After seven years of marriage, I was his collateral for a debt, the ATM in my mother-in-law’s eyes. I had boiled all my love and hope into a bitter medicine made from my trampled dignity. Until forced kneeling in the chapel shattered my knee, until the call from my dying father was cut off without mercy— I finally saw clearly that the man who kept saying he loved me had never truly cared whether I lived or died. This debt settlement called marriage was due to end. Grace Gardner’s POV “Grace Gardner, this is your seventh year in the Foster family as collateral for a debt, isn’t it?” At the Christmas family dinner, Mrs. Foster placed an promissory note on the table in front of a full table of relatives, her eyes fixed on me. The once-lively long dining table fell silent in an instant. No one responded. One gaze after another stabbed toward me, sitting at the very end of the long dining table, as if they were watching a joke. Seven years ago, my biological father had pressed my finger down to sign and fingerprint, sending me into the Foster family like a piece of collateral. From that day on, in the Foster family, I was a debt first, and only then Mrs. Foster. Ever since then, at every Christmas family dinner, this promissory note would appear on the dining table right on time, becoming the blade Mrs. Foster used to humiliate me in public. I lowered my eyes, both hands clenching a piece of paper in my pocket. It was a bank statement, one I had found three days ago in an old box in the storage room. The transfer records from the past six years matched up, entry by entry. In the note field of the final transfer, one sentence was written in black and white—Loan Repaid in Full. The debt had been paid off long ago. The promissory note Mrs. Foster was holding was nothing more than a scrap of paper meant to disgust me. “Lost your voice? I asked you how many years are left.” Mrs. Foster pressed harder. I lifted my reddened eyes. I did not take out that bank statement. Instead, I cast a pleading look toward my husband, Zachary Foster, who was sitting in the head seat. Six years ago, also on Christmas, Mrs. Foster had called me a debt-repayment servant. Back then, Zachary had overturned the table in front of all the elders, eyes red as he pointed at everyone and roared, “She is the wife I married into this family, not a debt-repayment tool!” Those words became the only obsession that carried me through seven years of humiliation in the Foster family. Every time Mrs. Foster humiliated me with that promissory note, I desperately found excuses for him in my heart. Mother was an elder. It was hard for him to contradict her in public. He was too busy. The timing was wrong. He would definitely handle it privately… But today, the irrefutable evidence that the debt was paid was right in my pocket! As long as he was willing to say one word, even if it was only to shield me for a moment, Mrs. Foster would shut up. I stared at him, my eyes stinging. And yet Zachary only leaned against the back of his chair, his long fingers lazily turning a stemmed glass. Faced with my nearly pleading gaze, his expression did not change. He did not even lift his eyelids. A few seconds later, he unhurriedly picked up his coffee and took a sip. As if the woman being trampled underfoot and ground into the dirt in front of everyone was not his wife at all. Faint laughter rose around the table. Mrs. Foster sneered smugly. “A debtor with three years left unpaid thinks she’s qualified to sit here and vote? Mr. Walter, remove Grace Gardner from the family council roster.” This year, Mrs. Foster wanted to stomp me into the mud completely. My nails dug deep into my palms until they broke the skin. I did not argue back. Without a word, I endured it until the banquet ended, then stopped Zachary at the second-floor stairwell. “I have something to tell you.” My voice was trembling. Zachary lowered his head, scrolling on his phone, not even sparing me a glance from the corner of his eye. His tone was cold and impatient. “I’m tired today. Another time.” With that, he walked around me without the slightest mercy and went straight back to the study. Late that night, I sat alone in the cold bedroom. I smoothed out that crumpled bank statement bit by bit and spread it on the desk. Then I picked up a pen and wrote, stroke by stroke, in the blank space on page four: Debt Paid in Full. After a pause, I wrote another line: Zachary Foster was present and did not speak. The pen had just stopped when Zachary’s voice suddenly came from the hallway. The study door had not been fully closed. He was on the phone with a friend, his tone carrying a casual chuckle. “It’s not like you don’t know how my mother is. She’s old, so she likes dredging up old grievances. Every Christmas, it’s just going through the motions. Everyone laughs it off and moves on.” Whatever the person on the other end said, Zachary gave a dismissive scoff. “She can’t even take that little bit of grievance? There’s nothing worth being serious about. Let her be.” With a boom, all the blood in my body turned cold. The knuckles gripping the pen slowly went white. It felt as if a huge gash had been torn open in my chest, and freezing wind was howling straight in. So it wasn’t that he couldn’t protect me. It was only that, in this man’s heart, the humiliation I suffered and the dignity that had been ground to pieces were simply not worth him getting serious over. Plop. A tear fell onto the bank statement, blurring the writing. I raised my hand and wiped the tears away hard, my gaze cooling little by little.
Grace Gardner’s POV After wiping away my tears, I did not wait for Zachary to return to the bedroom like I usually did. Since this man could not be relied on, I could only rely on myself. That night, I sat under the cold desk lamp and went through the daily reimbursement records from my seven years in the Foster family all over again. The principal Mrs. Foster claimed could never be paid off had long since been settled in my bank statement. The so-called difference was a dead debt that the finance manager had forcibly squeezed out by cutting off the beginning and end of items I had already repaid, then piling on compound interest like they were sucking blood! Early the next morning, as expected, word came from the old family estate again, telling me to go over and reconcile the accounts. The finance manager held a tablet, his voice cold as he checked the accounts entry by entry. Mrs. Foster sat high and mighty on the main mahogany sofa, then slapped that photocopied fake promissory note down in front of me. “Take it back and look at it carefully! Look at exactly how much that father of yours still owes our Foster family!” I lowered my eyes and did not argue a single word. I picked up that photocopy, folded it, and put it into my pocket. And in that same pocket, pressed tightly beneath it, was the bank statement that showed the debt had already been paid in full. When I left the old family estate, I deliberately stopped Walter, the butler, and tentatively brought up the accounts. Walter paused for half a beat, his gaze contemptuous. “Mrs. Foster has the original promissory note in her hands. Naturally, what Mrs. Foster says is what counts. Besides, Mr. Foster is so busy. How would he have time to interfere with household accounts?” My heart could not have died any more thoroughly. Late at night, I hid in the cramped storage room. I tried calling to consult about a small loan, wanting to leave myself some escape money that would not go through the Foster family accounts. The customer service representative’s voice was cold and mechanical. “Ma’am, you have no proof of income. Your spouse would need to sign a consent form.” The hand holding my phone fell limply. A spouse’s signature? That would be the same as telling Zachary I was checking the accounts and preparing to run away! I stuffed the original bank statement and that photocopy of the fake promissory note into the most hidden compartment of an old suitcase, then covered them tightly with worn-out curtains. In this man-eating mansion, money, accounts, and status were all locks, one after another. But this time, the evidence belonged only to me.
Grace Gardner’s POV The night I hid the evidence, I lay awake in the darkness until dawn. I was clearly aware that if I wanted to escape this hellhole, evidence alone was not enough. I had to have money I could control myself. But this was an impossible dead end. Because in the Foster family, I did not even have the freedom to buy a packet of salt. Every month, all of my living expenses had to be attached to receipts, reviewed by the butler, and then reported to Mrs. Foster. Once, I took four extra bags of salt at the supermarket, and Mrs. Foster’s voice message smashed into my phone that same night like a death summons: “Why did you buy so much salt? Didn’t you just buy some last month? Mom isn’t trying to control you, but even if it’s only two dollars, as an outsider, you should still know your place.” If I wanted to break free from this humiliation, I had to go out and work. The next day, I went behind the Foster family’s backs and interviewed at a company. I passed both the written test and the interview, but when HR handed me the onboarding form and saw Zachary Foster’s name filled in under the spouse section, their expression changed immediately. “Ms. Gardner, I’m sorry. According to policy, because of your identity, you need Mr. Foster’s personal signature and consent before you can be employed.” I froze where I stood. I did not argue. I got up and left that building. The fluorescent lights in the corridor made my eyes sting. I did not even have the right to want independence. At dinner, Mrs. Foster was not there. For once, it was only Zachary and me. As if tossing me charity, Zachary said casually, “Next month, I’ll take you to the annex villa for two days. I’ll talk to my mother.” My motion of eating paused. Borrowing this last faint trace of warmth between husband and wife, I spoke hoarsely. “Zachary, if I want to go out and work in the future, do you think that would be okay?” Zachary put down his fork, his brows drawing together slightly. “This family doesn’t need the little bit of money you’d earn.” “I just feel that staying home every day…” “What?” He cut me off without mercy, his gaze filled with condescending scrutiny. “You don’t like your life now? Being Mrs. Foster is such a hardship for you?” One question nailed me straight onto the pillar of shame labeled ungrateful. Just as those words stabbed me so deeply that my whole body went cold, Mrs. Carter came over with a cold expression: “Mrs. Foster said that since Grace still hasn’t paid off her debt, she is to go to the chapel tonight and keep vigil overnight. She’s the eldest daughter-in-law of the Foster household. She is to kneel there and reflect properly!” Zachary was sitting on the living room sofa, the glow of his phone screen falling across his handsome face. He heard every word clearly. He knew perfectly well how hard the hardwood floor in the chapel was. He also knew perfectly well that I had a serious old injury in my knee, and that kneeling too long would leave me in unbearable agony. But he did not even raise his head. His finger even slid calmly across the screen again. I looked steadily at him, then forced one word out to Mrs. Carter: “Okay.” That night, I knelt on the chapel’s icy floor, the cold drilling from my knee into the cracks of my bones like knives. In the latter half of the night, when I tried to stand, my left leg could no longer straighten at all. I braced myself against the wall and dragged my body back to the bedroom step by step. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I clutched my knee, which hurt so badly it was spasming, and the last trace of light in my eyes went out completely.
Grace Gardner’s POV The excruciating pain tortured me for three days. During those three days, Zachary went out early and came home late as usual. He did not even ask one word of concern. And Mrs. Foster’s mental torment of me gave me no chance to breathe at all. Before the family’s month-end tea gathering, Walter, the butler, arrived at the annex villa right on schedule. “Mrs. Foster said there will be a meeting in the main hall in three days. All the women of the family are to attend.” Walter paused, his gaze mocking. “You only need to bring your ears.” I held on to the doorframe, my left knee still aching as if needles were stabbing into it. Only bring my ears meant depriving me of the right to speak. Like a servant, I was arranged at the very end of the long dining table, in the seat closest to the door. Mrs. Foster tapped the tabletop and raised her voice. “Starting this year, seats will be adjusted. Some people still have outstanding debts, so it is unsuitable for them to participate in internal family affairs!” The women around the table whispered among themselves, their contemptuous gazes sweeping toward me. I shot to my feet. Mrs. Foster immediately raised her hand and snapped sharply, “Today, you only brought your ears!” I did not sit down. I looked past the long dining table, straight at Zachary on the other side. Zachary sat there, his screen lit. With my own eyes, I watched his thumb swipe once, twice, three times. On the fourth time, he finally stopped. But he still did not raise his head to look at me even once. With a cold smile, Mrs. Foster had the butler remove the nameplate marking her as the Foster family’s eldest daughter-in-law in front of everyone. The metal plate struck the tabletop with a piercing, muffled thud. In the entire room, not a single person said even half a word for me. After the meeting ended, I stopped Zachary in the corridor and held that removed nameplate in my palm. “Your mother took down my nameplate in front of everyone.” My voice trembled slightly. Zachary only swept it a bland glance, his brows faintly furrowing. “Things like that are only formalities. Don’t take them too seriously.” “Formalities?” I stared at him. “Mother only wants to reassure the elders. Stop making a scene.” He lifted his hand, making the exact same impatient gesture Mrs. Foster had used just now to stop me. “Go back and rest.” I shut my mouth instantly. Back in the room, I opened the drawer. The photocopy claiming I owed a debt lay side by side with this nameplate symbolizing the Foster family’s eldest daughter-in-law. The two things were like two lies so disgusting they made me sick.
Grace Gardner’s POV I had thought that after the nameplate was removed, I would become completely invisible in the Foster family, and at least earn a moment of peace. But I had underestimated Mrs. Foster’s methods of tormenting people. Humiliation in the Foster family had always been a slow slicing, inch by inch. Before lunch on the day after the nameplate was taken down, eight people were seated in the small reception room. Mrs. Foster sat high in the head seat, with Zachary beside her. On the table lay the documents for the Foster Group Charitable Foundation’s spring allocation. In previous years, I had always personally signed for this fund and followed up on the process. “Starting this year, I will review this fund,” Mrs. Foster announced coldly. “For the household accounts, it is always more reassuring when an elder personally checks things over.” The butler handed the folder directly to Mrs. Foster. This year, my signature field was completely empty. But when the previous page was flipped open, my notes and signature from last year, earned through so much hard work, were still pressed beneath it. An elder from a side branch immediately smiled ingratiatingly. “With you personally managing it, of course it will be more reliable. it will prevent certain people with dirty hands from messing with it, the elder Mrs. Foster sighed hypocritically.” After Mrs. Foster signed, she sighed hypocritically. “I’m also helping Grace share the burden. That girl hasn’t had it easy.” Only then did Zachary finally deign to look at me across from him. “Mother is only afraid you’re too tired. Don’t take it to heart.” His voice was warm and gentle. Listening to those high-sounding words, I suddenly felt a wave of nausea. I finally saw through this man’s fixed, disgusting pattern— Using an old debt to humiliate me in public was called dredging up old grievances. Taking down my nameplate in public was called reassuring the elders. Stripping away my last bit of signing authority was called being afraid I was too tired. In Zachary’s mouth, every single flaying, tendon-stripping thing Mrs. Foster did to me could be whitewashed with a decent, affectionate reason! After lunch ended, I returned to my room. I pulled out a blank envelope and took out every out-of-pocket receipt and transportation invoice related to the charitable foundation from the past nearly three months, one by one, then placed them neatly inside. On the front of the envelope, I wrote today’s date with heavy strokes. At dusk, Zachary unusually came to my room carrying a box of expensive desserts and casually asked whether my knee was doing better. Without even looking at that box of desserts, I pushed the envelope full of out-of-pocket receipts directly in front of him. I said nothing. Zachary glanced at the date on the front of the envelope. He had no interest at all in opening it. I turned around and walked toward the kitchen to heat the herbal pack for my knee. The boiling water churned, and scalding steam rushed up, burning my fingers so sharply that they jerked back. That piercing pain in my left knee began to surge upward again, endless and unrelenting.
Grace Gardner’s POV That night, the scalding herbal pack ultimately failed to warm my ice-cold heart, and it also failed to ease the piercing pain in my knee. Yet first thing the next morning, Mrs. Foster issued a new order of torment. “Go to the chapel and recheck all the old ledgers and photocopies of promissory notes from the years of debt collection, one by one.” Walter, the butler, stood in the doorway, delivering the message from above. “Mrs. Foster said that since you are the Foster family’s eldest daughter-in-law, you should set a good example of repaying debts before God.” The chapel was bone-chillingly cold. There was only a low table, a cold cushion, and a table full of scattered account pages. Walter locked the heavy wooden door from the outside with a backhand motion. “You are not allowed to get up or drink water until you finish checking everything. Those are the rules.” The instant I knelt down, my left knee made a teeth-grating click. Agony swept through my entire body in an instant. I bit down hard on my lower lip, my face as pale as paper, yet I did not make a single sound. With trembling hands, I began checking the papers one by one. Those old files had no numbering at all, and the dates were completely out of order. The only thing that was perfectly clear was the record of Mrs. Foster’s humiliation of me over these seven years: public questioning, reprimands in the side hall, forced kneeling, compound interest… Half an hour later, Walter pushed the door open a crack and asked with a sneer, “Mrs. Foster asks, how many years are left on your debt?” My fingers turning the pages were already frozen stiff. Without raising my head, I said, “However many years she says are left.” Walter snorted coldly and slammed the door shut again. Time passed, minute by minute. The ache in my knee bloomed into a throbbing swell, burrowing deep within my bone tissue. I broke out in cold sweats and my vision blurred repeatedly. I attempted to shift my weight to ease the strain, yet I crumpled back to my knees after barely ten seconds. After that, my knee was not just in pain anymore. It had lost all feeling completely. When Walter pushed the door open again two hours later, I was digging my fingers hard into the floor tiles with both hands, trying to stand. But my left leg was like a useless piece of wood, dragging behind me without the slightest response. Walter frowned, took out his phone, and called Zachary Foster. He even deliberately put it on speaker. “Mr. Foster, Grace doesn’t seem to be able to stand up.” The other end of the line was quiet for two seconds. Then Zachary Foster’s careless, faintly irritated voice rang out clearly in the empty chapel. “Mother is just following the rules. It’s not like she physically punished her. Once she’s done checking the old files, it’ll be over. Tell her not to overthink things just because of a little pain and make everyone look bad.” The call was cut off without mercy. Half-sprawled on the cold floor tiles, I listened to that icy busy tone, and my tears finally fell silently onto the dust-covered floor. I did not cry out in pain again. I only reached out with a trembling hand and silently pulled over the next loose sheet. Two hours later, Walter half-dragged, half-pulled me into the hospital. The ER doctor looked at the scans, his brows tightly furrowed. Pointing at the lower edge of the patella, he said sternly, “What happened?! The old injury has worsened, and the cartilage wear is irreversible! From now on, this knee of yours can only be maintained through long-term rehabilitation. It will never fully return to normal!” The cartilage damage was permanent; full recovery would never be possible. I numbly took the medical record, my gaze fixed on the doctor’s signature and the date. After returning to the annex villa, I locked the door behind me and took out the real bank statement from the hidden compartment of my old leather suitcase. In the blank space beside the final paid-off record, my hand trembling, I wrote stroke by stroke with such force that the pen nearly cut through the paper: [March 7 of the sixth year, Debt Paid in Full. In the seventh year, I was forced to kneel until I was crippled.] [And he knew all of it.]
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