who said I was kidnapped when you got angry!” Only then did I truly confirm that she’d told the police on purpose, intending to punish me for what I’d said yesterday in anger. I clenched my fists and asked her: “What if Mom really did take you from a trafficker, but because your real parents were bad people, I didn’t return you to them? Would you really call the officer and have Mom sent to jail?” My daughter nodded without hesitation. “Of course! Mom, I’m a good kid who tells the truth!” My heart instantly sank to rock bottom. I don’t know when my husband came back, but he’d been standing in the doorway for a while, his face frighteningly dark. But he still suppressed his emotions to comfort me: “Maybe… she’ll grow out of it.” My daughter cheered up again, completely ignoring our pain. I couldn’t help but think: if my husband and I worked hard our whole lives only to raise an ungrateful wolf, why not cut our losses now? But after raising her for so many years, I still wanted to give her one last chance. I looked at the business card on the table and deliberately said: “Lucy, you really were kidnapped by me. In the safe at home, there’s still your original file—it was taken from your biological parents’ household registration.” “If you keep using ‘telling the truth’ to hurt us, your dad and I are going to send you back to your biological parents.” After hearing my words, fear appropriate for her age finally appeared on my daughter’s young face. She asked my husband urgently: “Dad, is it true?” My husband suppressed his irritation: “Your mom’s just joking with you.” The panic on my daughter’s face gradually faded. She pouted at me: “I knew it wasn’t true! I wish I really did have other parents! I hate you, Mom!” My husband’s expression darkened further. But her attention was on me. I cooperatively showed a hurt expression, and only then did she break into a smile. In that moment, what was there left for me to understand? My daughter had always thought she was our biological child, so she hurt me again and again without fear of consequences. My heart turned completely cold. That night, just as I was drifting off to sleep, I suddenly heard the sound of someone turning the bedroom door handle. A small figure crept into my bedroom. After a minute, that figure left my room. From outside the room came a deliberately hushed child’s voice. “Hello, is this the police? I’m telling the truth—my mom really is a trafficker. The evidence is hidden in the safe. You need to come arrest her!” **04** The police arrived incredibly fast. I’d barely put on my jacket when the door was broken down from outside. My daughter ran crying into the officer’s arms, pointing at me with a frightened face: “My mom is a trafficker! Mom said I was kidnapped!” The officer didn’t notice, but I clearly saw the gleam in my daughter’s eyes. It was that look of smug satisfaction, knowing she could use “the truth” to get me again. The officer pressed his baton against my shoulder, his voice full of authority: “Please open the safe and let us take a look.” My husband was woken by the commotion and rushed out. When he heard “safe,” he instinctively panicked. “You can’t open it!” Seeing this, the officer signaled his colleagues to pick the lock. I saw the tools scattered on the floor and looked at my daughter. “Lucy, Dad already told you this afternoon it was just a joke. Why did you still call the police? Is that what telling the truth means?” But my daughter pressed her lips shut tight, not mentioning a word of what my husband had said. I looked at my daughter meaningfully. “You’ll regret it when they open the safe.” My daughter pursed her lips and let out a heavy huff. “Mom can never tell the difference between jokes and the truth. I’m punishing you, Mom.” “From now on, Mom will be like Lucy and only tell the truth.” The police broke through the first lock on the safe. The safe opened, revealing a sealed small box inside. I asked my daughter, “If it’s proven that you’re not my daughter, will you go back to your biological parents?” My daughter answered quickly: “Yes!” “Every time I tell the truth, Mom gets unhappy. I hate you, Mom!” Whatever small bit of compassion I still had for her completely vanished. The sealed box was a high-density container I’d purchased—very difficult to pry open. I watched the officer sweating profusely as he worked on it, then spoke up: “I can open it with the password, as long as Lucy signs a termination of adoption agreement with me.” My daughter didn’t understand what a termination of adoption agreement was, but she noticed that I really didn’t want the box opened, so she quickly nodded. She pressed her handprint on the agreement. I entered my daughter’s birthday and opened the small box. Three documents lay inside. The first was an adoption agreement. The second was a news report from when I’d rescued her from traffickers six years ago. The third was information about her biological parents. When the officer saw the first document, he said nothing. When he saw the second document, his expression was shocked. He read it over several times, and when he looked up, his eyes were full of admiration: “You risked your life to rescue a child from traffickers? That’s incredibly brave!” My daughter heard the officer praising me instead of criticizing me, and even giving me a thumbs up. She froze in place. The officer didn’t marvel for long. Due to his professional training, he quickly opened the third file. With just one glance, he froze. As if unable to believe it, he suddenly looked up at me. “This… this… are you sure? The child’s biological parents?” “You’re really going to send her back to them?” The other officers who hadn’t seen the file didn’t understand. They all went over to look. The next instant, they all simultaneously looked at my daughter with sympathy. Everyone was waiting for my answer. I just closed my eyes and nodded: “The termination agreement is signed. There’s no going back.” In this scenario, my daughter seemed to suddenly understand everything. Terror appeared on her face.

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Eight years of secretly loving Liam Smith, and I finally slept with him. The next day, I overheard him on the patio, taking a call: “It was just a one-night stand. Marry her? You’ve got to be kidding. Just give her some money and send her packing.” I didn’t cry or make a scene. I got dressed, went home, and dragged out the box filled with eight years of memories. Stolen photos, movie ticket stubs, a button he’d lost—everything went straight into a black trash bag. As the garbage truck rumbled past, crushing everything, I breathed a sigh of relief. Later, that same man who said “just give her some money and send her packing” was impaled through the back by a scorching steel pipe, saving me. He held me, covered in blood, and whispered a secret: “Actually… I’m a werewolf, which is why I had to push you away. But now, I regret it.” Emma Johnson pov Eight years of secretly loving Liam Smith, and I finally slept with him. It was unexpected, absurd, yet somehow, perfectly natural. I woke up at six in the morning. It had rained all night in London. I picked up my clothes from the floor and went into the bathroom to shower. My reflection in the mirror showed hickeys all over my body, and a clear tooth mark just above my collarbone. As I leaned closer to examine it, I heard movement outside. Liam was awake, on the phone. Through the half-open glass door, his voice was deep and husky, carrying the lazy drawl of after-sex. “I drank too much last night, didn’t even see who it was.” The person on the other end was probably one of his friends, teasing him. Liam lit a cigarette, his tone so indifferent it was almost cold. “Who told you to drug her? Don’t use those tactics again.” A cloud of smoke curled around him, and he paused, a hint of annoyance in his voice: “I didn’t just mark her, last night was her first time… What do you want me to do? Take her to a formal mate ceremony before the Moongoddess?” A scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous. The Elder Council would never allow me to marry a mere human… Yeah, yeah, a lot of them can’t find their fated mate, but I’m an Alpha.” “I’ll figure out the mark issue. As for compensation… you can give her a card later, she can fill in any amount she wants. Enough for her to live comfortably for the rest of her life. Consider it settling eight years of acquaintance.” My hand, halfway buttoning my shirt, froze. Blood rushed away from my head, my limbs turning cold, so much so that the strange parts of his words were instinctively ignored. To him, my eight years of careful companionship, that one night of passion, could only be quantified into a cold string of numbers. And topped off with, “Don’t be ridiculous.” I didn’t cry. I showered swiftly, got dressed, and quietly left the villa that had imprisoned my youth. Back home, my father was sitting on the sofa, sighing. On the coffee table lay a pile of photos—potential suitors he’d had someone scout for me. “Emma, I know you like Liam. But his status… we can’t afford to reach that high. I’m getting old, my health isn’t what it used to be. I just want to see you settle down with a normal guy…” Before, I would’ve stayed silent, resisted, or found an excuse to go back to my room. But today, I walked over, my gaze sweeping across the photos. None of them looked like Liam. That was good. I pointed to one at random: “This one will do.” My father looked stunned, almost disbelieving: “This is Noah Davis, a doctor. He’s very gentle, but he’s moving to New York for work. If you marry him, you might have to leave home…” “It’s fine.” I cut him off. “The farther, the better. Dad, arrange for us to meet.” My father was overjoyed and immediately went to make a call. I returned to my room and dragged out a locked box from the back of my closet. It contained everything related to Liam. In high school, Liam was on the baseball team, the best player, according to the coach. I went to every one of his games and kept countless photos. There were also movie ticket stubs from the films we watched together over those eight years. Even a button that had fallen off his shirt. I found a large black trash bag and dumped that box of treasures, along with the heart that had loved Liam for eight years, all inside. I tied the bag shut and tossed it into the downstairs trash bin. The garbage truck rumbled past, crushing everything. I looked at the empty room and let out a long breath.

Emma Johnson pov The meeting with Noah Davis went smoother than I could have imagined. Noah wore gold-rimmed glasses, looking gentle and refined, speaking with a mild-mannered politeness. He didn’t have Liam’s overbearing presence; he was like a glass of plain water, comfortable but unremarkable. Suitable for marriage, suitable for life. “Ms. Johnson, my situation should have been explained to you by the matchmaker.” Noah refilled my water glass. “I’m moving to New York next month, and I might settle there. If you’re willing, we can get married first, and you can join me after you’ve sorted out your work here.” The pace was surprisingly fast, almost as if it were a task to be completed. But I only thought for three seconds: “Okay.” Noah looked up, a little surprised: “Don’t you want to think about it more? Marriage is a big decision, after all.” “No need to think.” I lowered my gaze, stirring the water in my glass. “I want a change of scenery, a fresh start.” Noah smiled, a genuinely happy smile: “What a coincidence, so do I.” We clicked instantly. The dinner, though lacking passion, was remarkably relaxed. No one had to look up to anyone, no one had to try to please anyone by cramming up on their hobbies or learning to play difficult games. Since I’d decided to leave, the first thing I did when I got back to the magazine office was hand in my resignation. My editor, Mr. Harrison, frowned as he read my letter. “It’s not that I don’t want you to leave. You’re a key member of our team; losing you would be a big blow. Besides, you haven’t finished that feature on London’s new elite.” Mr. Harrison tapped on his desk and laid out his terms: “How about this: the last guest for the feature is Liam Smith. Everyone in London knows he never gives exclusive interviews, but you know him well. If you can get an exclusive with him, even just for ten minutes, I’ll sign your resignation immediately and double your bonus for this month.” My fingers, clutching the resignation letter, whitened slightly. Liam. Always Liam. His name seemed impossible to shake off. “Mr. Harrison, can’t someone else do it?” “No.” Mr. Harrison’s attitude was firm. “Only you can do it. If this article isn’t finished, your resignation process might take three months to go through.” I was silent for a long time. To leave London cleanly, to completely sever the past. One last meeting. After this, I’d never see him again. I pulled out my phone, found the number that had been pinned at the top for eight years but which I’d never dared to dial. My fingertip hovered above the screen, trembled, and finally pressed down. It rang once before being answered. The other end was noisy, like people were playing cards. Then there was the sound of footsteps, and the surroundings quieted. Liam’s voice came through the receiver, tinged with a casual mockery: “You’ve been avoiding me for three days. Finally decided to call?” He knew I was avoiding him, of course. I took a deep breath and spoke in a professional tone: “Mr. Smith, our magazine would like to do an exclusive interview with you. Do you have any availability?” There was a two-second silence on the other end, followed by a soft scoff. “Emma, since when did you start keeping your distance from me?” Liam seemed to be in a good mood, not annoyed by the formal address. “I’m at the club. Come over now.” He rattled off a name. I knew the place; that club was owned by Ethan, Liam’s assistant. They always chose that place for their gatherings. Apparently, because Ethan could always get drinks no other place had. “It’s working hours right now…” “Then forget the interview.” Liam cut me off, his voice carrying his usual arrogance and possessiveness. “If I don’t see you here within half an hour, the interview’s off.” With that, he hung up. I stared at the darkened screen, putting my phone away. I turned and called my photographer: “Let’s go, to the club.” Mike looked shocked: “My god, you’re amazing! You actually managed to get him!” I didn’t say anything. Amazing? That was a “privilege” I’d earned through eight years of heartbreak and effort. And today, I was going to tear that privilege to shreds and throw it in the trash.

Emma Johnson pov The bouncer at the club didn’t stop me. He knew who I was and that Liam allowed me to enter. But my photographer was stopped outside, the reason being that private clubs prohibited all photography. I had to tell him to wait in the car. As soon as I stepped inside, eyes immediately fell on me, filled with surprise and curiosity. But soon, Liam’s bodyguard personally came to greet me, leading me up to the second floor. Those strange looks quickly turned into respect. I didn’t understand how Liam managed to command such respect everywhere he went. He was just a wealthy man with a terrible personality. The private room door opened. The air inside was thick with smoke and heavy with the smell of alcohol. A group of Liam’s friends were laughing with their female companions. When they saw me enter, the room quieted for a moment, then erupted in louder jeers. “Isn’t that Emma? Long time no see!” “Wow, you’ve got a lot of pull! Haven’t seen her in three days, and now she’s here checking up on you?” The man sitting on the central sofa was wearing a black shirt, two buttons undone at the collar. He was toying with a lighter, its flame flickering on and off, illuminating his sharply chiseled face—a face that could make countless women fall head over heels. Liam Smith. He leaned back lazily against the chair, his gaze cutting through the crowd and landing on me. His eyes lingered on me for a moment, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly before smoothing out. He then patted the empty spot beside him. “Come here.” It was like he was calling a well-trained pet. Before, I would’ve meekly walked over, sat down, poured him a drink, and done whatever he told me. But this time, I resisted the urge to obey. “Mr. Smith, I’m in a hurry. Can we do the interview here?” I pulled out my equipment. “About fifteen minutes.” The atmosphere in the room instantly turned cold. Everyone exchanged glances. Liam’s hand, toying with the lighter, paused. The lid snapped shut. His eyes, in the dim light, turned silver, but quickly reverted to blue, as if it had just been my imagination. “Emma, what’s with the act?” “Mr. Smith, you’re mistaken.” I turned on my voice recorder, looking him straight in the eye. “It’s just work. If it’s inconvenient, we can reschedule or have someone else come.” With that, I started to pack up my things. “Stop.” Liam’s face hardened. He slammed his glass on the table, making a sharp clinking sound. “Everyone out.” He waved his hand at the others. Though curious, no one dared to push their luck. They all filed out with their companions, but as they passed me, their eyes held curious, almost theatrical gazes. The private room door closed. Only the two of us remained in the vast space. The lights were dim, the air thick with expensive cologne and stale cigarette smoke. Liam stood up and walked towards me, step by step. He was tall, intensely intimidating. He leaned down, close to my face, his warm breath fanning my ear: “Still mad about that morning? Didn’t I say Ethan would send you a card? Not enough money?” I took a half-step back, avoiding his breath. “I didn’t take the card. It’s already been mailed back to your company’s front desk.” I looked up. “Liam, that day was an accident. We’re both adults; let’s just move on. I’m only here today for work.” “Move on?” Liam laughed as if he’d heard a joke, then suddenly reached out and squeezed my chin. “Emma, you chased me for eight years, why are you pretending to be so carefree now? I don’t believe you don’t feel anything for me. That night, you clearly…” “That was because of the drugs.” I cut him off. “Mr. Smith, I’m resigning. This exclusive interview is my last task at this company. After I finish this, I’m leaving London. From now on, we shouldn’t meet again.” Liam’s fingers tightened abruptly, with so much force it made me wince. “Leaving London? Going where?” A beast’s growl seemed to rise in his throat, sounding incredibly dangerous. “That’s none of your business.” “To avoid me?” A flicker of anger flared in Liam’s eyes. “Emma, are you serious? Just because I didn’t give you a title? You never used to care about that.” “I was foolish before.” I forcefully pried his hand open, took two steps back, and smoothed out my wrinkled collar. “Now I understand. A great family heir like you isn’t suited for an ordinary human like me. I apologize for any past intrusions. It won’t happen again.” An ordinary human? He’d said something similar that day. The wording was strange, but I figured I must have misheard him. I raised my voice recorder again: “Mr. Smith, my first question is about the Smith Group’s strategic layout for the next quarter…” Liam stared at me. He was so furious he laughed, sitting back on the sofa, lighting a cigarette, his gaze dark and brooding. “Fine, very good. You want an interview? Ask away. I’d like to see how long you can keep up this act.”

Emma Johnson pov The interview was incredibly difficult. Liam was uncooperative, even deliberately obstructive. No matter what I asked, he answered distractedly, even intentionally steering the conversation towards his personal life, trying to provoke me. “Regarding the recent rumors of a strategic alliance through marriage…” “Not interested.” Liam cut me off, suddenly leaning forward, his gaze intense. “I’m currently more interested in women who seem all prim and proper on the surface, but secretly go all out for a man. Do you have any recommendations?” As he leaned closer, the tooth mark on my collarbone, which had never faded, began to burn. I swallowed, suppressing the urge to kiss him, and continued with my questions. “What’s your take on the online rumors that members of the Smith family possess some kind of special supernatural identity?” Liam was silent for a moment. “Online speculation can’t be taken seriously. Otherwise, I’d be ruling humanity directly, not sitting here for your interview.” Honestly, I also thought those speculations were far-fetched. But suddenly, some of Liam’s oddities flashed through my mind. Like how incredibly fast he ran in high school. Like how he always seemed to take time off on the night of every full moon, claiming it was for a family dinner. And… how his eyes sometimes turned silver. I closed my notebook, refusing to let my thoughts wander further. As a journalist, I needed to be professional, not indulge in wild guesses. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Smith. I have enough material.” Just as I was about to stand up, the private room door was suddenly pushed open. A beautiful blonde woman with long, flowing hair burst in. She had a vibrant, bold beauty, completely different from mine. “Liam! I heard you were here.” Sophia Miller flung herself at Liam like a butterfly, kissing him directly on the corner of his mouth. It was Sophia Miller. Liam’s latest rumored girlfriend, the one who’d posted flirty captions on Ins. She had a wolf-head tattoo on her arm, just like the one on Liam’s chest. Probably matching couple tattoos. Liam turned his head to dodge her lips but didn’t push her away. His gaze swept over Sophia’s head, fixed on me, as if expecting my reaction. I merely glanced, giving Sophia a polite nod: “Ms. Miller, hello.” Then I turned to Liam: “Mr. Smith, since you have company, I won’t disturb you further. I’ll send you the draft for your review once it’s written.” With that, I turned and left, my steps quick, without a single lingering look. But I still heard the voices behind me. Sophia sounded a bit confused: “Liam, who was that? She seemed… odd.” He abruptly shook off Sophia’s hand, then impatiently swept the glass off the table, sending it crashing to the floor. “Get out.” Sophia jumped, startled: “Liam…” “All of you, get out!” Liam roared. The pain from the tooth mark vanished. It was all too strange, but forgive me for not wanting any more involvement with Liam. I wasn’t going to turn back to ask him about it. When I left the club, the wind outside was cold, clearing my head. Mike, the photographer, was already restless in the car. Seeing me, he quickly started the engine: “How was it? Did you get it?” “I got it.” I tossed the voice recorder into my bag, leaning back against the seat, exhausted. “Let’s head back to the office.” Back at the newsroom, I rushed to finish the article overnight. I sent the draft to Mr. Harrison, with a short message: “Task completed. Please sign off.” Mr. Harrison was probably surprised by my efficiency. He didn’t make it difficult for me and promptly approved my resignation. The moment the formalities were done, I stood outside the company building, looking at the bustling city, feeling only a sense of liberation. I sent Noah a message: “I’ve resigned.” Noah replied almost instantly: “Congratulations. To celebrate your newfound freedom, how about dinner tonight? I’ve booked a restaurant.” I thought for a moment, then replied: “Okay.” I hadn’t told anyone that I’d already bought my plane ticket to New York for the day after tomorrow. This dinner would be a farewell. A farewell to the past, and a farewell to this city.

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At eighteen, fueled by alcohol, I confessed my feelings to Ethan Lynwood. He was my guardian. He had saved me from a fire when I was twelve, and I had loved him for ten whole years. Instead, he reacted with utter disgust. “Stella, what kind of sick thoughts are rattling around in your head?” He quickly found a girlfriend, Chloe, just to make me give up. Ethan asked me to design their engagement rings myself. I didn’t want to design wedding rings for the man I loved, knowing they were for another woman. But Chloe affectionately linked her arm through mine. “Stella, please, just this once?” Before I could even speak, Ethan’s cold gaze landed on me. “Since Chloe wants it, you draw it. The Lynwood family has provided for you for ten years. This is your responsibility.” I smiled. The next day, while taking measurements, Chloe “accidentally” spilled scorching hot tea all over my right hand, the one I used for drawing. I trembled with pain. Ethan pushed open the door, and Chloe threw herself into his arms, crying. He didn’t even glance at my hand. Instead, he snapped, “Stella, are you done making a scene?” Later, I discovered that even the exclusive flower studio he had given me for my eighteenth birthday, my sanctuary, had been ordered cleared out for Chloe to arrange flowers. Ten years of hard work, thrown out like trash. I finally understood it was time to leave.

Stella POV In the quiet bedroom, the computer notification chimed, a jarring sound. I lowered my eyes, my gaze fixed on the email from Paris on the screen. “Dear Ms. Brooks, your transfer request has been approved. Please report to the L’Étoile Jewelry Paris headquarters on the twenty-fifth of next month.” My mouse cursor hovered over the “Confirm” button for two seconds, then I pressed it without hesitation. After confirming the send, the tension in my shoulders, which had been tight for half a month, finally released. A profound emptiness followed. I raised my left hand, my fingertips lightly tracing the jagged burn scar on my wrist. Ten years ago, a sudden fire consumed the Brooks family home, taking my parents with it. It was Ethan Lynwood, then twenty-two, who bravely rushed into the flames and carried me, a twelve-year-old girl, out. From that day on, I became the adopted daughter of the Lynwood family, and Ethan became my guardian. He taught me to read, watched me grow up, and gave me all his favoritism and indulgence. A young girl’s heart began to take root in the daily kindness, growing into a towering tree. At eighteen, fueled by alcohol, I dared to confess my feelings to him. What I got in return was Ethan’s look of utter disgust. “Stella, I raised you like my own daughter. What kind of filthy thoughts are in your head? You are sick.” His words were like a knife, plunging deep into my heart. After that, he withdrew all his warmth, becoming cold and distant. A month ago, he brought Chloe home, just to make me give up entirely. Laughter and joyful chatter from outside the door interrupted my thoughts. I stood up, pushed open my door, and walked to the railing on the second floor. The living room downstairs was brightly lit, filled with Ethan’s relatives and friends. Ethan stood tall in a custom-tailored designer suit. Beside him, Chloe wore a white dress, their fingers intertwined like a loving couple. “Thank you all for coming today.” Ethan raised his glass, his usually stern eyes softening only when he looked at Chloe. “My engagement party with Chloe is on the twentieth of next month. We hope you’ll all join us.” The living room erupted in enthusiastic applause and blessings. I stood in the shadows, watching the scene. My heart didn’t feel much pain anymore. Perhaps a month of seeing Ethan and Chloe’s intimacy had completely numbed me. I turned to go back to my room, but Ethan’s gaze found me precisely. “Stella.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried undeniable authority. “Come down.” All eyes instantly converged on me. I paused, then obediently walked down the stairs. I didn’t throw a tantrum as I used to, nor did I question him with tear-filled eyes. I simply walked calmly to stand before them. Ethan frowned slightly, seemingly displeased by my overly quiet demeanor. Chloe, however, warmly approached me, linking her arm through mine, her smile utterly innocent. “Stella, you study jewelry design, right? Ethan says you’re very talented.” I subtly pulled my arm away. “I’m just a junior designer. I wouldn’t call myself talented.” Chloe, unwilling to let go, turned to Ethan, pouting playfully. “Ethan, why don’t we let Stella design our engagement rings? It would be her best blessing for us!”

Stella POV The air in the living room seemed to freeze for a moment. My fingers curled slightly, my nails digging into my palm. Ask the woman who loves him deeply to design his engagement ring for another woman? This wasn’t Chloe asking for a blessing; she was clearly trying to rub salt into my wound. “Ms. Foster, I’m quite junior; I’m afraid I can’t handle such an important design.” My voice was dry, and I flatly refused. Chloe bit her lip, looking wronged, her eyes instantly reddening. “Stella, are you still mad at me? I know you used to like Ethan, but we’re about to get engaged. Won’t you even give me this small blessing?” At her words, the relatives around us immediately looked at me with disdain. An adopted daughter coveting her benefactor. It was scandalous, a dirty secret best kept hidden. Ethan’s face darkened completely. He stared at me coldly, his eyes conveying a clear warning and pressure. “Stella, since Chloe wants it, you draw it. The Lynwood family took you in for ten years, this is your responsibility.” Responsibility. That word felt like a mountain, pressing heavily on my spine. I looked at Ethan’s emotionless eyes and suddenly, I smiled. “Fine. I’ll draw it.” The next morning, I took my measuring tape and notebook and knocked on the guest room door. Chloe was sitting at the vanity, trying on jewelry. When she saw me enter, a smug smile played on her lips. “Stella, thank you for your trouble.” Chloe extended her right hand, slender and delicate. I walked over expressionlessly and wrapped the measuring tape around her ring finger. “You don’t have to torment yourself like this, you know.” Chloe lowered her voice, speaking just loud enough for only the two of us to hear. “Watching the man you love marry someone else, your heart must be bleeding, right? Stella, what do you have to compete with me? Ethan said you’re nothing but a nuisance he picked up on a whim.” My hand paused, but I said nothing, just silently noted the measurements. Seeing my lack of response, a malicious glint flashed in Chloe’s eyes. She picked up a freshly brewed cup of scorching hot tea from the table and, feigning a slip of the hand, hurled it directly at my right hand, the one I used for drawing. “Ah!” The scalding tea instantly drenched my hand, and I gasped in pain, my hand swelling red before my eyes. Just then, the bedroom door burst open, and Ethan strode in. Chloe immediately cried out, throwing herself into Ethan’s arms, looking utterly pathetic. “Ethan, I didn’t mean to! I just wanted to offer Stella some tea, and she suddenly dodged, and the tea spilled…” Ethan didn’t even glance at my scalded hand. He shielded Chloe behind him and snapped, “Stella, are you done making a scene?! Chloe was being kind, offering you tea. How did you respond to her?” I trembled with pain, biting down hard on my teeth. Looking at the man who was protecting someone else, I lost even the desire to explain. I turned and left without a word, heading straight for the glass conservatory in the backyard. That was my private studio, built specifically for me by Ethan, my only safe haven. But when I pushed open the conservatory door, I froze. My easels, plaster molds, and design sketches were being roughly packed and thrown into a trash can by several housekeepers.

Stella POV “What are you doing?!” I rushed in, snatching a stack of manuscripts from a housekeeper’s hands. Those were design drawings I’d painstakingly worked on through countless sleepless nights. The housekeeper looked distressed. “Ms. Stella, these are Mr. Lynwood’s orders. He said Ms. Foster likes flowers and wants this conservatory cleared out for her flower arranging studio.” All the blood in my body seemed to drain away at that moment. Clutching my manuscripts, I stood frozen, watching as the tools that held countless dreams and memories were discarded one by one. “What’s wrong? You’re reluctant to part with these things?” Ethan’s cold voice came from behind me. I turned around, my eyes red-rimmed, looking at him. “Ethan, this was your eighteenth birthday gift to me. You said this place would always be mine.” Ethan stood with his hands in his pockets, his gaze as indifferent as if he were looking at a stranger. “Since it was a gift I gave, I naturally have the right to take it back. Your so-called jewelry designs are nothing but a joke. Chloe needs a quiet place for her flower arranging, and this place is perfect for her.” A joke. Ten years of my passion, my tireless efforts, were, in his eyes, worth less than one of Chloe’s flower arrangements. I took a deep breath, forcing my tears back. “Fine. I’ll clean it out.” I didn’t make a scene, nor did I say another word. Ethan frowned, as if he wanted to say something else, but Chloe was already calling him sweetly from a distance. Ethan turned and left, without a single backward glance at me. That night, I pulled out a large suitcase and began clearing out my belongings. Clothes, books, daily necessities. I actually didn’t own much. Most of it had been bought by Ethan. I neatly arranged all the designer bags and haute couture dresses back in the walk-in closet, not intending to take a single item with me. I took out an accounting ledger and began to calculate my expenses over the past ten years. Tuition, living expenses, medical bills. Every single one, tallied precisely. A total of 8.7 million. I only had a little over 2 million in my bank account. I was still short more than 6 million. From the bottom drawer, I pulled out a velvet box. Inside lay an antique ruby necklace. It was the only relic my mother had left me, and my most cherished possession. To completely sever all ties with Ethan, I had no other choice. The next morning, I contacted an auction house and listed the necklace. Late at night, I lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. The master bedroom was right next door. In the dead of night, the intimate sounds coming from there pierced my eardrums like needles. I pulled the covers over my head, my tears silently soaking the pillow. The next morning, I went downstairs for breakfast, dark circles under my eyes. As soon as I reached the dining room, my steps abruptly halted. By the dining table, Chloe was nestled beside Ethan, playfully leaning on him. And around Chloe’s fair neck was the ruby necklace I had just sold yesterday! “Ethan, I really love this necklace. Thank you.” Chloe touched the ruby at her chest, her smile sweet. Ethan sipped his coffee, his tone indulgent. “As long as you like it.” I stood rooted to the spot, as if plunged into an ice cave. I walked closer, staring intently at the necklace, my voice trembling. “Ethan, why did you buy this necklace?” Ethan looked up at me, his eyes showing no hint of guilt, but rather a touch of mockery. “The auction house manager told me you needed money urgently and rushed the listing for this necklace. Since you didn’t even want your mother’s keepsake, what’s wrong with me buying it and giving it to Chloe?” He knew. He knew it was my mother’s keepsake, he knew how important it was to me, yet he still bought it, then casually gave it to another woman. “Ethan, you’re truly cruel.” I gave a bitter laugh, the light in my eyes completely extinguished. I didn’t argue further. I turned and went back to my room. From this moment on, Ethan Lynwood, the person, was dead in my world. For the next few days, I holed myself up in my room, working day and night. The submission deadline for The Zenith Design Awards was tonight. It was the most prestigious competition in the country, and winning an award meant my position at the Paris headquarters could be directly promoted from assistant designer to independent designer. With my still-healing, scalded right hand, enduring piercing pain, I meticulously carved the final wax model. In the afternoon, I went to the restroom. When I returned, I saw Chloe standing at my desk. “What are you doing?!” My heart tightened, and I quickly walked over. Chloe turned, holding the wax model I had just finished carving. She looked at me, a malicious smile playing on her lips, and then her fingers relaxed. Clink. The fragile wax model dropped to the floor, instantly shattering into several pieces. “Chloe!” I exploded in rage, rushing forward and pushing her away. Chloe stumbled backward, deliberately falling down the few steps at the study door, letting out a pitiful shriek. “Chloe!” Ethan happened to be coming up the stairs. Seeing the scene, his face instantly changed. He rushed over, picked Chloe up, then turned to me, his eyes so fierce they looked like they could devour someone. “Stella, are you insane?!” I pointed at the shattered wax model on the floor, trembling all over. “She’s the one who threw my competition piece first! Ethan, that was my hard work!” “A broken wax model, is it more important than Chloe’s life?!” Ethan roared, stepping forward and shoving me hard. I hit the door frame, a sharp pain shooting through my back. “Since you love throwing fits so much, stay in your room and think about what you’ve done! No one is to let her out without my permission!” Ethan picked up Chloe and strode away. Bang! The door slammed shut, locked from the outside. I lunged at the door, pounding on it frantically. “Ethan! Let me out! Tonight’s the deadline; I have to submit my work! Ethan!” Silence. Dead silence from outside the door. I slumped to the floor, staring at the scattered pieces of the wax model, and closed my eyes in despair.

Stella POV Two days later, the door finally opened. Ethan stood outside, looking down at me, curled up in the corner. My hair was disheveled, my face as pale as paper, my entire being exuding a lifeless, withered aura. “Chloe only suffered a mild concussion; she’s not going to press charges.” Ethan’s voice was cold. “Just stay put from now on, and don’t cause any more trouble.” I slowly raised my head, my empty gaze sweeping over his face. No anger, no resentment, nothing at all. I pushed myself up against the wall, limped to the desk, picked up a pen, and began to draw the shelved engagement ring design. Ethan watched me, then snorted coldly, and turned to leave. My dream was shattered, but I became incredibly clear-headed. Like a soulless machine, I spent three days completing Chloe’s engagement ring design. The design was impeccable, so perfect that no one could find fault with it. A week later, a grand international jewelry exhibition was held in New York. As the company’s assistant designer, I followed my director to set up the exhibition booth. When I reached the central display in the exhibition hall, my steps abruptly halted. Under the spotlight, a jewelry set named “Starlight” was showcased. The fluid lines, the unique setting technique. It was clearly the design from my wax model that Chloe had shattered. And the designer’s name below the display cabinet prominently read: Chloe Foster. My breath hitched. Trembling all over, I pushed through the crowd and immediately saw Ethan and Chloe being interviewed by the media. “Mr. Lynwood, we hear this jewelry set is Ms. Foster’s first piece. What was the inspiration behind it?” a reporter asked. Ethan put an arm around Chloe’s waist, his smile gentle. “Chloe is very talented. This piece is the culmination of a month of her hard work. We hope everyone will support her.” I rushed forward, grabbing Ethan’s arm, my eyes blazing red. “Ethan, how could you give her my design? That’s my work!” The camera flashes instantly erupted. Ethan’s face darkened. He roughly shook off my hand and dragged me into a deserted emergency exit stairwell. “What are you making a scene about now?” Ethan’s tone was extremely impatient. “That ‘Starlight’ set was my competition piece! The original files are still on my computer!” I gritted my teeth, tears finally streaming down my face. “You’d resort to such despicable tactics just to elevate her?” Ethan looked at my tear-streaked face, a complex emotion flashing in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by coldness. “Chloe was injured because of you, and she missed her original art exhibition. Consider this design your compensation to her.” He stated it as a matter of course. “Besides, you’re the adopted daughter of the Lynwood family. What do you need fame for? The Lynwood family will support you for life. As long as you’re obedient, you won’t starve. It’s just a design, why are you making such a fuss?” Just a design. I looked at the man I had loved for ten years, and suddenly, a wave of nausea rolled through my stomach. In his eyes, I was never an independent person, just an object whose dreams could be arbitrarily stripped away, used to please his beloved.

Stella POV “Okay. I understand.” I wiped away my tears, no longer hysterical, and turned to walk out of the emergency exit. I didn’t go back to the company. Instead, I went straight back to the Lynwood family home, took out my ledger, and filled in the auction amount for the ruby necklace. Still short thirty thousand. My flight to Paris was in half a month. I had to raise this money within that time. I wanted to leave Ethan’s life completely, cleanly, and without any lingering ties. Through a friend’s introduction, I started working as a VIP suite attendant at an exclusive, high-end private club called “The Black Orchid Club.” Only the wealthy frequented this place. Selling a few expensive bottles of wine meant commissions and tips that could easily match a normal person’s annual salary. I changed into the club’s prescribed tight uniform, put on heavy makeup, and moved like a tireless machine between the various suites. Being plied with drinks, being verbally harassed. I gritted my teeth and endured it all. As long as I could earn money, as long as I could repay Ethan’s debt. That night, the manager handed me a bottle of Romanée-Conti worth a million. “VIP Room 888. The wealthiest people in the New York circle are in there. Remember to be smart and keep them happy. You’ll be pleased with the tips.” I carried the tray and pushed open the door to VIP Room 888. The suite was dimly lit and smoky. Men and women were embracing, the atmosphere decadent. I kept my head down, walked to the table, and prepared to open the wine. “Well, well, this new attendant is quite pretty.” A drunken male voice slurred, “Lift your head, let me see.” I ignored him, skillfully pulling out the cork with a corkscrew. The man felt disrespected. He suddenly stood up, grabbed my chin, and forced me to look up. “I told you to look up, you… God!” The man’s face cleared, half-sober with shock. He instantly let go. “Stella?!” His exclamation instantly silenced the entire suite. The man seated in the shadows at the head of the table slowly extinguished the cigarette in his hand and leaned forward. In the dim light, Ethan’s face, dark enough to drip water, became visible. Today was his bachelor party. He stared intently at me, dressed in a revealing uniform and heavy makeup, the rage in his eyes almost enough to set the suite ablaze. “Ethan, isn’t this… isn’t this your adopted daughter? How did she end up selling drinks here?” The man who had grabbed me awkwardly tried to smooth things over. Ethan didn’t speak, the air pressure around him terrifyingly low. Another wealthy man, who had always disliked me, sneered. “Since she’s here to sell drinks, she should follow the rules. Get on your knees and fill everyone’s glasses with this bottle. I’ll pay for the wine today, and I’ll give you a generous tip.” The suite was dead silent. Everyone looked at Ethan, waiting for his reaction. Ethan leaned back on the sofa, looking at me coldly. “Why are you looking at me? The guest asked you to pour the wine, can’t you hear him?” My spine stiffened for a moment. I looked at the cold cruelty and contempt in Ethan’s eyes, and suddenly, I felt that ten years of love had been a complete and utter joke. I didn’t resist, didn’t cry, my eyes didn’t even redden. I calmly picked up the million-dollar bottle of red wine, bent my knees, and with a soft thud, knelt directly before the hard marble table. The glass wine glasses clinked softly. I poured the wine into each glass with practiced movements and a blank expression, then held up the first glass with both hands, extending it towards the wealthy man who had insulted me. “Sir, your wine.” The wealthy man froze. I knew he had intended to humiliate me, but he hadn’t expected me to actually kneel. He instinctively looked at Ethan. Ethan’s face had turned incredibly grim. He suddenly stood up and kicked over the table in front of him.

Stella POV Crash! Wine glasses shattered, and expensive red wine spilled everywhere, splashing onto my white uniform shirt like stark bloodstains. “Stella, how can you be so disgusting?!” Ethan grabbed my collar, yanking me roughly off the floor, his eyes bloodshot. “Is the money the Lynwood family gave you not enough? You have to come to this sickening place to degrade yourself?!” I was forced to look up at his furious face, a mocking curve playing on my lips. “Mr. Lynwood, I’m earning money with my own hands. What’s so disgusting about that? If you find me an eyesore, I’ll just leave.” “Earn money? How much do you need?!” Ethan pulled a checkbook from his suit pocket, swiftly wrote a string of numbers, and hurled it at my face. “Is one million enough? Two million? Take the money and get out of here right now!” The flimsy check floated to the floor. I crouched down amidst the shattered glass, picked up the check, and carefully brushed off the dust. “Thank you for the tip, Mr. Lynwood.” I folded the check and slipped it into my uniform pocket, my voice frighteningly calm. Ethan stared at me, then grabbed my wrist and dragged me out of the suite. “Ethan, let go of me!” Ethan ignored me, pulling me out of the club and shoving me into a waiting Maybach on the street. The air pressure inside the car was extremely low. “The day after tomorrow is Chloe’s and my engagement party.” Ethan didn’t look at me, his voice harsh. “You stay home, don’t go anywhere.” I stared at the rapidly passing night scenery outside the window, my fingers clutching that check. The day after tomorrow. My flight takes off tomorrow night. “Ethan,” I said suddenly, my voice so soft it felt like a gust of wind could scatter it. “Tomorrow is my twenty-second birthday.” Ethan’s hands, gripping the steering wheel, paused. “Could you… have dinner with me? Just one last time.” I turned my head, looking at his profile, my eyes filled with a desperate finality. “Chloe needs to try on her wedding dress tomorrow; I don’t have time.” He sneered. “Stella, don’t try to play games with your birthday, trying to bait me. I’m not falling for it.” I retracted my gaze and looked out the window again. “Okay.” On my twenty-second birthday, an unusually heavy rain poured over New York. The Lynwood mansion was empty, the housekeepers given the day off. I sat alone on my bedroom carpet, stuffing the last of my clothes into my suitcase. I really didn’t have much; a twenty-four-inch suitcase wasn’t even full. I had cleaned the room spotlessly, leaving all the things Ethan had bought for me, jewelry, accessories, designer clothes, neatly in their original places. I walked to my desk and placed a bank card under a delicate velvet jewelry box. On the card was all the money the Lynwood family had spent on me over the past ten years, principal and interest, every single cent. Inside the jewelry box were the engagement rings for Ethan and Chloe that I had painstakingly made through the night. I picked up a pen and wrote the last sentence on a sticky note. “I owe you nothing now. Ethan, I wish you a happy marriage and eternal happiness.” No lingering attachment. No resentment. Just a peaceful farewell. At eight in the evening, the rain showed no signs of letting up. Dragging my suitcase and holding a black umbrella, I walked out of the Lynwood family’s grand gate. I didn’t look back at the cage that had trapped me for ten years. I hailed a taxi and headed straight for the airport. Once in the car, I took the SIM card from my phone and, through the narrow gap in the window, tossed it into the pouring rain.

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Before the divorce, I wrote fairy tales. After the divorce, I exiled myself to Detroit and became a bestselling horror novelist. My readers asked why my style changed so drastically. I told them, “Before you die, you have to get a little wild.” The basement of this villa was my forbidden zone. Until the agent brought in a new tenant, Ethan Hayes, my ex-husband, whom I hadn’t seen in four years. He still had that cop’s sharp gaze, steady and stern, but beside him was a five-year-old boy whose eyes were exactly like his. We had only been divorced for four years. He handed me a handkerchief to wipe my coffee-scalded hand. “Elara Vance, there is no need to hold onto the past.” I clutched the handkerchief, remembering that rainy night four years ago, when he pushed the divorce papers toward me and said, “I betrayed you.” Now I finally saw the proof of that “betrayal.” Before turning to go back to the basement, I tossed out a line. “I just don’t want to get too involved with a married man.” As I brushed past him, he suddenly grabbed my wrist. A small packet of white powder fell from my pocket. He picked it up, his eyes instantly turning sharp. “What is this?” I snatched the powder back, looking up at him. “None of your business.” “Elara Vance, don’t tell me you have fallen that low.” He pinned me against the wall, bloodshot eyes staring into mine. I pushed him away with all my strength. “On the day we divorced, you said my affairs would no longer concern you.” Closing the door, I collapsed onto the table, trembling with pain. That packet of powder was morphine. The doctor said the blood vessel in my brain was pressing on a nerve, making surgery impossible. I could die at any moment.

Elara Vance POV Before the divorce, I was an unknown fairy tale author. After the divorce, I exiled myself to Detroit, one of America’s grittier cities, and became a bestselling horror novelist. All my readers thought I had been traumatized by the divorce, which was why my writing style had transformed into something with a violent aesthetic. Responding to the buzz on the forums, I quoted a line from one of my characters. “Before you die, you have to get a little wild.” … In the basement, lit only by a desk lamp, the glow from the computer screen reflected on my pale face. I lit a cigarette, my red nails making my hands look even paler. “Nightbloom: Alright, usual rules. Ten lucky readers picked yesterday can ask anything.” My message instantly made the fan group explode. “Piggle_Rider: I’m first. Will the heroine in the next chapter escape the loop? My heart can’t take it.” I blew out a smoke ring, typing with one hand. “Nightbloom: Depends on my mood.” As the message went out, questions about my current serialized suspense horror novel scrolled non-stop. “RiverFlows: Actually, I wanted to ask, why did you get divorced back then? I heard you and your ex-husband had a great relationship.” At this question, the lively chat went silent, as if everyone was waiting for my answer. My tongue lightly traced my teeth as I carefully formulated a reply. “Nightbloom: Our relationship broke down.” From that question on, the next few people became curious about my private life. “November_Moon: How long did you and your ex-husband know each other before you started dating?” “Nightbloom: He lived upstairs from me. We’ve known each other since childhood.” “TinyGrain: What’s your ex-husband like, and what does he do? If I became your ideal lover, would there be a way to trick you into giving me your unpublished works?!” Seeing these intrusive questions, I frowned, tapping my fingers lightly on the table, my interest fading. Suddenly, my phone rang. I flicked the ash off my cigarette and answered. “Ms. Vance, this is Mr. White, your agent. The tenant for the viewing is here. We’ll be there soon.” “Got it.” I hung up, gave a perfunctory answer to the remaining questions, then shut down my computer. I stubbed out the cigarette and went upstairs. Pushing open the basement door, the dazzling sunlight made me instinctively squint. The two-story, sun-drenched villa was a stark contrast to the gloomy basement. December in Detroit was especially cold. The ruined streets were covered in snow, burying sin and decay beneath. After opening the front door, I started making myself coffee. Amidst the hum of the coffee machine, a black car pulled up outside the villa. A moment later, two men walked in. “Sir, this is the house you wanted to see. The owner is also here.” Hearing Mr. White’s voice, I turned around. When my gaze landed on the man beside Mr. White, my pupils constricted. How could it be Ethan Hayes? My ex-husband of four years. He wore a black overcoat, his figure still tall and lean, but his handsome face no longer held the youthful confidence and tenderness I remembered. It was replaced instead by a somber maturity. A burning sensation on the back of my hand almost made me drop the mug. I frowned, setting down the full coffee cup. As I reached for a napkin, Ethan handed me a handkerchief. “Are you alright?” His voice was still that cool, alluring tone that could captivate any woman. I hesitated, then took it. “Thanks.” Mr. White noticed our familiarity. “Excuse me, you two know each other?” I looked at the man’s impassive eyes, my throat feeling a little dry. “Old friend.” Ethan’s gaze deepened. He turned to Mr. White and said, “No need to look any further. This is it.” My expression remained neutral. I knew Ethan was stubborn. He wouldn’t easily change his mind once he’d decided something, so I only stated one condition. “I only have one rule: the basement is my private space. You can’t go there.” Ethan nodded readily. “Alright.” Mr. White was surprised by how smoothly the deal went, but also happy to have closed a sale. “I’ll go get the lease agreement.” In the spacious living room, it was so quiet you could hear the wind outside. Ethan looked at me, calmly sipping my coffee, his eyes deepening. I had my long hair loosely tied up with a pencil, a black dress clinging to me, my amber eyes shadowed with a somber, gloomy aura. He asked, “What are you doing here?” I also asked, “What are *you* doing here?” Our simultaneous questions created an awkward silence. I pursed my lips. “The chaos and violence here… it suits my writing.” As I spoke, a hint of teasing entered my voice. “What about you? Don’t tell me you, a cop, came here to catch a fugitive.” Ethan’s expression shifted slightly. Just as he was about to reply, a five-year-old boy ran in. The boy hugged his leg, his round, bright eyes full of excitement. “Dad, is this where we’re going to live now?”

Elara Vance POV I felt like no plot twist I’d ever conceived for a novel could be as heart-stopping as this moment. The little boy in front of me had eyes exactly like Ethan’s, making it impossible for me to even pretend otherwise. Ethan looked at the boy, his gaze softening. “Yes.” “Then who is this pretty lady?” He hesitated for a moment before answering the child’s question. “This is Ms. Vance.” “Hello, Ms. Vance!” Hearing the boy’s clear, chirpy voice, I could only manage a strained smile. Ethan ruffled the boy’s hair, calmly explaining, “His name is Leo. He just turned five. He’s not very well, so I brought him here for treatment.” Just as he finished speaking, Mr. White came in with the contract. “If everything looks good, you can sign. For now, it’s a short-term lease for one month. If you have any issues later, feel free to call me.” After the contract was signed, Mr. White left, and Leo eagerly went to explore upstairs. The aroma of coffee filled the air, but the atmosphere in the living room was heavy. Finally, I broke the silence. “We’ve only been divorced for four years, but your child is five.” My tone was tinged with bitterness, sounding like an accusation, or perhaps a lament for myself. Ethan’s throat worked. “I told you when we divorced, I betrayed you.” Just like before, his answer was direct and unreserved. My hand, holding the coffee cup, trembled. Emotions that had lain dormant for years surged forth again. I thought I had moved on, but unexpectedly, my heart still ached with the same numbness as it had four years ago. I took a deep breath, turning my head so he wouldn’t see my eyes welling up. “You didn’t just betray me, you betrayed yourself.” With that, I turned and went back to the basement. Closing the door, I sank to the floor, feeling drained. As I closed my eyes, memories flashed through my mind. Warm sunlight, a bright study. I had just finished typing the end of a fairy tale when Ethan, home from work, gently hugged me from behind. “How was today’s story?” “The princess and prince lived happily ever after!” I snuggled contentedly in his arms, my eyes shining as I smiled. “I want our future children to read my fairy tales and grow up in our love.” But opening my eyes again, the endless darkness pulled me back to that night four years ago. Torrential rain, cold, untouched dinner. Ethan sat on the sofa, smoking, while I stared blankly at the divorce papers on the table. He said, “I’m sorry, I betrayed you.” That night, the gentle me turned into a madwoman. No matter how hysterically I pleaded and cried, Ethan remained unmoved. It wasn’t until dawn, my tears dried and my voice hoarse from crying, that I finally signed the ‘wife’s signature’ line. The memories were now rusted, crumbling into fragments with the slightest touch. I swallowed the bitterness in my throat, got up, and sat in front of my computer. I lit a cigarette, put it to my lips, and started typing. But after less than two lines, I felt a headache coming on. I collapsed onto the table, falling into a drowsy sleep. I don’t know how much time passed until I was startled awake by a knock at the door. I checked the time. It was already 7:30 PM. I got up to open the door. It was Ethan. He had changed into a gray turtleneck sweater, sleeves rolled up to reveal the distinct veins on his forearms. An apron tied around his waist made his shoulders seem broader and his waist narrower. “I made dinner. Let’s eat together.” Hearing Ethan, I looked towards the dining room. The table was set with dishes I hadn’t seen in ages, steaming hot. Leo was sitting obediently at the table, eating. My eyes darkened. “I remember you couldn’t cook.” Ethan pursed his lips, his voice a little lower. “Leo’s mom couldn’t cook, so I had to learn.” His words felt like needles pricking my heart. We had grown up together, and even after we married, Ethan had never cooked for me once. But I never felt wronged back then. He was a cop, always swamped with work. It was good enough that he even had time to eat. For a moment, I couldn’t tell if I felt more anger or more sorrow. I forced a bitter smile. “That’s nice. She’s luckier than your ex-wife.” With that, I started to close the door. “Thanks, but I’m used to takeout. Someone will deliver my meal soon.” Just as I finished speaking, the doorbell rang. “Hello, pizza!” I opened the door, took the takeout, paid the tip, and prepared to go back to the basement. But Ethan called out to me. “Elara, you don’t need to hold onto the past.” Listening to his somewhat helpless tone, my palm involuntarily trembled. “I just don’t want to get too involved with a married man.” Ethan was speechless, a flicker of struggle passing through his deep eyes. As I brushed past him, he grabbed my hand. “Wait!” Caught off guard, I stumbled. A packet of white powder fell from my pocket.

Elara Vance POV Time seemed to freeze at that moment. A flicker of panic crossed my eyes. I reached down to pick it up immediately, but Ethan was faster. He held the white powder, his gaze on me filled with a brewing storm. “What is this?” My face was grim. I reached out and snatched it back. “None of your business.” With that, I turned to leave. But the next second, his tall frame pressed against me, pinning me against the wall. “Elara Vance, don’t tell me you’ve fallen that low.” Ethan stared at me, his bloodshot eyes radiating a sharp chill. At such close proximity, I could see my own reflection in his eyes. I looked as disheveled as I had on the day of our divorce four years ago. I pushed Ethan away forcefully. “Don’t forget, on the day we divorced, you said my affairs would no longer concern you.” Throwing out that last sentence, I hurried down to the basement, slamming the door shut. Back in the basement, even the familiar dimness couldn’t alleviate my discomfort. My head throbbed harder and harder, the nerves in my brain twisting like red-hot knives. I sat down at my computer, dumped all the powder into my mouth, then pulled out my phone and dialed a number. After a few rings, a clear male voice answered. “Ms. Vance, what’s wrong?” My face was white as I rubbed my head. “Dr. Derek, my headache is getting worse.” Dr. Derek sighed. “Since you fainted four years ago and came for treatment, I told you the blood vessel was pressing on your brainstem, and surgery isn’t possible.” “I can only prescribe morphine powder for the pain, but given your current condition, you’re likely in life-threatening danger at any moment…” Hearing this, a pang of pain flashed in my eyes. I said “got it” and hung up. I slumped onto the table, letting the sorrow consume me. I wondered if fate just couldn’t bear to see me happy: first, my parents died young, then my marriage shattered, and finally, I was struck with a terminal illness… Thinking about it, I gave a bitter laugh. If life were a novel, my plot truly sucked. Night deepened. As before, I drifted into a heavy sleep, only to be woken by pain. This cycle repeated until dawn. I woke up at 8 AM. The pizza on the table was stone cold. I rubbed my head, and dragging my exhausted body, I washed up and walked out of the basement. Before my eyes could adjust to the light, I smelled the familiar aroma of breakfast. Ethan stood in front of the counter, which barely reached his hip, deftly flipping a fried egg in a pan with one hand. Our eyes met. After a moment of surprise, I remembered Ethan had become my tenant yesterday. I said nothing, making myself coffee as usual. In the morning stillness of the house, we were both busy with our own things. But I noticed many storybooks on the table. Looking closer, they were all fairy tales I had written years ago. “Leo really likes those books. He insisted on bringing them.” Ethan paused, his voice deepening. “He keeps asking me when you’ll write new stories.” I didn’t answer immediately, just stared intently. Each book cover had the publisher’s “NO.1” mark. I had intended these to be gifts for my and Ethan’s future children. But our story wasn’t a fairy tale. The gifts I’d meant for *our* children, he had ultimately given to his child with someone else. I took a sip of the bitter coffee. “I won’t be writing them anymore. Fairy tales are all lies.” Ethan understood my hidden meaning but said nothing more. Suddenly, a loud bang from outside made the window frames rattle. Almost instantly, Ethan pulled me into a corner, shielding me tightly. His heartbeat was close, and his distinct minty scent made me momentarily disoriented. But as I regained my composure, I immediately pushed him away. “This is Detroit. Such disturbances are common.” The alertness in Ethan’s eyes faded, replaced by a questioning look. “Why did you choose to come to this chaotic city?” I couldn’t answer. My throat felt tight. “I just wanted a change of environment.” Ethan pressed, “Then what was that packet of powder that fell out yesterday?” Our eyes met. Seeing him in full interrogation mode, I gave a self-deprecating laugh. I pulled out a cigarette, expertly lighting it. “You know, great works always require some forbidden methods for inspiration.” The wine-scented smoke blurred the distance between us. Ethan frowned, his gaze turning sharp. “If I ever get the chance, I’ll arrest you myself.” After delivering that flat warning, he carried Leo’s breakfast upstairs. Listening to his footsteps fading, I looked at the table full of brightly illustrated fairy tales, my eyes welling up. Don’t worry, Ethan. Neither I, nor the past, can ever go back.

Elara Vance POV Muffled thunder rolled through the dark clouds, and the basement felt cold and damp. I’d been writing for two straight days and finally decided to stop and rest. Rubbing my throbbing head, I walked out, intending to make myself a cup of coffee to wake up, only to find a sticky note on the coffee machine. “I have an urgent errand. Could you please look after Leo for me?” The handwriting was sharp, just like Ethan. Beside the coffee machine was a pre-made sandwich. I frowned, glancing at Leo playing with toys in the living room, and casually tossed the note into the trash. Why did Ethan think I’d look after his child with another woman? After finishing my coffee, I was about to go back for a nap when Leo suddenly ran over, pulling my hand to sit on the sofa. “Ms. Vance, play with me!” The soft, warm touch on my palm made me stiffen. Before I could react, the child added, “Your hands are as pretty as Mom’s.” Hearing him mention that woman I’d never met, I felt uncomfortable, yet couldn’t help but probe into Ethan’s other marriage. “Does your dad… love your mom very much?” Leo nodded, his eyes sparkling. “Dad loves Mom the most!” “I’ll tell you a secret: once, when Mom was sick, I saw Dad cry. He said big boys don’t cry, but he cried even uglier than I do when I get a shot.” “And then…” The child chattered on, and as he spoke, my mind conjured images of Ethan and a gentle, beautiful woman sharing a happy life in what used to be *our* home. It was almost subconscious, but my previously agitated heart found a sliver of comfort. Yet, when I came back to my senses, I felt only sorrow and absurdity. I was so deeply in love with a man that I could overlook his betrayal and still feel comforted by his stable, happy life… Leo soon got tired and fell asleep right on the rug. I looked at his innocent sleeping face, sighed deeply, and covered him with a blanket. Night deepened. It was already 11:30 PM. After sending the draft I’d finished to my publisher’s editor, I dragged my tired body upstairs. The living room was quiet, lit by the dim light of a floor lamp. As I reached the kitchen counter, I felt a nerve in my brain suddenly twitch violently, and I collapsed to the floor. My face went ashen, and I instinctively pounded my throbbing head. But the next second, a pair of strong hands lifted me, and the familiar minty scent brought a moment of clarity. “Are you alright?” His voice seemed to vibrate from his chest, a slight tremor that left me momentarily disoriented. When I regained my senses, I realized Ethan had placed me on the sofa. The faint night light illuminated his deep eyes and the subtle worry within them. But Leo’s words, “Dad loves Mom the most,” echoed in my ears. My heart tightened, and I immediately pulled away. “Thanks…” Facing my distance, Ethan’s gaze darkened. “Do you always have to be so strong?” Hearing that, I smiled bitterly to myself. If I hadn’t been strong, the four years of agonizing illness, the pain of being abandoned and betrayed by my loved one, would have crushed me long ago. But I was too tired to argue, so I changed the subject. “How long will Leo’s treatment take?” Ethan got up and poured me a cup of hot water. “If all goes well, a month.” He paused, then asked, “What about you? How long do you plan to stay here?” I suppressed the stabbing pain in my head. “…I don’t know. Maybe once I finish this novel, I’ll move somewhere else.” Suddenly, both of us fell silent. My fingertips traced the warm rim of the cup, trying to break the stiff atmosphere, when I suddenly heard Ethan say, “Once Leo’s well, I’m going to quit my job.” I looked up in surprise, meeting his steady gaze. We grew up together. I had witnessed all the efforts Ethan made to become a police officer. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say it was his life’s passion. My voice felt dry. “Being a cop was your childhood dream. Why…” “Weren’t you also determined to be a fairy tale author since childhood? Why did you switch to writing horror novels?” Faced with Ethan’s counter-question, I was speechless. He looked at me. “I’ve given a lot for my ideals. The rest of my life, I want to dedicate to the person I love. I want to protect her.” Bitterness climbed into my nose, warming my eyes. I used to worry sick about Ethan, but even when he loved me so deeply, he never gave up his passion. It just meant he’d found a woman who could truly make him give up everything. I lowered my eyes, hiding my bitterness. “You should get some rest. I want to be alone for a while.” Ethan looked like he wanted to say more, but just offered a “Goodnight” and went upstairs. The wind, laden with snowflakes, gently tapped against the French windows. I sat alone for a long time. Suddenly, my phone rang. It was my editor. I took a deep breath and answered. “Does the draft need revisions?” My editor’s voice was excited. “No revisions, no revisions! Elara, I just wanted to ask when you plan to finish it?” I pursed my lips. “A month.” The other end was silent for a moment. “Don’t you still have nearly 700,000 words remaining? Will you make it?” I looked towards the upstairs hallway, my eyes dark. “That’ll be enough.” A month was enough to finish my novel and my past.

Elara Vance POV For me, the days spent furiously writing flew by. Trapped in the basement with only a desk lamp, I couldn’t even tell day from night without checking my phone. It wasn’t until I felt I had no strength left to type that I stumbled to bed for a nap. I had barely closed my eyes when there was a knock at the door. “Ms. Vance, it’s Leo!” I frowned but roused myself to open the door. Ethan stood there, holding Leo’s hand. “Leo has a check-up at the hospital today. He wanted you to come with him.” As soon as Ethan finished, Leo tugged at my dress. “Ms. Vance, will you come with me, please?” Facing their identical eyes, my refusal caught in my throat. But then I remembered how long it had been since I’d gotten my medication from Dr. Derek, so I agreed. The three of us went to the hospital. Leo was very well-behaved. He didn’t cry or fuss, even around the cold medical equipment. Once he went into the examination room, I happened to glance towards a corner and saw Dr. Derek. Dr. Derek’s light gray eyes naturally held a touch of melancholy. He subtly gave me a signal, then turned and walked towards his office. Ethan was very observant. He had noticed our interaction the moment I turned my head. “I have something to do. I’ll be gone for a bit.” I ignored Ethan’s reaction, threw out that line, and left. In the doctor’s office. Dr. Derek looked at me, his eyes filled with sorrow. “I contacted my mentors. They reviewed your scans and all agreed that the risk of surgery is too great.” My expression remained neutral. I had already prepared myself for this. “I understand. You don’t need to feel burdened. I considered going to Switzerland for euthanasia, but I’m too tired to bother.” Hearing my lighthearted tone, Dr. Derek’s eyes showed pity. I knew he admired my free spirit and resilience, yet he couldn’t bear to see such a young life lost to the torment of illness. As I prepared to leave, he gave me a restrained and polite hug. “Ms. Vance, I’ll pray for you.” Feeling his pure kindness, my eyes welled up. “Thank you.” Stepping out of the office, I turned and almost bumped into Ethan, who was standing outside the door. He glanced at Dr. Derek, who was already back at work. “Who is he?” I continued towards the examination room. “A doctor.” “I asked what your relationship is.” Ethan’s brow bone was prominent. His current grim expression made him look rather fierce. I didn’t answer, instead changing the subject. “Is Leo okay?” Ethan’s face darkened, his tone growing a bit stiff. “Two more tests.” Just as he finished speaking, his phone rang. I glimpsed him from the corner of my eye. He answered directly. “You’re still awake?” His expression softened, and his voice became much gentler. “Ethan, it’s dangerous over there. You need to be careful. Is Leo causing you any trouble? Can you manage taking care of him alone?” They were close, and the woman’s gentle voice from the other end of the phone also reached my ears. And Ethan returned her concern with even softer words. “Leo’s doing great now. You need to take care of yourself at home. We’ll be back soon.” I clenched my hands. My mind couldn’t help but recall a night many years ago. We weren’t divorced then. On any stormy night, no matter how busy Ethan was, he would call me. “Elara, don’t be scared. I’ll be home soon.” His gentle, patient words made me fearless. Thinking of this, I couldn’t help but turn to look at the man beside me. Seeing his gentle eyes, I suddenly felt less resentful. Perhaps I was too tired to hate anymore. I was a person with no future. Leaving without any ties felt like peace. Ethan hung up the phone, his gaze sweeping over my deep, contemplative expression. “What’s wrong?” I forced a smile. “…Nothing.” The atmosphere became subtle with our silence. It wasn’t until we returned to the examination room door that Ethan spoke, somewhat abruptly. “I’ve been reading your serialized novel. It’s very good.” He paused, then added, “The heroine’s experiences are very similar to yours.” I gave a dry laugh. The protagonist of this book was based on myself. The only difference was that I didn’t give my character the same incurable illness I had. “Art imitates life, after all.” Ethan turned to look at me, his voice growing husky. “As your tenant, can I know the ending of the novel in advance?” My pupils trembled. Memories rushed through my mind. Happy, sad, touching… finally stopping at the moment four years ago when I stood alone on the chaotic streets of Detroit. “It should be… the heroine taking her own life.”

Elara Vance POV Screech. A nurse pushing a medical cart down the hallway masked my faint voice. At the same time, the examination room door opened. The doctor removed his mask. “The child needs to be hospitalized. Please, parents, follow me to the office to discuss the treatment plan.” Ethan glanced at me, a look of hesitation on his face, but ultimately said nothing and followed the doctor out. I looked at Leo, already asleep on the hospital bed, then turned and left. The cold wind was bleak. I returned home, ate the takeout that had been delivered, and went to sleep. For a long time after that, I locked myself in the basement to write. Several times, nosebleeds dripped onto my keyboard, or my headache was so severe that I had to take several packets of morphine powder to relieve it. Due to the side effects, my complexion worsened, and my sleep became increasingly scarce. My only comfort was the occasional faint sounds of Ethan cooking. I would also go to the hospital to see Leo, but I never stayed for long. Until this day, when my novel was almost finished, I decided to take a break and went to the hospital. The snow in early January was heavy, covering me from head to toe. As soon as I entered the ward, I heard Leo’s cheerful voice. “Ms. Vance, you’re here!” Ethan, who was peeling an apple, looked up, a slight frown on his brow. We hadn’t seen each other in days, and I had lost even more weight. I placed the toy I was holding on the table and gently ruffled Leo’s hair. “I’ll be leaving soon. I’m busy with my manuscript.” Ethan said nothing, just split the apple in half. He gave one half to Leo and offered the other to me. Looking at the apple, I hesitated for a moment before taking it, then handed it to Leo. A flicker of almost imperceptible stiffness crossed Ethan’s face. After playing with Leo for half an hour, I prepared to leave. “The snow’s getting heavy. I’ll drive you back.” Ethan also stood up, grabbing his coat from the sofa. Sensing he had something to say, I didn’t refuse. We walked in the cold wind, the dim streetlights casting two parallel shadows. Ethan spoke in a low voice. “You look so drawn.” My voice was hoarse. “Didn’t sleep well…” As I spoke, my foot caught on a stone, and I stumbled. He quickly steadied me, his voice tight, tinged with helplessness. “Watch your step.” I turned to look at him. In a daze, I felt like I was back in some afternoon years ago. Swaying tree shadows, blue and white school uniforms, and a boy gently blowing on my scraped knee after a fall. “Clumsy. Why do you always trip?” Back then, I would playfully throw myself into his arms, and he would wholeheartedly dote on me… I came back to reality, pulling free from Ethan’s hand. “Thanks.” Ethan looked at me. “Leo’s treatment over the past month has been positive. I’ll be sending him home tomorrow, and his follow-up treatment will continue there.” I froze. Had it really been a month already? I felt like only a few days had passed… I asked, “Not renewing the lease?” “No.” Hearing his low response, I gave a bitter laugh to myself. It was probably for the best that he left. After all, from the day of our divorce, our lives had already diverged. The next day. I pulled an all-nighter. The following morning, after submitting the rest of my manuscript to the editor, I left the basement and went to the living room. Ethan was coming downstairs, carrying a suitcase. I leaned against the counter, quietly sipping coffee, my gaze sweeping over the empty living room. The toys and fairy tales that had been everywhere were gone. The kitchen no longer held the familiar smell of cooking. The house looked as if they had never been here. It wasn’t until he got into the car that Ethan, who had been silent, looked towards me at the door. Something in his deep, night-like eyes seemed on the verge of spilling out. “Take care of yourself. We’re leaving.” Leo, in the back seat, waved sweetly at me. “Bye, Ms. Vance!” I wanted to say goodbye, but my throat felt like it was stuffed with cotton. I could only manage a muffled “Mmm.” Watching the car slowly disappear, a destructive emptiness, like a strange fishing net in the open sea, tangled around me, tightening with every struggle. I gazed into the distance, my slightly red eyes filled with a sense of loss. Four years ago, I had left without a word the day after the divorce, exiling myself to this chaotic city. Occasionally, I would fantasize that Ethan would regret it, that he would search for me like a madman. But it was laughable; he had lived a very happy life these past four years. Was I unwilling to accept it? Of course, but I couldn’t control the part of my heart that still wished him peace and happiness. I closed the door and returned to the basement. I took out the last cigarette from the pack, lit it, and typed a message on my social media. “Final book complete. Thank you for your companionship. This is my last.” After posting, I shut down my computer. I pulled open a drawer and took out a cold, gleaming handgun. Click! A soft sound, a bullet chambered. Suddenly, my phone rang. It was Ethan. After a moment of hesitation, I answered. “Did you leave something behind?” “Can I keep the house? I might renew the lease.” Listening to his deep voice, my eyes dimmed slightly. “I’m sorry, I plan to sell it.” I paused, then added, “I forgot to tell you earlier, have a safe trip. I wish you and your loved one eternal happiness.” Those words came from my heart. Perhaps from the moment I heard from Leo that Ethan had a happy family, I had already let go. Ethan asked, “Where are you going?” My voice was desolate. “Maybe England, maybe Australia… Ethan, in the future, I’ll also have a happy family and adorable children. It won’t be any worse than yours.” This was the beautiful dream I was weaving for myself in my final moments. If there was a next life, I wanted to live it this way. A stable relationship, so perfect that no flaws or mistakes could be found. No illness, and no agony for love. The man on the other end of the phone was silent for a long time before giving a hoarse reply. “Then, I wish you all the best.” “Thank you. Goodbye.” I placed my phone face down on the table, tears silently falling onto the dark muzzle of the gun. A long while later, I looked at the cigarette burned down between my fingers, extinguished it, then took out paper and pen, writing my will little by little.

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