Opening my eyes, I found myself sitting at the dining table. The nightmare hadn’t happened yet. The lavish dinner was just beginning. The root of my past life’s tragedy was the girl standing across from me. The impoverished student I had funded for years. To impress my billionaire fiancé, she had slaughtered Ranger, the retired combat K-9 my father brought back from his deployments. She had him cooked into a dark, heavily spiced exotic stew. Ranger wasn’t just a pet. He was a decorated war hero who had saved countless lives. In my previous life, my fiancé casually picked up a piece of meat from the bowl. “It’s just a dog. I’ll buy you a better breed tomorrow. Look at the effort Beth put in. You should be grateful.” He didn’t know that Ranger’s death would bring apocalyptic wrath upon our families. My father’s company went bankrupt. My parents died in a mysterious car crash. And Tristan, my fiancé, personally locked me in a psychiatric ward where I was tortured until my last breath. 1 Beth brought the steaming ceramic pot to the table, her eyes practically begging Tristan for approval. Tristan smiled warmly and ladled a bowl for me. “Try it, Monica. Beth made this special exotic dish just for you.” I smiled, took the bowl, and pulled out my phone right in front of their bewildered faces. I dialed my father’s old commanding officer. “Uncle Marcus,” I said, keeping my voice deadpan. “Tristan wants to know what a decorated military hero tastes like. I saved a portion for you. When are you coming to collect it?” A heavy silence fell over the line. The kind of silence that precedes an airstrike. I could already picture Uncle Marcus’s scarred, weathered face darkening like a thundercloud. Tristan’s gentle smile froze. A shadow of annoyance flickered in his handsome eyes. He clearly didn’t understand the gravity of my words. “Monica, what kind of childish tantrum is this?” Beside him, Beth, the girl whose tuition and rent I had paid for five years, instantly turned pale. Her hands trembled so violently that a drop of the boiling broth splashed onto her knuckles, leaving a blistering red mark. She didn’t even flinch. She just stared at me with wide, terrified, innocent eyes. “Monica, I… I didn’t mean any harm. I just heard Tristan say he wanted to try some rare game meat, so I…” Tears spilled down her cheeks like shattered pearls. That pitiful, fragile act had fooled me completely in my last life. Even after she killed Ranger, I thought she was just tragically ignorant. How pathetic I was. I ignored her, waiting for the voice on the phone. Tristan’s patience evaporated. He snatched the phone from my hand, his tone dripping with the arrogant entitlement of a billionaire heir. “I don’t care who this is. Monica is having a bad day. We are done here.” He moved to end the call. Suddenly, Uncle Marcus’s voice erupted from the speaker. It was the roar of a man who had commanded troops in the deadliest war zones on earth. “Done? Who the hell do you think you are to tell me we are done?!” “Put Monica back on the phone. Now!” Tristan froze. For the first time, a flicker of genuine shock crossed his face. I smoothly pulled the phone from his rigid grip and brought it to my ear. “I am fine, Uncle Marcus.” “Send me your coordinates. I am on my way.” His voice left absolutely zero room for negotiation before the line went dead. An eerie quiet settled over the massive dining room. Tristan stared at me. He looked at me like I was a stranger he found trespassing in his home. “Since when do you associate with people like that, Monica?” he demanded, his pride clearly wounded. I slowly pushed the bowl he had served me toward the center of the table. The dark broth simmered. The rich, nauseating aroma filled the air. “Tristan, didn’t you just say Beth put a lot of effort into this?” I looked him dead in the eye. “Tell me. Butchering my father’s decorated war dog and turning him into a stew… is that what you call effort?” Tristan’s face hardened into a mask of pure ice. “You are willing to humiliate everyone at this table over a goddamn dog?” “Tristan, please don’t be mad at her,” Beth sobbed, pressing her delicate body against his arm. She clutched her burnt hand while gripping his tailored shirt. “I thought Monica would love the surprise. I had no idea the dog was that important to her. I really didn’t.” She gasped for air between her tears, playing the ultimate victim. Tristan immediately wrapped his arm around her shoulders, whispering sweet comforts to her while glaring at me with absolute disgust. “Look what you did. You terrified her. She is a poor girl from the middle of nowhere. How was she supposed to know about some military mutt? She was just trying to make you happy.” “Even if you don’t appreciate it, you have no right to be a bitch about it.” That gentle tone he used with her. That protective stance. It was the exact same way he held his new lover right before he locked me in the asylum. My heart had already burned to ash in my previous life. All that remained was cold, calculating hatred. “Make me happy?” I let out a dry, bitter laugh, pointing at the simmering pot. “By slaughtering my father’s brother-in-arms to entertain me? Do you even hear yourself, Tristan?” He slammed his hand on the mahogany table and stood up, towering over me. “Enough, Monica! It was just an animal! It’s dead. Get over it. I will write you a check for a hundred pedigree puppies tomorrow! Are you really going to burn our relationship to the ground over this?” Behind his back, hiding in his embrace, Beth shot me a tiny, triumphant smirk. I saw it. It was the exact same smirk she wore standing outside the reinforced glass of my psychiatric cell. I remembered her gloating voice. “Look, Monica. Tristan chose me in the end. Your parents, your company, your dog. Everything that belonged to you is mine now.” The memories crashed over me like a tidal wave of battery acid. I dug my fingernails into my palms until the sharp pain grounded me. Right on cue, the doorbell rang. Sharp. Urgent. Unyielding. Tristan scowled. “Who the hell is that?” No one answered. The bell just kept ringing. Frustrated, he stormed over and yanked the heavy oak door open. Standing on the porch was Uncle Marcus, dressed in full tactical dress uniform. Behind him stood two young, heavily muscled military officers, their faces carved from stone. The silver stars on their shoulders gleamed under the porch lights. Uncle Marcus looked right past Tristan. His eyes locked onto me, filled with a mixture of heartbreak and a terrifying, lethal rage. Then, his gaze drifted to the dining table. To the ceramic pot. The oxygen in the room seemed to evaporate. Tristan stood frozen at the door. He was a shark in the corporate world. He had dined with politicians and tycoons. But he had never faced an aura like this. It wasn’t the soft power of money. It was the suffocating, metallic stench of blood and gunpowder. “Can I help you?” Tristan’s voice lacked its usual arrogant bite. Uncle Marcus ignored him entirely and marched into the foyer. His heavy combat boots struck the marble floor with methodical thuds. Every step felt like a hammer striking Tristan and Beth’s chests. His eyes remained glued to the dining table. “Where is Ranger?” Uncle Marcus’s voice was gravelly, possessing the terrifying calm of a hurricane’s eye. I stood up, walked to his side, and pointed. “Right there, Uncle Marcus. That’s Ranger.” The general’s massive frame went completely rigid. The two officers behind him turned a violent shade of purple. The younger one’s knuckles popped loudly, his eyes turning bloodshot. “You sick bastards!” the young officer roared, lunging forward. Uncle Marcus raised a single hand, stopping the man in his tracks. He walked slowly to the dining table. He reached a trembling hand toward the ceramic pot, hovering inches above the rim. His thick fingers shook violently. Tristan finally snapped out of his shock. He glanced at the silver stars on Marcus’s uniform, then back at me. A flash of hesitation crossed his face, but his wounded pride quickly overtook it. “So, you are Monica’s family,” Tristan said, falling back on his billionaire persona. His tone was detached and diplomatic. “This is just a massive misunderstanding. Monica threw a fit over a dog, and I apologize that it dragged you all the way out here.” He brushed off the situation like a minor inconvenience. “Please talk some sense into her. Whatever the financial loss is, the Vanguard Group will compensate you generously.” He spoke so casually, as if negotiating a minor contract dispute. Uncle Marcus slowly turned around. His piercing eyes locked onto Tristan. “A misunderstanding?” “You call this a misunderstanding?” His voice was low, but it dropped the temperature in the room below freezing. “A dog?” he repeated, spitting the word out like poison. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small object wrapped carefully in a velvet cloth. He unfolded it. A heavy, gleaming piece of metal caught the light. The Medal of Valor. The highest military honor a combat K-9 could receive. “Open your ignorant eyes and look at this!” “Six years ago, in a hostile desert compound, Ranger drew the fire of thirty armed insurgents to cover his squad’s retreat. He took seven bullets!” “He cleared a path through a live minefield with his bare paws so my men could walk out alive. He lost half a leg in the blast!” “He is a registered, decorated war hero! A soldier who saved the lives of hundreds of my men!” “And you stand there and tell me he is just a dog?!” Uncle Marcus’s voice escalated with every word until it became a deafening roar. The two officers behind him glared at Tristan and Beth with lethal intent. Tristan’s face went from pale to a sickly green. The sheer volume and fury stunned him into absolute silence. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. Beth was practically paralyzed with fear. She shrank behind Tristan, shaking like a leaf. “I… I didn’t know… I swear I didn’t know…” Her crying sounded hollow and pathetic in the heavy air. Uncle Marcus’s gaze sliced through her. “You didn’t know?” “When Monica paid your tuition, did she never mention Ranger’s history? Did you not see the heavy titanium dog tags around his neck?” “When you lured him out of the estate, did the housekeeper not explicitly tell you he wasn’t allowed to leave the grounds?” The rapid-fire interrogation left Beth completely speechless. She could only shake her head frantically. I watched her clumsy performance with pure disgust. In my past life, that exact innocent act made me believe it was a tragic accident. But the moment I was reborn, the first thing I did was pull the estate’s security footage. The footage showed Beth expertly unbuckling Ranger’s collar. She used a piece of cured steak tied to a rope to lure him past the gates. When the housekeeper ran out to stop her, Beth lied smoothly, claiming I had ordered her to take the dog to the park. She knew exactly what she was doing. It was premeditated murder. Tristan finally realized he had stepped on a landmine. He wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what a military medal of that caliber meant. Money could not fix this. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. He forced an incredibly stiff, unnatural smile. “General, sir… this was a catastrophic oversight on our part.” He lowered his head, completely dropping his arrogant posture. “We are willing to issue a formal apology. Name your price. The Vanguard Group will pay it without hesitation.” He was still trying to buy his way out. It was his only survival tactic. Uncle Marcus looked at him with absolute contempt. “Pay it?” “With what?” “Are you going to pay me with the lives of the hundreds of soldiers that dog saved?” Uncle Marcus took a heavy step forward. The oppressive aura made Tristan instinctively step back. “Do you have any idea what the federal penalty is for the mutilation and desecration of a decorated military veteran?” Tristan’s lips quivered. “Tristan…” Beth tugged at his sleeve, her voice cracking. “Call the police… please call the police.” Call the police? I almost laughed out loud. She actually thought this was a simple civil dispute. Tristan grabbed the idea like a lifeline and yanked out his phone. Uncle Marcus just watched him, making no move to stop him. The call connected. Tristan found his arrogant voice again. “Yes, 911? I need police at my residence immediately. Armed men have trespassed on my property and are threatening my life!” He exaggerated the scene, painting Uncle Marcus as some rogue, power-hungry thug. The dispatcher listened patiently. Finally, she asked one question. “Sir, what is your exact address?” Tristan recited his luxury estate address. A few seconds of silence followed. Then, the dispatcher spoke in a cold, robotic, official tone. “Sir, we have logged your situation. However, the coordinates you provided have just been designated as a temporary classified military zone. Civilian law enforcement has no jurisdiction to intervene. Goodbye.” “What?” Tristan’s voice cracked. “A classified military zone? Are you insane?!” The line went dead. Tristan stood frozen, the phone slipping from his sweaty grip. The color drained from his face completely. He finally understood. This was not a game he could win. He had provoked an entity that could crush his entire empire with a single phone call. He whipped his head around, staring at me in absolute horror. “Monica… what did you do?” I looked at his terrified face, feeling nothing but profound peace. This was only the prologue. Every ounce of suffering they inflicted on me in my past life, I was going to collect with interest. Uncle Marcus pulled out his secure encrypted phone and dialed a number. His tone was crisp, efficient, and ruthlessly military. “Special Operations Military Police? This is General Marcus.” “Location is the Vanguard Estate, Sector 4. We have a severe case of desecration of a decorated military asset.” “Yes. Extremely hostile.” “Deploy a containment team immediately. Lock down the perimeter and detain everyone inside.” “And notify Richard, CEO of the Vanguard Group. Tell him to get his ass down here right now.” He hung up the phone and looked at Tristan like he was looking at a corpse. “You wanted to know who I am, boy?” “General Marcus. First Special Operations Command.” “Ranger was my soldier. I personally handed him over to Monica’s father.”

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My mother was once a nanny for a wealthy family, hired to care for the pregnant Rosalind. Rosalind’s position in that house was… delicate. She was like a beautiful canary, kept in a gilded cage. Out of kindness, my mother warned her that emotions can run high during pregnancy, and that she should stay away from the open-air pool on the top floor. Rosalind just smiled and nodded, saying she understood. But the moment my mother presented her with a bowl of restorative broth, Rosalind let out a piercing scream, accusing my mother of pushing her. Then, she threw herself into the pool, staging a tragic miscarriage. Because of that venomous lie, my mother was beaten to death. And Rosalind, playing the part of the grieving victim, married the master of the house, transforming herself into the glamorous lady of the manor. Four years slipped by. Rosalind’s son was old enough for a playmate, and she chose me from the orphanage, the one who seemed the most obedient and mild-mannered. She never suspected a thing. She had no idea that every single day, I would lean in close to her son and whisper, “Your mother is a murderer. She killed my mother.” 1. On the day of my interview, Rosalind sat on an Italian leather sofa that must have cost a fortune, stirring her coffee with practiced elegance. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating a face so perfectly preserved it betrayed no hint of time’s passage. “Cici, is it? The director at the orphanage says you’re the most well-behaved girl.” Her voice was soft as a feather, brushing against my ear. I kept my head down, my small hands twisting the hem of my worn dress, projecting the perfect image of a timid twelve-year-old orphan. “Yes, ma’am.” A satisfied smile touched her lips. She gestured toward a small boy peering nervously from the top of the grand staircase. “That’s my son, Kevin. He’s a bit shy. He needs a patient friend.” I followed her gaze. Kevin was dressed in a crisp little tweed suit, his skin as pale and perfect as porcelain. He was the prize Rosalind had won with my mother’s life. I could still see it, the memory seared into my mind: that rainy night four years ago. Hiding in the utility closet, I watched through the crack in the door as the men who worked for her husband, Alistair Blackwood, dragged my mother’s body away. A slick, crimson trail smeared across the polished marble floor. And Rosalind, nestled in Alistair’s arms, sobbed, her tears a picture of tragic beauty. “Alistair, I’m so scared,” she’d cried. “That nanny, she went insane. She tried to harm our baby…” My mother was dead, her official cause of death ruled “Vicious servant attacks mistress, falls to her death in the ensuing chaos.” And I was sent to the orphanage. Now, my mother’s killer sat before me, deciding my fate with the casual air of someone offering charity. “You’ll live here from now on,” she said. “Keep Kevin company, make him happy, and you will be well taken care of.” I lifted my head and forced a grateful smile. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll take very good care of the young master.” She couldn’t see the torrent of hatred swirling behind my lowered eyes. That night, I moved into a small room in the staff quarters of the Blackwood manor. It was next to the room that had once been my mother’s, now crammed with discarded furniture and boxes. In the dead of night, I slipped inside. Reaching under the dusty bedframe, my fingers found a small wooden box. Inside was the diary my mother had hidden. June 3rd: Miss Rosalind was in a foul mood today. Smashed her favorite vase. Mr. Blackwood told me to keep a close eye on her, keep her away from anywhere dangerous. June 10th: I reminded Miss Rosalind the tiles by the pool are slippery, that a pregnant woman must be careful. She gave me such a sweet smile and said she knew. June 15th: A strange question from Miss Rosalind today. She asked if someone fell into the water by accident, could it look like they were pushed? It sent a chill down my spine. The final entry was scrawled in a frantic hand, the ink blurred by water spots. She said she’s going to marry him. She said I’m in the way… I snapped the diary shut, my nails digging so deep into my palms they nearly drew blood. The next day, I was in the garden with Kevin. He shyly offered me a Transformer. “This is for you, Cici.” I took the toy and gave him a small smile. Then I leaned in close, my voice a whisper only he could hear. “Kevin, did you know? Your mother is a murderer. She killed my mother.” 2. Kevin’s eyes widened, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. The other toy in his hand clattered to the stone path. He stared at me like a startled fawn, his lips parting, but no sound came out. I didn’t press him. I simply picked up the fallen toy, brushed off the dirt, and gently placed it back in his hand. “Want to play cops and robbers?” I asked, my voice light and cheerful. Fear and curiosity warred on his small face. He didn’t nod, didn’t shake his head. He just watched me, his mind reeling. I knew the seed was planted. From that day on, I found a moment every day to repeat my poison. When he was building with his blocks. When he was watching cartoons. And at night, the bedtime stories I told were always about wicked stepmothers who murdered innocent people to get what they wanted. “Cici,” he asked one evening, tugging on my sleeve, “why don’t the bad people get caught?” “Because they’re very good actors,” I said, stroking his hair, my voice a gentle murmur. “They cry and pretend they’re the ones who got hurt.” Kevin nodded, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. The next time he looked toward his mother’s bedroom, there was a new, questioning glint in his gaze. Rosalind soon noticed the change in her son. Kevin wasn’t her little shadow anymore. He started to subtly pull away from her hugs, to avoid her touch. “What’s gotten into Kevin lately?” she asked at the dinner table, her brow furrowed. “He’s always avoiding me.” I kept my eyes on my plate, shoveling food into my mouth as if I hadn’t heard a thing. Alistair Blackwood, the master of the house, was rarely home, always consumed by his business. He gave his son a brief, disinterested glance. “It’s just a phase. He’ll get over it.” But Rosalind wasn’t convinced. She was a woman wired with suspicion and paranoia. She suspected one of the staff had been whispering poison in her son’s ear. The next day, Mrs. Gable, the cook, was fired in a storm of fury for dropping a single plate. Rosalind made an example of her, her cold eyes sweeping over the rest of us. “The Blackwoods do not employ clumsy, gossiping fools.” I lowered my gaze, a chill creeping through me. I knew the warning was meant for me. That night, as I was telling Kevin a story, he interrupted me. “Cici… is my mommy… a bad person too?” I looked into his clear, innocent eyes and answered with a question of my own. “What do you think?” He looked down, his voice barely a whisper. “She was so mean to Mrs. Gable.” “Some people look like angels on the outside,” I said softly, “but on the inside, they have a demon. And demons like to push the people who are kindest to them into hell.” A small tremor ran through Kevin’s body. Later that night, a scream tore through the silent house, jolting me awake. It came from Rosalind’s room. By the time I rushed out, Alistair was already there, his face a thunderous mask. Kevin was standing by Rosalind’s bed. In his small hand, he held a fruit knife, the tip pointed directly at his sleeping mother. Rosalind was cowering against the headboard, her eyes wide with terror, her voice trembling as she pointed a shaking finger at her son. “What… what are you doing!” Kevin stared at her, his voice small but steady. “You’re a demon. I have to kill you.” 3. Alistair Blackwood’s face went rigid with fury. He snatched the knife from Kevin’s hand. “Who taught you to say such filth!” he roared. Kevin burst into terrified sobs, pointing at me. “It was Cici… she said it…” Every head in the room turned. Every eye was on me. Rosalind lunged toward me as if I were a lifeline, her voice a screech. “I knew it was you, you little viper! What have you been planning? Teaching my son to kill me!” She raised her hand to strike me. I didn’t flinch. I just stared up at Alistair, my eyes wide with a carefully crafted blend of innocence and terror. Crack. The slap never landed. Alistair had seized her wrist, his voice like ice. “That’s enough! You’re scaring the child.” He turned his sharp, cutting gaze on me. “Explain yourself. Now.” I began to tremble, tears spilling from my eyes like broken pearls. “I… I don’t know…” I choked out between sobs. “I only told the young master the story of Snow White… I said… I said the Queen was a bad person… I didn’t know he would…” My words dissolved into ragged, heartbroken sobs, as if I were the victim of some terrible injustice. Kevin was still crying, but seeing me even more distraught than he was seemed to confuse him. Rosalind was hysterical. “She’s lying! He said ‘demon,’ not ‘Queen’!” “Maybe… maybe the young master misheard me…” I stammered, casting a timid, tearful glance at Kevin. “Young master, please tell Mr. Blackwood. Did I ever teach you to say those things?” Kevin looked at me, then at his furious mother and his stone-faced father. His wails subsided. He hesitated. He was only five, the line between stories and reality still a blur. In his confused little mind, maybe I really had only told him a story. “I… I don’t remember…” he mumbled. Rosalind looked as if she’d been struck. “You don’t remember? He was about to stab me in my sleep! Alistair! This little beast has twisted your son’s mind, and you’re still protecting her?” “Be quiet!” Alistair snarled, the disgust in his eyes now unmistakable. His reputation was paramount. The scandal of a son trying to murder his mother was something he would never allow to see the light of day. He fixed his cold stare on me. “You’ll be back at the orphanage by morning.” My heart sank. Have I failed? Two guards grabbed my arms and dragged me back to my room. Rosalind followed, closing the door behind her. A triumphant, vicious smirk played on her lips. “You want to play games with me, you little bitch? You’re not even in my league.” She stalked toward me, leaning down to grip my chin with her long, scarlet-tipped fingers. “You’re just like your dead mother. Trash. I got rid of her, and now I’m getting rid of you.” I looked up at her and, to her surprise, I smiled. “So you admit it.” Her smirk faltered. “You admit you killed my mother,” I said, each word clear and deliberate. Her expression flickered before hardening into a sneer. “And what if I did? Who’s going to believe a little gutter rat like you? Alistair? He’ll just think you’re insane.” She released me, wiping her fingers as if she’d touched something foul. “Enjoy rotting in that cesspool of an orphanage for the rest of your life.” She turned to leave. “Aren’t you curious,” my calm voice cut through the air, “why Kevin would suddenly grab a knife?” Curiosity, or perhaps a flicker of fear, made her pause. I slowly pulled a small, digital voice recorder from my pocket and pressed play. My own voice filled the silent room, clear as a bell. “…some people look like angels on the outside, but on the inside, they have a demon. And demons like to push the people who are kindest to them into hell.” Then came Kevin’s small, questioning voice. “…is my mommy… a bad person too?” Rosalind spun around, her eyes locked on the small device in my hand, a mask of pure horror spreading across her face.

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In my family, there is a secret passed down through generations—women, upon turning sixty, can begin to grow young again. To complete the transformation, a balance must be restored through intimate union with eighty-one men. Until recently, a charming doctor came into my life, and for the first time, I thought of giving up eternal youth. But then a chilling discovery shattered that dream: he started showing a troubling interest in my five-year-old sister. He’ll never know—that little girl is actually my great-great-grandmother. 1 My name is Annabelle. In our family, when the women turn sixty, they begin to reverse age until they become infants again. It’s a cycle, an endless loop of eternal youth. But there’s a catch: each woman must sleep with eighty-one young, handsome men. I don’t know the science behind it. All I know is that my great-great-grandmother, Eleanor, has told me this story since I was a little girl. Eleanor is 125 years old now, but she looks like a five-year-old child. I just turned twenty and haven’t even finished college, but Eleanor is constantly urging me to start finding men while I’m young. “A woman sleeping with a man is as natural as breathing,” she’d say. “Once you’re past fifty, your hormones drop, and it won’t be as much fun.” I know she means well. But I just don’t want that life. Because I’ve recently fallen in love. 2 The man I love is Dr. George Miller. He’s a brilliant young surgeon. Three months ago, late one night, my roommate had an emergency appendectomy. I accompanied her to the ER. George was on duty that night. When he walked out of the operating room afterward and removed his mask, I was stunned. Sharp brows, sparkling eyes, a strong nose, a defined jawline. And he even had two dimples. In that moment, I could hear my heart pounding like a drum. He looked a little tired after an all-nighter, but his eyes held a warmth like winter snow melting. “The surgery was a success. The patient will be out soon.” Watching him smile, I couldn’t help but ask, “Dr. Miller, can I have your contact information?” 3 George politely declined. But that didn’t stop me from pursuing him. After all, I’d already found out he was single. So, under the guise of delivering thank-you cards, pens, and homemade lunchboxes, I was at his office every other day. Soon, his colleagues all knew a patient’s family member was chasing him. One time, when I went to deliver coffee, I overheard them discussing me. Someone asked, “Dr. Miller, Ms. Grant is so beautiful and clearly devoted to you. Why don’t you accept her?” I wanted to know too why George remained unmoved. After all, I have fair skin, striking features, and a stunning figure. Men have been pursuing me since I was a child. After a few seconds, I heard George say, “My focus is entirely on my work right now. I don’t want to string her along.” After hearing that, my affection for him deepened even further. So that’s it. He was even better than I imagined. 4 Eleanor scoffed at my praise. “Never trust a man, especially a handsome one. If he genuinely cared, why wouldn’t he just tell you to give up directly? Don’t argue with me. I’ve slept with more men than you’ve crossed bridges.” Eleanor’s words made me a little uncomfortable, but I couldn’t really talk back to my elder. I had planned to introduce her to George sometime, but I didn’t expect them to meet the very next day. That afternoon, Eleanor was sunbathing in the park. A little boy, finding her adorable, wanted to play with her. During their playful tussle, both got a little bruised and were brought to the hospital. George happened to be the doctor on call. Our family has plenty of money. After understanding what happened, I immediately paid a substantial sum for the boy’s medical expenses. As I was about to take Eleanor home, George suddenly approached. He smiled, asking, “You have a little sister? You never mentioned her.” He added, “I’m just getting off work. It’s on my way; I can drive you both home.” I wondered if it was my imagination, but George seemed different today. As far as I knew, he lived near the hospital, so it wasn’t on his way at all. And compared to his previous polite distance, he was noticeably warmer today. Could he finally be starting to like me? After pondering it all evening, just before bed, I gathered my courage and sent him a message: “Dr. Miller, would you consider being my boyfriend?” A few seconds later, he replied. “Yes.” 5 And just like that, George and I started dating. Even though Eleanor, with all her experience, said she couldn’t quite read George and felt he was a bit inscrutable, I thought she was overthinking. To me, George was the perfect boyfriend. Despite his busy work schedule, he dedicated all his free time to our dates. I tried to seduce him several times, and he clearly reacted, but he always stopped at the last moment. He said, “We’ve just started dating. It’s too soon. I want to be responsible for you.” The more he resisted, the more eager I became. Soon, Valentine’s Day, February 14th, arrived. George and I had planned to go to a secluded hot spring resort. For the occasion, I had bought several sexy swimsuits, ready for a romantic night with him. At ten in the morning, George was promptly downstairs. As soon as we met, he handed me a large bouquet of roses and a designer gift box. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Annabelle.” “Thank you.” I took them, about to get into the car, when George looked behind me. “Where’s your sister? Why didn’t you bring her?” Our family is large and matriarchal. My grandmother is 93, but she looks to be in her early thirties. My mother is 50, and she still needs to sleep with a few more men to complete her cycle. To experience different men, they began a global quest for romance two years ago. I had told George they were traveling abroad, so he knew it was just Eleanor and me at home. I said, “Eleanor’s at home. Don’t worry, she can take care of herself.” George frowned. Doctors are truly kind and cautious. He said seriously, “Let’s take her with us. She’s only five; it’s not safe for her to be alone.” 6 Despite Eleanor not wanting to be a third wheel, George insisted, and so the three of us headed out. We went to a newly opened private hot spring resort. It was a bit pricey, but the ambiance was lovely. I’d heard that young doctors like George didn’t earn much, so I was surprised he seemed so well-off. George booked a family suite with two rooms, each with its own private pool. It worked out perfectly: George and I shared one pool, and Eleanor had her own. While soaking, George’s V-line shimmered in the water, constantly tempting me and leaving me parched. I wanted to experience the fun of the water, but George said it wasn’t hygienic. We finally endured until after dinner, and Eleanor went to bed early. I used the excuse of taking a shower to change into the sexy nightgown I had prepared. Black lace with minimal fabric highlighted my skin, making it seem as white as snow, and outlined my curves in a way that was utterly captivating. Eleanor had said no man could resist this outfit. Sure enough, George couldn’t either. We tumbled onto the bed. After passionate kisses, his breathing grew more rapid, and finally, he couldn’t hold back any longer. … Everything flowed naturally. It was utterly blissful. No wonder Eleanor kept urging me to find a man. At the peak of my happiness, I couldn’t help but kiss George’s lips. Amidst our intertwined mouths, I whispered my love. “George, I love you, forever.” In that second, I decided to give up eternal life. I didn’t want to sleep with any other man. In this life, I only wanted George. We made love again and again. In the early hours, exhausted, I fell into a deep sleep in his arms. I don’t know how long I slept, but I was woken by the heat of the air conditioning. I turned on the light, wanting a drink, but found no one beside me. Strange, where had George gone in the middle of the night? Just then, I noticed Eleanor’s room light was on. I got up, quietly opened the door, and then I saw a sight I would never forget. 7 At two in the morning, Eleanor was sound asleep. Tiny as she was, she lay in the hotel’s spacious bed, breathing evenly, her cheeks flushed. She seemed to be in a pleasant dream. But horrifyingly, her blanket had been pulled back, and her clothes were scattered nearby. And my boyfriend, George Miller – the man I had, just hours before, decided to spend my life with – was standing at my great-great-grandmother’s bedside. He was filming with his phone and on a video call with someone. “Name: Eleanor Grant.” “Gender: Female.” “Age: 5 years, 8 months.” “Height and weight are standard.” “Good nutrition.” “No prior medical history.” “Mr. Morris, what else would you like to know?” Who was he video calling? Why did they want to see Eleanor? Amidst my confusion, an excited male voice came from the phone. “Young George, as expected of Professor Thorne’s star student, you’re always reliable. This one isn’t bad; she’s barely acceptable. Arrange a meeting for us tomorrow. If I’m satisfied, you can name your price.” Hearing this, George slowly curved his lips. “Good, I’ll make sure you’re satisfied.” He hung up the phone and then took dozens more photos of Eleanor. After that, he unhurriedly restored everything to its original state. Once finished, he quietly returned to our room and lay down beside me as if nothing had happened. My body was rigid. Immersed in profound shock, I remained awake for a long time. 8 The next day, February 15th, was the 28th day of the twelfth lunar month, just before the Lunar New Year holiday. On the way back, traffic was terrible. George glanced at the road conditions and then discussed with me, “It’ll probably take a while to get home. I have a friend who lives nearby; why don’t we stop by for dinner?” Here it comes! It seemed he was eager to take us to meet the man from last night. I glanced at Eleanor beside me, and we quickly exchanged a knowing look. “Sure, sounds good. I’m hungry anyway.” The car exited the highway and, after about fifteen minutes, soon pulled up to a luxurious villa. I recognized this area. One of my great-aunts used to live here. She told me that only business and political elites resided here, all immensely wealthy and influential. As soon as the car stopped, before we even got out, the host came out to greet us. Mr. Morris appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties. He wore a finely tailored suit, and his hair was impeccably combed. Though not as young and handsome as George, he possessed a distinct charm of a mature man. “Welcome, Dr. Miller, your presence truly graces my humble abode.” As he spoke to George, his gaze was fixed on Eleanor. “This must be Eleanor, right? Come, quickly, Uncle will take you inside. Don’t catch a cold.” He enthusiastically took Eleanor’s hand and led her inside. George gently cleared his throat and quietly explained to me, “Don’t mind him. My friend is older and particularly fond of children.” I nodded, chuckling, “I understand. Our Eleanor, she’s a charmer wherever she goes.” The dinner was very pleasant. Outside, the cold wind howled, and the weather was freezing. Inside the living room, the fireplace burned brightly, making it warm like spring. Mr. Morris’s chef was truly excellent; Eleanor and I ate until we were stuffed. After the meal, the servants brought out delicious desserts. Eleanor and I sat on the sofa, eating, and soon felt our eyelids growing heavy. Before long, both of us were sound asleep. Beside us, Mr. Morris and George, who had been drinking tea and chatting, seemed to pause simultaneously. They both put down their glasses and walked over. Their gazes fell on Eleanor, scrutinizing her from a superior position, like gods looking at a pitiful ant. “Well? Are you satisfied?” “Beautiful, intelligent, vibrant—simply perfect!” “She’s the one! How soon can we arrange it? I can’t wait.” “Let’s wait until after the New Year. Things are a bit tight right now.” 9 Perhaps fearing we might suddenly wake, George and Mr. Morris kept their conversation brief. I lay with my eyes closed, a suspicion forming in my mind, but I needed to confirm it. It was almost eleven at night when we arrived home. Before getting out of the car, I asked George, “Are you free the day after tomorrow for New Year’s? Come to my place for dinner.” Fearing he might refuse, I quickly added, “Oh, I also have another sister named Daisy, Eleanor’s twin. She and my mom will be back the day after tomorrow. I want them to meet you.” Hearing this, George paused. As expected of a medical genius, he quickly asked suspiciously, “Why so sudden? You never mentioned her before.” It was a complete fabrication, so of course, he’d never heard of it. Eleanor had no twin sister. But what did it matter? Our family had plenty of reverse-aging little ancestors; I could just grab one to play the part. So, I pretended to cling to his arm and pleaded playfully, “Oh, we just never got around to talking about it before. After last night, I’ve decided you’re the one for me for life. I don’t care, you absolutely have to come, otherwise, if my mom doesn’t agree, we can’t be together.” “Alright,” George chuckled, lovingly stroking my head. “As you wish. You’re impossible.” Seeing him agree, I happily kissed him. “Oh, and invite Mr. Morris too. It’d be nice to thank him for treating Eleanor and me to dinner.” “This… isn’t suitable, is it?” George frowned. “He’s an outsider, after all.” “What’s unsuitable? It’s New Year’s, the more people, the merrier. Our family is the most hospitable. I promise, we’ll make sure you have an unforgettable New Year.”

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I married Alexander Knight in a whirlwind. He was a handsome man, but he only ever described himself as “self-employed.” As a financial analyst earning a six-figure salary, my friends were convinced I’d been utterly deluded, marrying a man with no apparent steady job. Then one day, tucked away in his study drawer, I found a printed booklet titled: The Perfect Husband Playbook. It meticulously detailed my likes, my dislikes, and even strategies for various scenarios. For instance, flowers for our anniversary shouldn’t cost more than $300, so I wouldn’t grow suspicious. If I was working late, he should personally prepare a late-night snack, never order takeout, to appear more devoted. My hands and feet turned cold with dread. I immediately called my best friend, Gabby. I told her I thought I’d married a professional con artist, a particularly stingy one at that. Gabby shrieked into the phone, then calmly declared, “Don’t panic! We’ll turn the tables on him! Let’s show him that a modern woman’s money isn’t so easily swindled!” 1 After hanging up, I didn’t cry or throw anything. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down, and walked straight to my study. I opened my work laptop. I created a new Excel spreadsheet, naming it “Alexander Knight Behavior Analysis Model.” I meticulously entered all his actions from the past six months, from chat logs and spending statements to the timing of every gift. Column A was the behavior event, Column B the corresponding playbook rule, Column C the execution cost, and Column D my emotional response index. On the screen, data scrolled line by line, but this time, the subject of my analysis was my own husband. Finally, I typed a formula into a cell and hit Enter. A glaring “93.7%” flashed onto the screen. I sent the analysis chart to Gabby, adding a note: “His affectionate gestures show a clear cyclical pattern, positively correlated with my bonus payout dates.” The phone rang instantly. Gabby’s voice, an octave higher, exclaimed, “This isn’t just a marriage scam! This is precision fraud! He’s using big data! This guy’s leveled up his criminal enterprise!” I chuckled coldly, my fingers pausing on the keyboard. “From a behavioral economics standpoint, he’s exploiting the ‘sunk cost fallacy,’ hooking me with small favors so I’ll be reluctant to cut my losses later.” I paused. “Too bad for him, he ran into me, a risk analyst. My first lesson is always to cut losses promptly.” “No! Don’t cut losses!” Gabby slapped her thigh so hard I could hear it through the phone. “We’re going to make him crash and burn! I declare ‘Revenge Plan 1.0: The Iron Fist of Materialism’ officially launched!” Her voice was alight with the thrill of a spectator at a wild show. “The core idea is simple: Spend! We’ll use our ‘finance femme fatale’ high-spending habits to absolutely obliterate his cheap con artist facade, making him expose himself when he can’t keep up!” 2 The night the plan launched, I sprawled on the sofa, pretending to idly scroll through my phone. Alexander was drying his hair nearby. I turned my phone screen brightness to the max and deliberately pointed at a five-figure limited edition handbag right in front of him. “Ugh,” I sighed, a perfectly timed lament, “it’s gorgeous. Too bad ordinary folk like us can’t afford it.” I quickly glanced at him from the corner of my eye, my internal abacus clacking away. According to my predictions, he’d have one of three reactions: A: Immediately change the subject, pretending not to hear. B: Righteously criticize my vanity and preach frugality. C: Sweetly promise, “Honey, I’ll buy it for you when I’m rich.” Any of these would add another piece of concrete evidence to my “con artist theory.” I held my breath, awaiting judgment. Alexander stopped drying his hair, the towel draped casually over his shoulder. He turned his head, his gaze falling on my phone screen. Then, in a tone so flat it was almost bored, he said, “If you like it, buy it.” I froze. This wasn’t in the script. He took the phone from my hand, his long fingers swiftly tapping the screen. “There,” he handed my phone back, “this series has many colors, hard to pick just one, so I bought you the whole collection. It’ll be delivered in a couple of days.” I stared at the long list of “Order Confirmed” on the screen, my mind utterly blank. I thought I was on the first level, he was on the second, but he just flipped the entire board, telling me he was in the stratosphere. This con artist, was he abandoning his principal just to play the long game? 3 Two days later, the doorbell rang. It took the delivery driver three trips to bring in the pile of orange boxes stamped with golden logos. I sat cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by seven identical limited edition handbags. I unwrapped one. The delicate texture of the calfskin and the cold metal clasp mocked my meticulously constructed data model. I immediately called Gabby, my voice a little breathless from lack of oxygen. “He bought them all.” A shriek came from the other end of the line. “He’s desperate! He’s gambling! He must have used your credit card or taken out a high-interest loan!” Gabby’s voice carried the thrill of a breakthrough. “He wants to create an illusion of wealth to completely ensnare you! Then he’ll run off with even more of your money! Go check the statements!” she finally yelled. I hung up and rushed to the study. My laptop opened, my fingers a blur on the keyboard. I hacked into every conceivable payment channel connected to our household, checking all six of my bank cards, three credit cards, and every lending app. The statements were as clean as my face. The money hadn’t come from me. Could this con artist also be a master of cardless payment black magic? 4 I was staring blankly at the pile of orange boxes when Alexander returned. His footsteps approached, then stopped behind me. A pair of warm arms wrapped around my waist, his chin resting gently on my shoulder. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like them?” His breath tickled my ear. My muscles instantly tensed. I asked stiffly, “Where… where did you get the money?” He chuckled softly, the vibration in his chest resonating through my back. “Just closed a big deal recently, made a little extra cash.” His tone was so tender it could melt butter, and his eyes were so sincere, utterly flawless. “Your hard work deserves the best reward.” Through the reflection in the metal clasp of a handbag in front of me, I watched his handsome profile. My heart, against its will, skipped a beat. This was bad. My dopamine felt like it was betraying my cerebral cortex. Logic told me he was a scammer, but my emotions felt… this scammer was dangerously charming. 5 I retreated to the bedroom and called Gabby. “My… my heart just skipped a beat.” I slid down the door, my voice a whisper, like I was confessing a crime. From the other end of the line exploded a shriek even sharper than last time. “Chloe! Get a grip! This is a classic emotional value investment! He spent money on bags as a material investment, and now he’s spouting all that nonsense as an emotional investment! He’s hitting you with both barrels, aiming to completely ensnare a love-struck fool whose brain is soaked in dopamine!” Gabby sounded heartbroken. I clutched my forehead, feeling reason slowly trickle back. “We have to upgrade the plan,” Gabby’s voice lowered, filled with a strategist’s composure. “Initiate ‘Revenge Plan 2.0: Social Circle Downsizing’!” She paused, then dangled the bait. “Your company’s annual gala is coming up, isn’t it?” I immediately understood her meaning. Our company’s annual gala was known as a microcosm of the financial world’s elite, where a six-figure salary was just the entry ticket, and billions in capital funds were discussed casually. “Take him,” Gabby’s voice held a cruel glee, “let this ‘self-employed’ guy, who relies on odd jobs, see what real elite society looks like. Insecurity and awkwardness will expose all his disguises, and his true colors will naturally show.” I hung up the phone, my palms cold. Walking out of the bedroom, Alexander was standing by the island in the open-plan kitchen, meticulously cutting fruit for me. Alright. If he wanted to play a high-stakes game, I’d set the battlefield on my home turf. In the financial world, connections and status were firepower. I wanted to see if his meager “odd job” savings were enough to buy an entry ticket. I walked up to him, gently took the fruit knife from his hand, and put on a bright smile. “Honey, our company’s annual gala is next week. Will you come with me?” Alexander, don’t blame me. Blame yourself for trying to con the wrong woman. 6 On the night of the gala, I personally selected Alexander’s “battle attire.” It was a casual suit that looked like a discounted item from a cheap department store. I didn’t even bother to iron it. I, on the other hand, wore my most expensive black silk gown, regal red lipstick, and my hair meticulously swept up. The moment we stepped into the hotel ballroom, the light from the crystal chandeliers made my eyes swim. I walked in, arm in arm with Alexander, feeling like a performance artist, my piece titled “The Middle-Class Woman and Her Dead Weight.” The glances from my colleagues were the greatest commendation—or perhaps, mockery—for my artwork. My boss, the notoriously snobbish Director Collins, approached us, glass in hand. Her eyes, like X-rays, scanned Alexander from head to toe, finally settling on his ordinary sneakers. “Chloe, and this is?” She raised an eyebrow, her tone carrying its usual critical edge. I felt my smile stiffen, and with effort, I introduced him. “Director Collins, this is my husband, Alexander Knight.” I paused, then added the long-prepared line: “He’s… self-employed.” Director Collins’s disdain was almost undisguised. She drawled a dismissive “Oh,” stretching out the sound. “Self-employed, how nice. Flexible hours.” With that, she turned and rejoined another small circle of fund managers and investment banking VPs, leaving behind a back that screamed “not one of us.” 7 Just as I released his arm, a small stir rippled from the ballroom entrance. A woman in a champagne-colored mermaid gown entered, the center of attention. It was Sophia Sterling, the daughter of our company’s biggest client this year, known in our circles for being particularly difficult. Her gaze swept the room, then landed precisely on Alexander, who was still by my side. She paused, then, clicking across the floor in her high heels, walked straight toward us. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Knight? Long time no see.” Her voice was neither too loud nor too soft, just enough for everyone within earshot to hear clearly. She scrutinized Alexander from head to toe, her gaze finally resting on his wrinkled suit, her derision unconcealed. “What, short on cash lately? Running around in places like this… for a taste of the common life?” My heart sank. They knew each other? When a conniving woman suddenly acts overly familiar with your “poor” husband, there are only two possibilities: they’re either old acquaintances or old flames. According to Murphy’s Law, it’s usually the latter. Gabby’s “habitual scammer” theory echoed like an alarm in my mind. Had Alexander targeted her before me? 8 Before I could even speak, Alexander moved first. He didn’t even look at Sophia, merely drew me slightly closer to him, his gesture carrying an undeniable air of protection. Then, he lazily lifted an eyebrow. “Miss Sterling, are we that familiar?” Sophia’s smile froze, her champagne mermaid gown unable to hide the tension in her body. Her expression was a vibrant palette of emotions. The whispers around us ceased, everyone seemed to hit a pause button, with only the background music foolishly continuing to play. Just as the awkwardness threatened to overwhelm the room, another stir erupted at the ballroom entrance, even more significant than Sophia’s grand entrance. The crowd parted automatically. Our company’s elusive chairman, a man rarely seen, was striding quickly towards our direction. My internal alarm bells blared. Director Collins instantly darted forward, her face plastered with a fawning smile. But the chairman didn’t even glance her way, walking straight past her, and past a pale-faced Sophia. He stopped in front of Alexander. Then, in the deathly silence of the entire ballroom, this titan, who commanded headlines in finance magazines, slightly bowed. His tone was respectful, almost humble: “Mr. Knight, why didn’t you inform us you were coming?” My brain’s CPU instantly overloaded and crashed. My director, with her six-figure salary, looked as if she’d just seen Warren Buffett doing the Macarena. And I, I was the one backing up Buffett. 9 The entire room fell silent. Alexander frowned imperceptibly, then said to our chairman in a calm tone, “Mr. Davies, I’m just here accompanying my wife to a company event.” He turned to me, lowering his voice to explain, “I helped their group with a cybersecurity project a while back. Mr. Davies… he’s just being polite.” This explanation was flawless! My stalled CPU immediately rebooted, forcibly. A white-hat hacker who could command such respect from the chairman of a company the size of Sterling Group – his value far exceeded a six-figure salary. I suddenly understood! He wasn’t a low-level swindler after money and romance; he was a high-stakes player with core technology, a master of capital manipulation! I quickly pulled out my phone and texted Gabby my latest findings. “I get it now. His profession isn’t ‘self-employed’; it’s ‘cyber outlaw.’ I thought I married a bronze-tier player, but he’s a king, just operating off the anti-fraud app’s blacklist.” Gabby’s call was almost immediate, her voice a breaking shriek. “Oh my god, he’s not just scamming money and romance, he’s scamming connections! He must have used hacking to get dirt on the chairman! Chloe, you haven’t married a con artist; you’ve married a walking felony!” I hung up, looking at Alexander. He was looking down at me, his eyes carrying a hint of inquiry and reassurance, as if asking, “Are you alright?” I looked at his innocent face and felt a chill run down my spine.

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Five years in the entertainment industry, and I still hadn’t made a name for myself. I had no choice but to accept my family’s arrangement: marriage to a stranger. On our wedding day, she didn’t even show up. She just called and laid down three rules. “My heart belongs to someone else. Don’t waste your efforts on me.” “If you have someone you like, feel free to pursue them. I won’t interfere.” “This is a transaction. We’ll divorce in a year. Don’t renege and refuse to sign the papers then.” She hung up, and I stood in front of the study, stunned—the room was filled with all sorts of merchandise featuring me. 1 I’d adopted a new name and bravely launched myself into the entertainment world five years ago. Despite my family’s considerable investment, my naturally delicate constitution meant I never quite caught on. So, I reluctantly surrendered to my parents’ demands, agreeing to the prearranged marriage. My fiancée was Sally Thorne, the aloof, self-possessed, and fiercely capable eldest daughter of the Thorne family. My friends told me she possessed an alluring beauty, a modern-day siren who easily lulled people into believing she was gentle and easygoing. In reality, she was said to be cold-blooded, harsh, and utterly ruthless, with eyes only for profit. My friend’s voice grew sympathetic as he recounted this. “Leo, everyone feels for you. To be married off to such a cold-hearted person. Who knows what hardships you’ll endure.” I clenched my phone, silent for a long moment, then let out a helpless, bitter laugh. After hanging up, I went into the backend of my social media account and posted the retirement announcement I’d drafted long ago. 2 Though I was merely a C-list celebrity, I still had a few die-hard fans. The moment my retirement announcement went live, those familiar IDs flooded my inbox. Among the dense stream of messages, the username “S” stood out. This person was intimately familiar to me. For the past five years, whenever I posted an update, she was always the first to like and comment, a true fan. Because she used exceptionally high-quality equipment, her fan art was always stunningly high-definition. She also poured vast sums of money into supporting me, so other fans affectionately called her “Sally Sister.” Clicking into her profile, the pinned posts were a compilation of my video edits and the hand gesture dances she learned from me. Though she never showed her face, every movement was so earnest it bordered on clumsy. Yet, what truly made her memorable were her messages. No lavish praises, no exaggerated declarations, just a simple, almost stubborn, recurring phrase: “Hope you’re happy every day.” But today, she broke her routine. The dense text in the dialogue box described how she stumbled upon my videos during her darkest days. She wrote about how a casual remark of mine helped her through a sleepless night. She described how her fingers would tremble with excitement whenever I updated. Finally, she seemed to exhaust all her strength, saying with restraint and sincerity: “I’m sorry, I might be presumptuous. But I still want to tell you, you are a beacon of light for me, a lifeline, the source of my motivation to live. In these five years since I found you, I’ve been incredibly happy every day. Leo, you are someone as important to me as life itself.” I stared at the screen, spotting several typos. She must have been typing frantically, her fingers trembling slightly, eventually even struggling to press the keyboard steadily. I finished reading her heartfelt essay, my eyes welling up. Ultimately, I responded to her with equal sincerity. “Thank you for your support and affection over the past five years. I hope you’re happy every day. Perhaps we’ll meet again.” 3 After replying to all the private messages, I took a deep breath, fighting back my reluctance, and prepared to deactivate my account. But then I suddenly saw my fiancée’s name trending at number one: #SallyThorneCryingInCar# Curiously, I clicked on the hashtag, and a ten-second video automatically played. The dim streetlights illuminated Sally’s flawless profile. Her long lashes were lowered, her shoulders trembled slightly, and tear streaks were clearly visible on her face. Her entire being exuded a fragile desperation, as if on the verge of breaking. The comment section exploded. “OMG, it’s actually Queen Sally crying! The sun must have risen in the west today…” “LOL, I thought her car was haunted by that ghostly sound.” “Terrifying, terrifying. Whatever you are, get off our CEO Sally immediately…” “So what could possibly make this cold-blooded demon queen shed tears?” As soon as that question was posed, people quickly began speculating about the reason for Sally’s tears. Some said it was because she was deeply unhappy about the forced marriage, others that she was overwhelmed by her busy work schedule. But no matter the reason, I wasn’t particularly interested. I casually scanned a few comments, then went to discuss post-retirement matters with my agent. 4 It was two in the morning. I dragged my exhausted body home. The moment I opened my phone, I saw the woman from the trending topic in my friend requests. The verification message simply said: “Sally.” I hesitated for two seconds, then clicked on her profile. Sally’s avatar was completely black, her signature blank, and her username was just “S.” Everything about it radiated an aura of “keep your distance.” I rubbed my throbbing temples and reluctantly accepted. Sally quickly sent a voice message, her tone cold and detached, as if dealing with an inescapable nuisance, merely maintaining basic politeness: [Mr. Imrie, hello, I am your fiancée, Sally Thorne.] I wasn’t comfortable with voice messages, so I typed: [Hello.] Sally had no interest in small talk, cutting straight to the point: [I already have someone I like, and I will only ever like him. So, after we’re married, you don’t need to waste your time on me.] [Our marriage is a transaction. I don’t mind an open marriage. You’re free to pursue anyone you like; I won’t interfere. Similarly, you must not interfere in my affairs.] [Mr. Imrie, I heard from your father that you have a first love abroad whom you’re very fond of. I frequently travel internationally for business, and by chance, I often go to the city where your first love resides. I wouldn’t mind taking you along to create an opportunity for you two to meet.] I was stunned, asking in disbelief: [Are you saying you can cover for me so I can see my first love?] Sally: [Yes, that’s what I mean. After all, I don’t want you clinging to me. It’s best if you have someone you like; I’d feel more at ease.] [… ] I was speechless for a moment. [Go on, what else?] Sally: [Also, I hope you always remember that our marriage will only last one year. After a year, we’ll get a divorce. Don’t you dare cry and make a scene, refusing to sign the papers then; it would be a huge embarrassment for both our families.] I: [Alright, you can rest assured, I won’t.] Sally immediately let out a huge sigh of relief at my assurance: [Oh, and Mr. Imrie. I think we don’t need to hold a wedding ceremony, and of course, no marital bedroom duties. We also don’t need to publicly announce our marriage. I don’t want too many people to know; it’s better for both of us.] I had no objections and agreed. Sally delivered this string of demands, then fell silent for a long time, likely concerned she had overlooked something. After a full fifteen minutes, she finally confirmed everything and sent a final message. [That’s all for now. I apologize, Mr. Imrie, but you know I’m a businesswoman, and businesspeople don’t believe in verbal agreements. So, to prevent any future regrets, I’d like to draft a contract for us to sign, if that’s alright? The contract content, besides property division, will include everything we just discussed. For example, the marriage lasting only one year, no marital duties, and me covering for you to meet your first love, and so on. Mr. Imrie, is that acceptable?] Of course, I had no objections: [Okay, Miss Thorne, draft the contract and send it to me.] Sally was satisfied: [I’ll have the contract drafted and sent to you first thing tomorrow morning.] I thought for a moment, then asked: [By the way, Miss Thorne, should we meet before getting our marriage license?] Sally refused very directly: [There’s no need. It’s a waste of time, and there’s nothing for us to meet about. We’ll see each other when we get the license in three days.] Just what I wanted, I nodded repeatedly: [Alright, alright.] 5 Sally was very worried I would back out, so she was incredibly efficient in drafting the contract. By four o’clock, she had already sent me the digital version. However, what I didn’t expect was that the very next morning, around six o’clock, she personally delivered a dozen-page hard copy of the contract to my house. While my dad was making polite conversation with her in the living room, my mom dug me out of bed and shoved me into the bathroom to get ready. Toothbrush in mouth, I hid in the second-floor hallway, observing Sally sitting in the living room. Just as my friend had described to me over the phone, Sally sat primly on the leather sofa, her long legs crossed. Her custom-made dress perfectly accentuated her elegant figure. It was an utterly ordinary posture, yet her exceptionally refined bone structure and appearance imbued it with an inexplicable, almost ascetic, sexiness. No wonder my dad said Sally was his carefully selected, most excellent, and ideal match for my arranged marriage. However, my eyes immediately caught sight of the blue bracelet hidden beneath her sleeve. Blue was my fan support color, so I could always spot blue among a jumble of colors. But Sally, with such a commanding presence, liking to wear a small blue hair tie? Quite amusing. 6 When my dad chatted with Sally, he kept glancing in my direction, subtle yet persistent. But Sally remained as still as an old monk in meditation, her eyelashes not even fluttering. She merely watched my dad’s performance with a faint, indifferent expression. She was demonstrating through her actions that she had zero interest in me, her fiancé whom she had never even met, who had seemingly materialized out of thin air. My dad gritted his teeth, then just laid it out. “Sally, why don’t you stay for breakfast? Leo’s home too, you two can meet and get acquainted.” “No need.” Sally’s voice was clear and cool, tinged with detachment and indifference. “Mr. Imrie, no need to meet. After all, there’ll be plenty of forced time together later; it’ll be hard not to see each other, won’t it?” My dad tried to say something else, but Sally coldly cut him off. “Alright, Mr. Imrie, I’ll take my leave now.” With that, she simply turned and walked away. The moment I stepped into the living room, fully dressed, Sally was just walking out, closing the door behind her. She never once looked up in my direction. It was as if she had “not interested” tattooed on the back of her head.

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1 My specialty? Breaking hearts. Especially the kind of women who talk about “brotherhood” but secretly lust after someone else’s man. The whole circle was waiting for me to fall, thinking I, once the shadow power behind Ashworth Corp, had lost my edge. That consultant sneered at me, “You’re just the boss’s sister, not his wife.” She despised high fashion, wore fatigues, clung to Edward Ashworth, and even crashed in his private suite. I returned from three years in Europe to find this ex-military consultant by his side. I was the one who tamed that wild wolf cub. Edward’s severe insomnia? Only my special essential oil blend could make him sleep. Everyone knows the ruthless Edward Ashworth fears nothing—except perhaps a single frown from his sister, me. … The grandfather clock outside the top-floor office chimed three times. I sat on a French sofa, idly toying with a cold metal lighter. Neil, the chief assistant, pushed open the door. Despite the frigid hallway, his forehead was slick with cold sweat. “Ms. Ashworth, Mr. Ashworth… stayed at the office again tonight.” I raised the black coffee before me and took a sip. “Still with the same consultant, I presume?” Neil lowered his head further. “Yes. Consultant Vance said the security system upgrade has a few glitches that need to be ironed out with Mr. Ashworth overnight. She… she also said that mercenaries don’t stand on ceremony, so she’d just crash on the sofa in Mr. Ashworth’s private lounge.” I set down the coffee cup, the porcelain clinking against the glass coffee table with a dull thud. Neil’s shoulders visibly flinched. Vance. That name had been echoing through the Ashworth Tower like thunder lately. A former mercenary who’d weathered three years of gunfire overseas, she’d landed a huge security contract with Ashworth Corp. Yet, instead of staying in the five-star suite the company arranged, she practically lived in the executive office. She always wore cargo pants, her hair cut in a short, shaggy style, and never knocked before entering, claiming it was a “professional habit” from her time in war zones. Edward, surprisingly, allowed it. Just then, faint sounds of intertwined laughter – a man’s and a woman’s – drifted from the executive office. I stood up, smoothing the creases in my bespoke business suit. “Let’s go. Time to deliver Mr. Ashworth’s calming essential oil. His insomnia won’t let him break free from my concoction.” Neil hesitated, then led the way, swiping his access card to open the door. The executive office door wasn’t fully closed. As I approached, the conversation inside became distinct. “Yo, Edward, did your abs shrink recently? Office guys just can’t cut it. Come on, feel my core, is it solid or what?” It was Vance’s voice, a deliberately lowered, rough growl, full of self-important swagger. Then came Edward’s low chuckle. “Consultant Vance certainly has hidden depths.” “Damn right! When I was on missions overseas, I’d share a tent with those six-foot-three muscle-bound mercs. That’s a bullet-blocking kind of bond. Nothing like your pampered socialites back home, who need an emergency room visit for a scraped knee. So dramatic.” I pushed the door open. The scene inside unfolded before me. Edward sat at his large desk, reviewing financial reports. Vance was sprawled half-across the desk, one leg propped on the armrest of his executive chair, devouring a box of takeaway fried chicken, her mouth greasy. She was draped in Edward’s suit jacket, the oversized bespoke garment hanging loosely over her, revealing only a tight black tank top underneath. Seeing me enter, Vance paused, then tossed a chicken bone into the trash. She didn’t stand, just casually tilted her chin. “Well, well, Ms. Ashworth. Burning the midnight oil, are we? Coming to chat work with Edward?” Edward looked up, his gaze falling on the velvet box in my hand. “Miranda.” I walked over, took out the essential oil bottle, and placed it on the desk. “Time for your medicine.” Vance reached out to grab the bottle. “What kind of magic elixir is this, so precious? Let me give it a sniff for Edward. In our squad, anything ingested or inhaled goes through a security check.” I gave her a frosty look, flipping my wrist to avoid her hand. “Consultant Vance, this is a prescription essential oil.” Vance’s hand missed. She let out a dry laugh, then casually wiped her greasy fingers on the hem of Edward’s suit jacket. “No need for the sour face, Ms. Ashworth. I’m a straightforward person, don’t understand all your high-society twists and turns.” She then squeezed herself onto the armrest of Edward’s chair, her arm slinging naturally over his shoulder. “Right, Edward?” Edward didn’t push her away, just gazed at me, his dark eyes unreadable. “Miranda, Vance has a wild streak. Try to be more understanding.” 2 The following evening, the corporation hosted a banquet at a private club, a welcome for Vance’s security team. I sat to Edward’s right. Vance, dressed in a black leather jacket today, sprawled unapologetically in the main guest seat to his left. After a few rounds of drinks, Leo stood up. He was Vance’s second-in-command, a former extreme sports enthusiast and trust-fund kid who’d spent a few years overseas with Vance. Now he fancied himself enlightened, superior to everyone. “Mr. Ashworth, I believe our overseas division’s narrow escape was all thanks to Vance. Even though she’s a woman, she’s tougher than any man, a hundred times better than those delicate socialites who only know how to shop and swipe their cards, clutching their designer bags!” Leo’s challenging gaze swept directly towards me as he spoke. Several security executives exchanged uneasy glances, offering forced chuckles of agreement. Vance raised a decanter, chugging half a pint of whiskey in one go, then wiped her mouth with a flourish of bravado. “Leo, cut the crap. I just can’t stand that manipulative type. Women should stand on their own two feet. Always getting cosmetic surgery, scheming for a man’s money – it’s pathetic.” She pushed back her chair and walked to the entertainment area in the center of the private room. “Mr. Ashworth, just drinking is too dull. How about I show everyone some dart skills to liven things up?” Edward leaned back in his chair and nodded. “Go ahead.” Vance casually picked up a few professional metal darts from the table. Her movements were indeed sharp, but with every throw, the dart’s trajectory seemed to intentionally graze my side of the room. The last dart, she spun around abruptly and launched, its steel tip embedding itself directly into the solid wood paneling beside my ear. It was barely three inches from my temple. The air stirred by its flight brushed my hair. The room fell into a deathly silence. Vance clapped her hands, then burst out laughing. “Oops, Ms. Ashworth, did I scare you? My hand’s a bit heavy sometimes. If I gave Ms. Ashworth a fright, I’ll take a penalty drink.” Her words were apologetic, but her eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of provocation. I remained seated, not even a flicker in my eyelashes. “Consultant Vance’s aim and agility are certainly impressive, but her judgment seems a little off.” Vance’s face stiffened. “What do you mean by that, Ms. Ashworth? Are you looking down on us security professionals?” “I merely suggest that if Consultant Vance claims to be Mr. Ashworth’s ‘brother,’ her actions are surprisingly ill-considered. Pointing a weapon at a corporate vice president during a Ashworth banquet? In any other company, you’d be facing charges for endangering public safety.” Vance turned to Edward, pouting, affecting the air of an aggrieved comrade. “Edward, look at your sister. I told you I’m a rough-and-tumble type, don’t follow all those rules. That was a slip of the hand, not aimed at her. Is Ms. Ashworth just annoyed with me, jealous I’m stealing her thunder?” Edward put down his glass. “Miranda, Vance has had too much to drink. It was just a joke.” He avoided my gaze, then gave Vance a subtle nod. “Go back to your seat.” Vance smirked triumphantly at me, then turned and walked back. As she passed Leo, they exchanged smiles and high-fived emphatically. After the banquet, I stopped Edward in the club’s underground parking garage. “What do you think of Vance?” Edward paused, signaling his bodyguards to step back. “What are you getting at, Miranda?” “Her intentions towards you aren’t pure.” Edward chuckled softly, then lowered his head to light a cigarette. “Are you jealous, Miranda?” I looked at him. “I’m merely reminding you that business secrets and personal safety allow no one to overstep boundaries. She’s using the ‘good friend’ facade, but her actions are becoming increasingly out of line.” Edward’s cigarette-holding fingers reached out, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “Miranda, you worry too much. Vance saved my life; she’s straightforward, no hidden agendas. Besides…” He lowered his head, his warm breath fanning my neck, his voice husky. “I only tolerate your scent.” I brushed his hand away. “I hope Mr. Ashworth remembers what he said today.” Edward looked at his empty hand, his eyes darkening, but he didn’t argue further, just opened the car door and got in. Watching the taillights of the Maybach disappear, only a cold smile remained in my heart. Straightforward? If she were truly straightforward, she wouldn’t deliberately wear his suit in the executive office, nor would she publicly humiliate me at a dinner. These pathetic attempts at vying for favor were games I’d grown tired of playing back when I was a teenager caught in the Ashworth family’s power struggles. 3 Two weeks after Vance joined Ashworth Corp, the calming essential oil I blended vanished. It was something Edward used every night. Only I had the formula, which contained a highly addictive substance that was difficult to extract. I pushed open the executive office door. Before I even stepped inside, I was hit by a harsh mix of strong black coffee and cheap air freshener. Inside, Vance was directing the cleaning lady to throw the special diffuser I kept on Edward’s desk into the trash. “Toss it, toss it! What’s this sissy stuff? Gives you a headache just smelling it.” I walked in, my heels clicking. “Put that down.” The cleaning lady jumped, her hand trembling, looking at me apologetically. Vance turned around, holding a cup of iced Americano. “Oh, Ms. Ashworth, you’re here. Perfect, I was just helping Edward clean out all this useless junk.” “That’s Mr. Ashworth’s calming essential oil.” “Calming? Looks more like a hypnotic poison to me.” Vance walked up to me, shaking her iced Americano. “Ms. Ashworth, men need to have some grit. Constantly sniffing these sweet, soft things dulls Edward’s wolf spirit. Overseas, when we couldn’t keep going, we’d chug black coffee and get into a couple of fights. That’s what a real man does!” I stared at her coldly. “He has severe insomnia. Stopping the medication could be dangerous.” “That’s a habit you created!” Vance’s voice rose. “Insomnia? It’s just being dramatic. Drag him to a boxing gym for ten rounds, he’ll be so exhausted he’ll sleep like a dead man the moment his head hits the pillow. Edward’s been spoiled rotten by your controlling ways.” Just then, Edward emerged from his lounge. He wore a white shirt, collar unbuttoned, his eyes shadowed with deep exhaustion – clearly he hadn’t slept well again last night. “What’s all the noise?” I pointed to the diffuser in the trash can. “Edward, Consultant Vance threw away your medicine.” Edward frowned, looking at Vance. Vance immediately walked over, bumping his shoulder in a friendly, “bro-like” gesture. “Edward, I’m doing this for your own good. All those random fragrances can damage your nerves if you smell them too much. Look how pale you are; you lack exercise. From today on, I’ll take you to the boxing gym after work. I guarantee you’ll sleep like a log.” Edward rubbed his throbbing temples. “I have been getting headaches lately.” I looked at him. “Are you keeping her theory, or the essential oil?” Edward fell silent. Vance tugged his sleeve, shaking it. “Edward, just trust your buddy this once, okay? Would I ever hurt you? We’ve got a bullet-blocking kind of bond.” Edward looked up, meeting my eyes. “Miranda, Vance means well. This medicine… perhaps we can try stopping it for a few days.” My hands, tucked into my trench coat pockets, clenched tightly. My long nails dug into my palms, a sharp sting. “You’ve made up your mind?” “Yes. I want to try Vance’s method.” Vance smugly tilted her chin at me. “Hear that? Housekeeping, get that junk out of here!” I stared at the empty desk, the last vestiges of warmth in my heart completely chilling. “In that case, I won’t disturb Mr. Ashworth’s pursuit of a good workout.” I turned and walked out of the executive office. Behind me, Vance’s undisguised voice carried clearly. “Edward, look at her cold face, like someone owes her a million dollars. It’s so much more comfortable being with us ‘brothers,’ right?” Edward didn’t answer. But I heard the rustle of him picking up his jacket. In the second basement level of the Ashworth Tower, there was a private boxing gym built specifically for Edward. Today, Leo was there too. Inside the octagonal cage, Vance and Edward, wearing boxing gloves, were sparring, punching with full force, sweat flying. When Edward rested, he sat by the ringside, subconsciously rubbing a watch on his wrist. It was an antique Patek Philippe. I’d bought it for him on his eighteenth birthday, scouring antique markets across Europe with the first bonus I’d ever earned from a project. He’d worn it ever since, never taking it off. I walked past the gym, not intending to stop. “Ms. Ashworth!” Leo, sharp-eyed, called out loudly. “Since you’re here, why not come down and offer some pointers? Oh, right, I forgot you’re a refined lady, can’t stand the sight of blood.” Vance took out her mouthguard and wiped sweat from her face. “Leo, don’t bother Ms. Ashworth. She’s a hothouse flower, never seen this kind of scene. Probably wouldn’t even dare kill a chicken.” The two of them bantered, eliciting muffled chuckles from the surrounding security personnel. Edward leaned against the railing, not saying a word to stop them, just watching me calmly from a distance. I stopped at the top of the stairs. “I certainly don’t understand the barbaric ways you choose to vent.” Vance’s face darkened. “Barbaric? Ms. Ashworth, this is strength! Without us shedding blood and fighting out there, where would you get the peace and quiet to sit in your air-conditioned office signing contracts?” With that, she swung herself over the octagonal cage railing, jumping out onto the floor. The movement was too large, and she landed with a ‘thud,’ colliding with Edward. “Ow!” Edward’s wrist slipped, and the clasp of the antique watch came undone, sending it flying. The mechanical watch arced through the air, then smashed heavily onto the hard concrete floor. A sharp crack. The watch face shattered, intricate parts scattering everywhere. The air instantly froze. I stared at the scattered pieces, my heart clenching. Edward sprang to his feet, the low pressure around him instantly dropping to freezing point, his face terrifyingly grim. Vance seemed startled too, but quickly shrugged nonchalantly. She walked over and poked the broken watch with the tip of her shoe. “Oops, it broke. Sorry, Edward, I couldn’t stop myself there.” She looked up, her face nonchalant as she gazed at Edward. “It’s just a broken watch, right? I’ll deduct it from my commission and buy you a brand new Rolex. Much cooler than this old-fashioned thing.” Edward’s eyes were fixed on the watch on the ground, his hands clenched into fists, veins bulging on his forearms. I watched him, waiting for his reaction. Waiting for him to erupt in thunderous fury. However, Leo quickly stepped in to smooth things over. “Mr. Ashworth, Vance didn’t mean it. Out with the old, in with the new, right? It’s just a watch. How can it compare to the bullet Vance took for you in the jungle?” Edward’s fists tightened, then loosened, then tightened again. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. When he opened them again, the ferocity in his gaze was forcibly suppressed. “Forget it.” His voice was terribly hoarse. “If it’s broken, it’s broken.” Vance breathed a sigh of relief, then walked over and hooked her arm around Edward’s neck with practiced ease. “That’s the spirit! Big strong man, don’t sweat over a watch. Come on, let’s get back to training!” I stood rooted to the spot, looking at the wreckage on the floor. I knew the game was over. Edward turned his head, looking at me. There was a flicker of struggle and panic in his dark eyes. “Miranda, you heard her. Vance didn’t mean it. You should go back to your office.” I slowly walked down the steps, bent down, and began to pick up the shattered watch face and pieces one by one. The sharp edges of the broken glass instantly cut my palm, tiny beads of crimson blood welling up. But I felt no pain. Only an endless coldness, spreading instantly from my feet to every fiber of my being. “Edward Ashworth.” I called him by his full name for the first time. “Do you really think this is just a broken watch?” Edward awkwardly avoided my gaze. “I’m tired. Miranda, please go.” I clutched the blood-stained pieces in my hand. “Fine.” I nodded, my voice so calm it even surprised me. “Since Mr. Ashworth finds my presence bothersome, I’ll simply vanish completely. I won’t get in the way of your ‘brotherly bond’ anymore.” I turned, walking step by step out of the gym. Behind me, Vance’s sneering laughter floated through the air. “Edward, look at her, so dramatic. It’s just a watch, what’s the big deal?” What’s the big deal? Of course, it’s a big deal. Because what shattered wasn’t just a watch. It was ten years of my effort poured into him, and the last shred of my meager patience. Back in the top-floor office, I called Neil. “Book me a flight, pack my things.” Neil was stunned. “Ms. Ashworth, where are you going? Weren’t you just done with the handover in Europe?” I tossed the blood-stained broken watch onto the desk. “To the seaside villa.” “What about Mr. Ashworth?” “Don’t tell him. Cancel all his access to my itinerary.” I looked out at the city lights, gradually dimming as night fell. “From this day forward, Ashworth Corporation will have no one named Miranda Ashworth.”

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The moment I realized I was just the villainess in a book, destined for a tragic end, I immediately adjusted my strategy. I started playing the role of a docile girlfriend in front of the man who supported me, no longer flying off the handle like before, nor constantly checking up on him. Even during intimate moments, I was unusually compliant. My goal became crystal clear: to continuously extract money from him. He, poor naive soul, actually believed I had truly changed, turning sweet and obedient. He had no idea I was secretly siphoning off his assets, to the point where his house was almost emptied of its contents. Finally, the day came when I had enough funds. I left him a note filled with mockery. It read: “Don’t flatter yourself. Your skills in bed are pathetic, you old geezer!” Another line said: “I was miserable with you!” The final sentence: “I’m off to find the next guy who’s willing to spend money on me!” 1 Tom’s friends all said I was the most demanding kept woman they’d ever seen. Not only did I dare to slap my sugar daddy, but if he came home late and disturbed my sleep, I’d lock him out directly. It was absolutely scandalous. Every time they thought Tom was finally going to kick me to the curb, he’d turn around and apologize to me. His friends were utterly baffled. “What kind of spell has that woman cast on you?” Tom would just offer a faint smile. “None of your damn business.” Another time, during a boys’ night out, they got so caught up in the fun they lost track of time. By the time they snapped back to reality, it was already half past midnight. Usually, if Tom wasn’t home by midnight, he’d be bombarded with my furious calls, but tonight, there was complete silence. His friend, Jackson Vance, was the first to voice his shock. “Well, well, is the sun rising in the west today? Why isn’t your little drama queen calling you home?” Tom glanced at his empty phone, a frown creasing his brow. Then, out of habit, he tapped to check his messages and his frown instantly softened. “She must have fallen asleep, tired from shopping.” When he’d checked his messages, Jackson had also leaned over for a look. His eyes widened in disbelief. The receipts scrolling endlessly suggested Luna had bought enough to empty half a department store. “Holy hell, you’d think she went on a shopping spree, but it looks more like a robbery! She bought way too much, didn’t she?” Tom lazily lifted his gaze to Jackson. “It’s not your money, why are you so worried? Only useless men complain about women spending too much.” Jackson: … After that personal attack, Tom casually stood up, phone in hand. “You guys carry on, I’m going home.” It was a small incident, and Tom didn’t think much of it. He just assumed I was genuinely tired and had forgotten to check up on him. But he had no idea that I would never bother him again. 2 The pop-up comments appeared today at noon. Tom, as usual, had gone to the office, and I woke up just in time for lunch. As I was eating, a stream of words suddenly appeared before my eyes. [This villainess lives the life of a goddess; no work, everything she wants, she really is enjoying herself.] [So what? She’s just a kept woman, no official status.] [It’s all temporary anyway. The female lead comes online in a week, and then she’ll be out of the picture.] [The male and female leads have an undeniable attraction; the moment the female lead appears, the male lead will be instantly drawn to her. The villainess can just wait to be kicked out.] [The thought of the villainess eventually fighting with stray dogs for food just makes me laugh.] After reading the comments, I realized that I was merely the villainess in a novel. Tom was the male lead, and the female lead would appear in a week, the two of them quickly falling in love. And I would be utterly humiliated, suffering a miserable fate. Honestly, my first reaction was to call Tom and give him an earful. Cheating before we even broke up? Was I just a pawn in their game? I picked up my phone, but before I could dial, the comments started scrolling again. [The villainess is causing trouble again. She has to bother the male lead about every little thing, he must be so annoyed.] [Right, a kept woman trying to control her sugar daddy. She really thinks she’s the lawful wife.] [It’s fine, let her make a scene. The more she makes a fuss, the more gracious and sensible the female lead will appear, and the more the male lead will despise her.] [The male lead only finds her fresh right now. The moment the female lead appears, he’ll dump her immediately.] [I say, the villainess should hurry up and save some money, so she doesn’t end up homeless, unable to afford food.] Luna pondered this. Though the comments were insulting, they inadvertently gave me some inspiration. Wasn’t I only Tom’s kept woman for the money? Realizing this, I quickly put down my phone and adjusted my mindset. I wouldn’t make a big scene as the comments suggested. I would save money, and then, when the female lead appeared, I would mercilessly dump Tom. Since he wanted to humiliate me, I would humiliate him first! I’d make him the first sugar daddy in their circle to be dumped by his kept woman. After lunch, I headed straight to the mall, sweeping through boutiques, picking out only the most expensive items. Tom was generous; the several cards he gave me had no limits. Spending felt effortless. On the way back, the comments, as expected, were berating me again. [This villainess is such a spendthrift, blowing twenty million in one afternoon. Does she even know how hard the male lead works for his money?] [Our female lead is so much better; she’s considerate and understanding of the male lead. A mutually devoted relationship is the sweetest.] [Our female lead is thrifty and good at managing a home, unlike this villainess who only knows how to spend the male lead’s money.] [Am I the only one who envies her? She gets the guy, she spends the money. Can’t I play for two episodes?] [Why envy her? A gold-digger will never find true love.] I rolled my eyes. Was true love some amazing thing? I might not get true love, but I was getting cold, hard cash! After a busy evening, I listed all the items I bought today on a resale website to convert them into money. Checking the time, it was already past midnight. Tom still wasn’t back. I instinctively reached for my phone to call him, then thought better of it and put it down. For now, I needed to act docile and keep him happy to get more money. Just as I thought that, I heard a sound from the entryway. Tom was home. 3 If it had been before, Tom coming home so late would have certainly found him locked out. But today, the door wasn’t just open; I was there to greet him. I held out his slippers, hung up his coat, and even offered him a glass of water with a look of concern. “Would you like some water?” Tom stood in the entryway, motionless for a good while, his expression quite peculiar. “Sweetheart, which foot should I enter with today?” Me: … “If it makes you happy, you can come in with both feet at once.” Tom: … In the end, he opted to step in with his left foot first. Then he took the glass of water from my hand, his gaze suspicious. “Sweetheart, are you angry with me?” “I… I forgot to check the time today. I’ll definitely be home on time next time.” I blinked, smiling sweetly. “It’s fine. You’re all busy normally, and it’s rare for you to get together. From now on, there’s no curfew. Come home whenever you like.” “Oh, right, I’ve drawn your bath, and your robe is warmed. Go take a shower.” Then I even kissed him on the cheek. “You’re really not angry?” “Of course not.” Tom was silent for a few seconds, then went to shower, glancing back at me every few steps. [Why did the villainess change her personality? Why isn’t she causing trouble anymore?] [The male lead’s expression is like he’s seen a ghost. It shows how badly the villainess treated him usually.] [Who cares? She’ll be kicked out when the female lead comes online in a week anyway.] [Even if she’s not causing trouble now, she’ll still have to step aside when the female lead appears.] [Our female lead is gentle and considerate, a million times better than this drama queen villainess.] I glanced at the comments, unconcerned. I was busy changing into the new “battle attire” I’d bought today. When Tom emerged from the bathroom and his eyes fell on me, his breathing hitched. It was a sheer lavender slip, his favorite style. I actively hooked my arms around his neck. “Honey, I spent twenty million of yours today. You’re not angry, are you?” Tom paused for a moment, then raised an eyebrow. “Is that all? Spend it if you want to. As long as you’re happy.” I quickly kissed his lips again. “Then could you transfer some more money to me?” “Even though the cards you gave me have no limits, you always know whenever I buy something. I have no privacy. I want to prepare some surprises for you.” Tom’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His gaze grew deeper. When he spoke again, his voice was husky. “Let’s get to business first. I’ll transfer it tomorrow.” [Ugh, why is it a black screen? Are they treating us as outsiders?] [Dare you show us something spicy for your esteemed members?] [Hello, 911? I want to report something. Don’t ask what I’m reporting, I just need to report it.] … 4 I woke up the next day, and Tom was already gone. Checking my phone, I saw a transfer of fifty million in my account. My heart was deeply content. [Can the villainess really not let me live her life for two days? The male lead is truly generous to her.] [Honestly, I’m starting to doubt the male lead will fall in love with the female lead.] [The person above clearly hasn’t read the later chapters. This is nothing. After the female lead appears, the male lead truly becomes a doting husband.] [Can the villainess just get off screen already? It’s annoying enough being broke, but seeing someone you dislike making money is even more irritating.] I ignored these comments and went downstairs to arrange for the housekeeper to make a few of Tom’s favorite dishes. Then I timed it perfectly and sent them to his office. Tom had just finished a meeting and looked slightly surprised to see me. “It’s so hot today, why did you come all this way?” I stepped aside to reveal the beautifully arranged dishes behind me. “To have lunch with you, of course.” He stared at me with a complex expression for several seconds. “You… came all this way just to bring me lunch?” “Yes, come on, eat before it gets cold.” Tom sat down beside me. Seeing a plate of shrimp on the table, he instinctively reached for a glove. I quickly intervened. “Let me do it, let me do it. You just eat.” With that, I put on the glove and started peeling shrimp. Tom watched the peeled shrimp in his bowl for a moment, then shifted his gaze to my face. “Sweetheart, did I do something to upset you?” “No, why?” His eyes were filled with scrutiny. “Really, nothing?” “Then why have you been so strange these past two days?” I looked up at him. “Strange how?” Tom remained silent, still looking at me as if I’d been possessed. I thought for a moment, then lowered my head. “Okay, I want you to help me buy an apartment downtown.” “A small one would be fine, somewhere I can stay when I want some alone time.” He frowned. “Why do you want to be alone?” I secretly peeked at him. “I’m afraid you’ll get annoyed if I’m too clingy. Don’t people say personal space is important?” This reason sounded perfectly logical. But Tom wasn’t buying it. “Who’s been talking nonsense to you? Jackson Vance?” I paused, about to shake my head and deny it, then suddenly remembered that jerk Jackson, who always called me a drama queen in front of Tom. This was a perfect chance to get some revenge before I left. So I lowered my head and said nothing, just continued peeling shrimp into his bowl. Tom grabbed my wrist, coldly pulled off my glove, and found a wet wipe to clean my hand. “You can buy the apartment, but you can’t move out.” “Of course I won’t move out,” I said, my face full of sincerity. “I’ll just go there for half a day occasionally. I’ll definitely come home at night. You know, I can’t sleep without you.” Tom’s expression finally softened a little. I struck while the iron was hot. “How about you just give me the cash directly? I want to pick out a place I like myself.” “Fine, I’ll have my assistant handle it later.” I almost laughed out loud but managed to hold it in. “Thank you, honey.” The comments were already flying. [Arghhh, this villainess is so manipulative! No wonder the male lead is completely fooled by her.] [Male lead, wake up, she’s playing you!!] [This villainess is completely obsessed with money, everything she says is about cash.] [Can we fast forward? I don’t want to see her enjoying life, I just want to see her get slammed.] With a large sum of money in my account, even the comments didn’t bother me as much. After lunch, I left. Tom watched me enter the elevator, then picked up his phone and sent a message to Jackson Vance. [Talk nonsense to her again, and don’t blame me for falling out with you.] Jackson Vance, who was currently playing golf: ? Oh heavens, tell me, who is righteous and who is treacherous! 5 In the following days, I completely transformed into a docile and sensible kept woman. No more checking up on him, no more tantrums, no more late-night calls urging him home. I even frequently went to his office to bring him lunch and accompanied him to gatherings. Tom’s friends all said I’d turned over a new leaf. Jackson Vance was even more exaggerated; once, when he saw me at a party, he literally walked three circles around me, as if I were some rare animal. “Luna, have you been possessed by some unclean spirit?” He even sprinkled water on me, like performing an exorcism. I smiled gently. “How could I be? I just realized I should be kinder to Tom.” “After all, he is my sugar daddy.” “You really think that? Then why are you rolling your eyes at me?” “You saw wrong.” Jackson was about to say more, but Tom shot him a warning glance. He shut up. While they chatted, I played on my phone. When I overheard them talking about cars, a sudden idea sparked in my mind, a perfect excuse to ask for more money. I immediately linked my arm through Tom’s. “Honey, have you been very busy these past few days? You haven’t had much time to spend with me.” “How about you buy me a car too? That way, when I’m bored, I can just drive out for a spin myself.” The moment the words left my lips, all eyes in the private room focused on Tom. His friends all knew I had transferred over a hundred million from Tom recently. So, they all expected Tom to refuse this request for a car. At the very least, he should argue a little. But Tom simply nodded coolly. “Sure, do you want me to recommend one?” I immediately pulled out my phone. “No, no, I think this Pagani is quite nice.” Jackson Vance spat out a mouthful of drink. “That thing is over twenty million!” Tom glanced at him, then pulled out his phone. “Buy it.” “Thank you, honey!” [Excuse me, is our currency not the same? Why is buying a car like buying cabbage?] [I’m genuinely jealous. A Pagani, just like that? Is twenty million a common number or something?] [The money the villainess has spent this month is enough for me to live ten lifetimes.] [Suddenly, I kind of hope the female lead doesn’t appear so quickly. Let the villainess spend more money, it’s so satisfying to watch.] Heh heh. Looking at the money that had landed in my account, I felt pretty good too. I quickly calculated: I currently had a total cash flow of two hundred and thirty million. Enough to buy a small island overseas. Counting the days, the female lead should be appearing soon. Time to start planning my escape. Before I ran, I still had one important thing to do. That was to empty Tom’s villa. Ever since Tom and I got together, I’d been living in this hillside villa. From the items to the layout, everything was something we’d chosen together. Secretly, I didn’t want anyone else living here. Anyway, Tom had so much money and so many properties, he wouldn’t miss this one. Moving required enough time, and I couldn’t be discovered in the middle of it. I was just wondering how to subtly get him out of the way when he suddenly told me he had to go to Crestwood for a business trip. It was from the comments that I learned the female lead was coming. The day Tom left for his trip, his car had barely pulled away before I called in moving professionals. The antique vases in the living room? Gone. The famous paintings and calligraphy in the study? Gone. The vintage wines in the cellar? Gone. I even packed away all his limited-edition watches, not a single one left. The comments watched for a while, then finally realized what was happening. [Hahahahaha, the villainess is making a run for it.] [Will the male lead go crazy when he gets back?] [The male lead comes home from his business trip and finds only the load-bearing walls left. Poor guy.] [Wait, isn’t this stealing? Can’t they call the police?] [I’m actually looking forward to the male lead’s reaction now.]

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A torrential rain poured on a bleak morning when the doorbell suddenly rang. It was my ex-husband, whom I’d divorced ten years ago. Last night, I’d called him all night. He’d picked up, but said nothing. Today, he had come only to tell me to stop bothering him. I would never trouble him again. I had been diagnosed with cancer. Late stage. 1 The doorbell rang with increasing urgency. I scrambled to my feet, knocking my medication bottle to the floor. The delivery guy, clutching a package, his face a mask of impatience, froze and started to stammer: “H-hello… your p-package…” He set it down, then turned and ran. I looked at the empty hallway and let out a self-deprecating laugh. On a typhoon day like this, who else would come to see me besides delivery people? I picked up the package, and suddenly heard the sound of dripping water. Drip. Drip. I slowly turned around. John Miller, completely drenched, stood at the end of the hallway. Outside, the wind howled and the rain lashed down. I suddenly remembered a saying: The person who loves you will cross a storm to see you, even on a typhoon day. And he had come. Did that mean he still loved me? But a single sentence shattered all my illusions. He said: “Mia, we’ve been divorced for ten years. I hope you’ll stop bothering me.” Ten years without seeing him, and just one sentence made me lose all reason. I rushed forward, wanting to grab his soaking wet sleeve and demand answers. Why could he just divorce me? Just leave? Disappear for ten years without a word? But before I could speak, tears sprang to my eyes. In the end, I could only repeatedly sob: “How could you do this…” His face showed no emotion: “Mia, calm down.” A digital beep came from the door across the hall. “Incorrect password, please try again.” My neighbor glanced over, startled, I wondered how much she had overheard. 2 I wiped my tears, forced a professional smile, and apologized: “I’m so sorry, we disturbed you…” Hearing me, her face turned even paler. Trembling, she finally entered the correct password and slammed the door shut with a bang. The hallway instantly fell silent. I turned back to John. He slowly walked closer, the hallway so quiet that only his footsteps could be heard. He let out a weary sigh: “Let’s go inside.” Before I could react, he squeezed past me through the door, bringing with him a damp chill. The apartment was a two-bedroom we’d bought together. The decor was exactly as we’d liked it back then. Ten years had passed, and I hadn’t changed a thing. Now, it was all outdated. John stood in the entryway, unmoving. The living room was a mess, exuding an air of neglect, just like me. His brows were tightly furrowed. I thought he might show a hint of pity. But when he spoke, his words were as distant as ever. “Mia, stop harassing me. We’re adults. Can’t we be civil? End things gracefully?” No. I looked up, staring at him, and said with a touch of malice in my smile: “I’m about to die. What do I need civility for?” 3 At first, it was just a faint sting in my stomach. I ignored it, thinking it would pass. Slowly, I grew accustomed to the pain, just as I had grown accustomed to the years without him. Until that afternoon, I collapsed at my desk. When I woke up again, I smelled disinfectant. My colleague took me to the hospital and then went back to work. After that, I was alone, going through various tests. When my turn came, the doctor was already about to leave. The doctor, who had been frowning and speaking in an irritated tone, suddenly became exceptionally kind. Seeing that I was parched, he even had someone get me a glass of warm water. The consultation room suddenly became very quiet, with only the honking of cars outside the window. Judging by their expressions, I probably guessed it. Cancer. Strangely enough, when I heard those words, I actually… felt relieved. A sense of unburdening, of release. I obediently began the admission process. I informed my family, starting a video call in the family group chat. I tried to tell them, in a light tone, that I had cancer. But not to worry, I was already hospitalized, and I urged them all to get check-ups as soon as possible. That night, I only remembered my parents’ weeping, my sister’s choked sobs, and my brother’s prolonged silence. After that came active cooperation with treatment: endless injections, medication, chemotherapy. Accompanied by vomiting, hair loss, incontinence. My face in the mirror became more sunken with each passing day. Initially, many people came to visit me, and the hospital room’s fruit baskets were replaced again and again. Slowly, fewer people came, the fruit rotted, but the doctors’ voices grew gentler. He said: “Mia, is there anything special you still want to do?” As soon as he said that, I was surrounded by pitying glances. I looked down at my emaciated hands. Thinking, how could a person lose so much weight so quickly? Something I wanted to do? Besides wanting to be free, there was only one thing left. I wanted to see John Miller. Just one more time. Just once. 4 My stomach suddenly cramped, and cold sweat immediately covered my body. I clung to the wall, in too much pain to take painkillers. I could only press my abdomen tightly, waiting for the contractions to pass. John, however, simply watched me with skepticism. My body trembled violently: “You don’t believe me? You think I’m using death to trick you?” I almost lunged to the coffee table, pulling open the drawer. I emptied its contents onto the table for him to see: the diagnosis, stacks of payment receipts, medical reports, even my health insurance records. “Look, open your eyes and see if I’m lying to you!” I laughed through my tears: “See clearly, I’m dying, I’m really dying.” He lowered his head, looking at the reports. I stared fixedly at him, trying to discern something from his face. Would he be sad? Would he be heartbroken? But he lowered his head, hiding his expression from me: “What exactly do you want?” My voice dropped, laced with a desperation I despised: “Stay with me for three days.” My throat tightened: “Just three days… after three days, I’ll never bother you again…” We stood there, facing each other, until he finally gave in. He let out a sigh: “Does it start today?” Just then, the typhoon stopped, and a ray of sunlight shone in. The sky cleared. It was as if even the heavens pitied me. 5 I splashed water on my face, looking in the mirror. My eyes were deeply sunken, my skin sallow. The figure behind me, however, was still young and handsome; time seemed to have only withered me. How unfair. The heartless always seemed to fare better. I put on a wig, applied some haphazard makeup, and we left. The mall’s glass storefronts reflected our figures, one following the other. He walked ahead of me, his face cold. Unwilling to come close, reluctant to touch. I looked at our shadows on the ground, reached out, and touched the shadow of his hand. At least a shadow wouldn’t pull away. We went to see a movie. The moment I sat down, memories flooded back. Our first movie date, it was at this very cinema. Back then, as the lights dimmed, his warm hand cautiously reached out. Once he held mine, he never let go. I didn’t need to look; I knew his face was bright red. Now, I quietly reached out, wanting to touch his hand resting on the armrest. But he abruptly pulled it back, stuffing it into his pocket. Leaving my hand suspended in mid-air. Tears fell in large drops. I couldn’t control them. The male and female leads on the screen were kissing; I was crying, he was silent. 6 After the movie, we went for dinner. We arrived at an old restaurant, a place we used to frequent ten years ago. I had reserved our usual table in advance. I ordered his favorite steamed pork ribs and spicy blood curd. I washed the utensils, handed them to John, and then asked for another set of cutlery for myself. He quietly stared out the window, unwilling to engage with me. I didn’t mind, chattering away, saying the place wasn’t as nice after the renovation, that the owner had changed, that the food here was getting more expensive… He didn’t reply to any of it. But I kept talking; it had been too long since I’d spoken to him. Even if he ignored me, I wanted to keep telling him about my last ten years. The dishes arrived, steaming hot. I placed the ribs in front of him: “Eat.” He didn’t even lift an eyelid: “I don’t like these anymore.” My heart felt a sharp prick, like a needle. I picked up a rib and put it in my mouth. Chewed. No taste. Absolutely no taste. When I swallowed, my throat felt like I was swallowing knives. He didn’t like it; I did. He didn’t remember the taste; I did. But now, I couldn’t taste anything. I picked up the beef again, stuffing large mouthfuls into my mouth. One bite after another. Food mixed with tears went down, and my stomach churned violently. I clamped my hand over my mouth and rushed to the trash can in the corner. “Ugh——” Everything I had just eaten, mixed with stomach acid and tears, came pouring out. The waitress rushed over, handing me water and tissues: “Miss, are you okay? Should we call an ambulance?” I was trembling from vomiting, shaking my head frantically, speaking in gasps: “I… I’m fine… So… so sorry… so sorry… made a mess…” The waitress was very gentle: “It’s okay, it’s okay, we’ll clean it up. Please don’t worry, let me help you up…” When I finally recovered, I realized John had retreated outside. His figure was blurred through the glass. 7 I quickly got up to pay, afraid he would just leave. “John Miller!” He looked up at me, keeping his distance. He asked, “Where to next?” My mouth opened, my throat still burning: “To the riverside… I guess.” We arrived at the Central River Bridge. Not many people were on the bridge itself; most had gone to the newly built influencer bridge nearby. “Do you still remember this place?” I gazed at the boats slowly moving on the river. “It’s where you proposed to me.” He frowned: “That’s all in the past. Don’t bring it up again.” He told me not to bring it up, so I deliberately did: “Our first date, we first watched a movie, in that same cinema today. Afterward, we had a big dinner, also at that same restaurant today. You saved up for a long time just to order their signature dish…” I paused, then asked him: “Was it good? Did it… taste the same as before?” He said: “I don’t know, I didn’t eat it.” “…Oh.” I softly acknowledged, “I see…” There would be no more chances to eat it. A boat slowly passed under the bridge, reminding me of the day John proposed. He held me, not wanting to go back, saying we’d leave after the boat passed the bridge. We watched one boat after another until night fell. A gust of wind blew, making me shiver with cold. Was the wind that night also this cold? I pointed to the boat: “Let’s go back when that boat passes under the bridge.” The boat slowly sailed past, brightly lit, with people laughing and cheering on board. So happy, so envious. That night, I woke from a dream, and immediately rushed out of the bedroom. Only when I saw a blurry figure on the sofa in the darkness did I feel at ease. His breathing was so light, making me want to get closer to him. I wanted to reach out and touch him, but just as my fingertips were about to make contact, I was afraid of waking him, so I pulled back. Suddenly, a violent cramp seized my lower abdomen again. The pain made me curl into a ball, but I bit down hard on my lower lip, daring not to make a sound. Cold sweat mixed with tears smeared my face. My vision began to blur. John, I’m in so much pain. Why aren’t you here to hold me? 8 When I opened my eyes again, it was already noon the next day. The sunlight was blinding, and John sat on the sofa, silently watching me. I struggled to get up, quickly washed up, and then rushed him to a bridal shop. I carefully chose a wedding dress. We were poor back then; John and I registered our marriage with nothing. We finally made it, bought a house, bought a car, but then divorced just as we were planning a proper wedding ceremony. I picked up a strapless mermaid gown and asked him: “Does this one look good?” He leaned against the doorframe, giving an unenthusiastic “Hmm.” I then picked up a French V-neck gown: “How about this one?” He said: “Whatever, anything is fine.” I lowered my head, no longer asking him, and chose a simple satin dress, then also picked out a suit. I bought them both. After buying the wedding dress, I went to a highly-rated private studio. I asked John to try on the suit, but he refused: “I agreed to spend three days with you, but I didn’t say I’d take photos.” I asked him: “You’re not going to take pictures?” He looked at the suit in my hand and said: “No.” I took back the clothes. Fine, if he didn’t want to. I no longer had the energy to argue with him. The makeup artist was incredible, truly a miracle worker, making me look a bit healthier. But as she was styling my hair, she accidentally pulled off my wig, tearing out the few remaining strands of my real hair. She was so scared she stammered incoherently: “I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to… I didn’t pull hard… I…” I quickly comforted her: “It’s okay, my hair falls out easily, it’s not your fault. Just carry on.” After that, she was exceptionally careful. At the photo studio, the photographer only looked at me and asked: “Where’s the groom?” 9 I looked at John, who stood behind the photographer, seemingly waiting for me to make a fool of myself. I forced a smile. “He… he doesn’t want to be in the photos. I’ll take them myself.” The photographer’s expression instantly changed. My voice was light. “It’s fine. The post-production team can just photoshop the groom in later. I have photos of the groom with me, and I can pay extra.” I only took one photo, but I booked the photography team for the entire day. The remaining time was mainly for them to do the post-production for me. I sent John’s photos and the suit sample images to the post-production assistant. “Please photoshop him in. Thank you.” The assistant glanced at the photos, then at me. “Alright.” I stood behind him, pointing at the screen, trying hard to reconstruct John from my memories. “The height is wrong, he’s six feet tall.” “His shoulders are too narrow; they should be wider.” “His skin needs to be a bit paler.” “His face should be thinner than in the photo…” The assistant’s mouse clicked faster and faster, his brows furrowing tighter and tighter, until he finally couldn’t take it anymore and slammed the mouse down. “Ma’am! Don’t always rely on post-production! Why didn’t you just bring him here to shoot! Post-production is really hard!” His tone was sharp. I glanced at John, who was watching the scene unfold from the side, and my voice dropped. “He didn’t want to.” The air was silent for a second. The manager rushed over and gave the assistant a hard slap on the back of his head. “You punk, fix your attitude!” Then the manager smiled apologetically. “Ms. Evans, I’m so sorry, our team member Leo is being insensitive. Please don’t be angry. Just tell him what to change, and he’ll revise it until you’re satisfied.” The assistant pursed his lips, under pressure from the manager. “Ugh! Fine, I’ll change it!” I smiled and said it was fine, then remembered something and told the manager: “Can you also make me another photo, 12 inches, a black and white solo picture?” The assistant’s mouse paused, the manager’s smile froze on his face, and he asked me: “…black and white?” 10 I nodded: “Yes, and a black frame for it. Also… please make me look good in it. I suppose… it will be for the memorial service.” I pulled out a photo from ten years ago. In it, a vibrant young woman leaned against John, his face full of loving indulgence. “I… I didn’t look like this back then.” I sent the photo over. The assistant froze, and the manager slapped him again. “I told you about your temper! You’ll wake up in the middle of the night and slap yourself twice!” When the assistant spoke again, he was overflowing with guilt. He pointed at the screen: “Ma’am, tell me where you want changes, and I’ll do it right away! Make the face thinner, right? And your complexion… should I add some color?” On the screen, I was wearing a white wedding dress, my eyes bright, and next to me was John, also meticulously photoshopped in. He wore a sharp suit, his eyes full of love, just like us ten years ago. I softly said: “It’s perfect, just like I used to be. Thank you.” The assistant and manager said they would make it even better for me and mail it directly tomorrow. The kindness of strangers is always so sincere. Ever since I got cancer, the world has embraced me, all except him. I looked up at John; he was sitting alone in the corner. Just then, my phone rang. It was Mom: “Mia…” Her voice was cautious, “The hospital said you’ve been discharged?” I mumbled yes. “Then why don’t you come home? Your sister and brother are both back.” I agreed, then added: “Mom, I’m bringing John with me. Make some of his favorite dishes.” The other end of the phone was silent for a long time, then she stammered, “Oh… okay… okay, Mom knows. You… be careful on the road…” 11 Hanging up the phone, I told John: “We’re going to my family’s place for dinner tonight.” He leaned against the wall, half his face shrouded in shadow: “I go to your house? In what capacity? As your ex-husband? Mia, we’re divorced, we’ve been divorced for ten years. It’s not appropriate.” I remembered back then, my parents weren’t actually happy with John. When they found out his family was from a rural area and he had three siblings, they immediately arranged blind dates for me. Mom advised me: “Mia, your mother’s been through it. I don’t want you to suffer like I did when I was young.” I angrily slammed the door and had a big fight with Mom. When John found out, he wasn’t angry; instead, he comforted me: “Actually, your mother-in-law isn’t wrong. If I had a daughter, I’d also want her to live a good life, not suffer with a poor boy.” He ruffled my hair, persuading me: “Don’t be angry with your parents. It’s my fault for not being good enough and making them worry about you. But thank you for trusting me, little Mia. I’ll work hard. I’ll definitely give you a good life.” Later, he truly did. He worked tirelessly, unconditionally, responding 24/7, and in five years, he rose to the position of technical director. His monthly salary reached fifty thousand, and he bought a house and a car, both in my name, achieving worldly success. My parents never had any objections after that. He treated my parents very well, more thoughtfully than even I, their own daughter. He often reminded me to call home more often. I asked him: “Mom just had her sixty-first birthday. Are you really not going? You always said I didn’t care enough about Mom and Dad, and you also said…” He abruptly cut me off: “Enough! Don’t say another word! Don’t you just want me to go?” He gave a short laugh: “Fine, I’ll go. Don’t regret it.” We could finally go home together. How could I regret it? Pushing open the front door, I called out: “Mom and Dad, we’re home!”

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Eight-year-old Finn stood silently with his head bowed between Derek and me. We were sitting in the sterile, aggressively air-conditioned conference room of a divorce mediator. My soon-to-be ex-husband, Derek, let out a cold sneer and slid the final settlement agreement across the polished mahogany table. He laid down a brutally simple ultimatum. I could either walk away with absolutely nothing and take our son, or I could take the ten million dollars in our joint accounts and never see my boy again. My heart twisted in my chest. My lips parted, ready to surrender everything just to keep Finn safe. But right at that second, a string of glowing, semi-transparent text floated across my vision. It told me that if I chose the boy now, we would starve, but if I chose the money, my son would eventually grow up to be a world-class tech genius earning tens of millions a year. Clarity hit me like a splash of ice water. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and looked him dead in the eye. “I’ll take the money.” The words tasted foreign on my tongue. Derek froze. For a second, his arrogant mask slipped, replaced by genuine shock. Then he erupted into a harsh, mocking laugh, declaring that I was exactly the gold-digger he always knew I was, valuing cash over my own flesh and blood. My face remained a mask of stone. I picked up the heavy silver pen, signed my name on the dotted line, and legally claimed every single cent of the fortune that rightfully belonged to me. 1 The gray marble steps outside the mediator’s office felt like ice beneath my heels. Derek had shoved the signed paperwork into his briefcase, a triumphant, cruel smirk playing on his lips. “Think about this clearly, Nora. You want Finn? You walk away with empty pockets. You want this ten million and the house? You are dead to him.” His mother, Martha, stood beside him with her arms crossed over her designer coat. Her eyes dripped with venom. “I told you she was nothing but a greedy tramp. My poor Derek was blind to marry you.” I did not look at her. My gaze was anchored to my son. Finn was only eight. His small body was shrunk into the oversized leather lobby chair, his little knuckles turning white as he gripped the hem of his shirt. He refused to look at me. I knew exactly what Martha had been whispering in his ear for the past week. She had been poisoning him against me. An invisible hand crushed my lungs. The pain was so sharp I could barely draw a breath. And then, it happened again. A line of glowing, golden text hovered in the air, directly over Derek’s head. [Take the money! Finn is a prodigy. With the right resources, he will become a world-renowned cybersecurity expert earning eight figures a year!] My pupils dilated. What was this? A hallucination brought on by stress? I squeezed my eyes shut, counted to three, and opened them. The text was still there, glowing like a neon sign from the future. A cybersecurity expert. Millions a year. I sucked in a lungful of cold air, forcing the raging storm inside my chest to settle. I looked at Derek. He looked so incredibly smug. He was utterly convinced I would crumble. He believed that my entire existence revolved around him and the boy, and that without him, I would simply cease to exist. For ten years, I had lived as a glorified maid in his shadow. No dignity. No identity. He took my sacrifices for granted while he spent his nights warming the beds of other women. Now, he wanted to use my love for my son to bleed me dry. To leave me destitute out on the streets. I lifted my chin and met his mocking gaze. “I choose the money.” I didn’t shout. But the words dropped like anvils into the quiet lobby. The air grew thick. Derek’s smirk froze. Martha’s sneer melted into slack-jawed disbelief. “What did you just say?” Derek asked, his voice tight. “I said, I am taking the ten million dollars.” I repeated it, my tone as flat and unyielding as concrete. He stared at me, searching my face for the punchline of a sick joke. He found none. I unzipped my purse, took out my copy of the settlement, and folded it neatly. Nora. Four letters, signed with absolute finality. It took Derek a full ten seconds to process it. When he did, he threw his head back and laughed. “Good! Perfect!” He was laughing so hard his face turned red. He pointed a finger at me and looked at his mother. “Do you see this, Mom? This is a mother’s love! She sold her own kid for a paycheck! What kind of monster does that?” Martha snapped out of her daze and eagerly joined the execution. “I always knew she had a rotten core! Do you see this, Finn? Your mother doesn’t want you! She wants the cash!” Finn flinched. His chin dropped until it rested on his chest. I could see the faint trembling of his small shoulders. My heart bled. It felt as if someone was dragging a serrated blade across my ribs. But I could not break. “I expect the funds to clear into my account by the end of business today. I will send a representative to handle the property transfer tomorrow.” I stood up. “Finn, you…” Martha started. Derek cut her off, his face twisting with vindictive pleasure. “Let her go! From this second on, she is nothing to this family. She is nothing to Finn. Let’s see how long a miserable, lonely woman can stay happy with a pile of cash.” I did not give them a second glance. I turned on my heel and walked out the glass doors. The afternoon sun was blinding. I kept my spine completely straight. Every step I took away from them was heavy, deliberate, and final. The tears burned behind my eyes, fighting to fall, but I refused to let them spill. I am so sorry, my sweet boy. It is not that Mom doesn’t want you. Mom just refuses to let you grow up watching a penniless, broken woman begging for scraps. How can a mother who cannot even protect herself ever hope to protect her son? Derek. Martha. Just you wait. Everything that belongs to my son, I will take back with my own two hands. And everything you owe us, I will make you pay back in blood. I reached the curb and hailed a passing cab. The moment I slid into the backseat and the door slammed shut, the dam broke. I covered my mouth with both hands, trapping the sobs in my throat as hot tears flooded my face. My phone buzzed. A banking alert. Ten million dollars. The exact amount. Derek moved fast. He was desperate to sever all ties. Good. I wiped my cheeks roughly. When I looked up, the reflection in the window showed a woman with eyes made of ice. The golden text flickered to life once more. [Head to the Oakwood Heights sales office in the West End. Buy Penthouse 1801. Next month, the city will announce a new tech hub and a premier school zoning for that district. The property value will double overnight.] 2 Oakwood Heights. I had never heard of it. It had to be a new development. The cab driver frowned when I gave him the address. “Lady, that area is practically a ghost town. It’s just dirt and construction. What do you need to go out there for?” “To buy a house.” He caught my eye in the rearview mirror, looking at me like I had lost my mind. “Good luck with that. Rumor has it the developers are going bankrupt. Place might turn into a concrete graveyard.” I tuned him out. The text hovering in my mind was too vivid to be a hallucination. Real or not, I had to gamble. Right now, I had ten million dollars and absolutely nothing else. And money, unless weaponized, was just a string of digital zeros. The sales center was dead quiet. A single, bored-looking agent was scrolling on her phone behind the marble reception desk. She forced a plastic smile when I walked in. “Welcome. Are you looking to tour a model unit today?” “Building A. Penthouse 1801. Is it available?” I asked, cutting right to the chase. Her eyes widened, suddenly sparkling with desperate hope. “Yes! Yes, it is! It’s our crown jewel. Unobstructed city views, floor-to-ceiling windows…” “How much for an all-cash offer today?” I interrupted. She choked on her pitch, her jaw practically hitting the floor. “The list price is four million, but… if you can wire the funds entirely today, I can authorize a five percent discount. Three point eight million.” “Print the contracts.” Thirty minutes later, the wire transfer was complete, and the paperwork was signed. The agent looked at me as if I were a deity who had just descended from the heavens to save her career. Stepping out of the sales office, I clutched the heavy folder of documents against my chest. For the first time in years, I felt grounded. This was my home. This was the fortress where Finn and I would build our future. I would never let him suffocate in the toxic wasteland of Derek’s family again. I was barely settled into my cab back to the city center when my phone rang. It was an unknown number. “Hello?” “Nora? It’s Stella.” The sharp, nasal voice of my ex-sister-in-law assaulted my ear. “What do you want?” “Moved out already? Didn’t waste any time, did you?” she sneered. “Get to the point.” I had zero patience for her games. “Derek told me to call you. Finn’s private piano lessons are due. It’s ten grand for the semester. Pay it.” I let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Stella, are you suffering from memory loss? Derek and I are divorced. He demanded full custody. He didn’t give me a dime in child support. Why on earth would I pay for his expenses?” “Excuse me? Who do you think you are talking to?” Stella’s voice hit a shrill octave. “You walked away with ten million dollars! Ten million! You can’t drop ten grand on your own kid? Are you even a mother?” “My fitness as a mother is none of your concern. The money is mine. I will spend it however I damn well please. Do not call me for this garbage again.” I ended the call and blocked the number. They weren’t getting another cent from me. I checked into a five-star hotel downtown. The suite was immaculate. I took a scalding shower, scrubbed the smell of the mediator’s office off my skin, and changed into fresh clothes. Looking at the pale, exhausted woman in the bathroom mirror, I saw something new in her eyes. Steel. When a mother is pushed to the edge, she becomes a weapon. My phone screen lit up on the vanity. The golden text materialized against the glass. [Derek is actively hiding marital assets. He has a secret account holding three million dollars from the sale of the downtown condo. He plans to transfer it into an offshore trust for his mother.] My hands gripped the edge of the marble sink. That bastard. That downtown condo was the only inheritance my late parents had left me. When we got married, I was young and stupid enough to put his name on the deed. He swore he would protect me forever. Instead, he liquidated my parents’ legacy behind my back and planned to pocket the cash. If it weren’t for this strange golden guide, I would have been completely blind. I grabbed my phone and scrolled to a specific contact. Rachel. My college roommate, now one of the most ruthless divorce attorneys in the city. She picked up on the second ring. I gave her the rundown. Rachel was swearing loud enough to rattle the speaker. “Nora, you are too damn nice! Ten years with that parasite! Do you have hard proof of the hidden assets?” I hesitated. I couldn’t exactly tell her a magical floating text gave me the tip. “I think I saw a digital copy of a real estate transfer on his home office computer a few weeks ago,” I lied smoothly. “Okay. That’s a thread we can pull. Let me handle this. I will track down the wire transfers and drag him back to court. We’ll leave him in ruins.” I hung up, feeling a dangerous smile form on my lips. Now, I just had to wait for the right moment. Before I could set the phone down, another golden prompt flared into existence. [Tomorrow morning at 10:00 AM, Martha will go to Finn’s elementary school. She will corner his counselor, claim you abandoned your son for a payout, and attempt to permanently destroy your reputation with the school administration.] 3 At exactly nine-thirty the next morning, I stepped out of a black town car in front of Finn’s private elementary school. I wore a sharply tailored charcoal blazer, my hair sleekly pulled back. A touch of crimson lipstick completed the look. The reflection in the school’s glass doors showed a corporate warrior, lightyears away from the hollow housewife who had signed away her life yesterday. The security guard at the front desk stopped me. “Ma’am, classes are in session. We don’t allow unannounced visitors.” “I’m here to see Ms. Davis, the third-grade counselor. I am Finn’s mother,” I said, offering a warm, professional smile. He verified my ID, made a quick call, and buzzed me through. I didn’t go straight to the administrative office. Instead, I waited near the trophy cases in the main hallway. Right on schedule, at five minutes to ten, Martha marched through the double doors. She was dragging Finn by the wrist. Trailing behind them was Brenda, Derek’s dramatic cousin who loved nothing more than a soap opera. They bypassed reception and headed straight for the counselor’s office. I slipped my phone out, hit the voice memo record button, and followed silently. I stood just outside the slightly ajar door. The voices inside were crystal clear. “Ms. Davis, I am just sick over this. I had to come speak with you.” Martha’s voice was laced with a nauseatingly fake tremor. “Finn’s mother… she took a massive payout and abandoned her own flesh and blood. They finalized the divorce yesterday, and she just vanished! Left with millions! My poor sweet Finn, growing up without a mother…” Brenda chimed right in, playing her part to perfection. “It’s a tragedy, Ms. Davis! We begged her. We told her a child needs his mother more than anything in the world. But she has ice in her veins. She said the cash was better than the kid! Who does that? We just ask that the school keep an extra eye on Finn. He’s been through so much trauma because of that woman.” It was a perfectly choreographed character assassination. I could hear the uncomfortable rustle of papers inside. Ms. Davis clearly didn’t know how to handle this ambush. I pictured Finn sitting there, small and terrified, listening to his grandmother tear me to shreds. I took a deep breath, placed my hand on the doorknob, and pushed it open. “Martha, does it ever get exhausting spreading poison behind my back?” The room went dead silent. Martha and Brenda spun around, looking like they had just seen a ghost. “Wh… what are you doing here?” Martha stammered, her face losing its color. I ignored her completely. I walked past them, stopping in front of the counselor’s desk, and offered my hand. “Ms. Davis. I am Nora, Finn’s mother. I apologize for the disruption.” Ms. Davis, a kind-eyed woman in her late thirties, pushed her glasses up her nose and shook my hand awkwardly. “Please, have a seat, Nora.” I pulled a chair right next to Finn and gently wrapped my hand over his icy little fingers. “Don’t be scared, baby. Mom is right here.” Finn stiffened for a second, then slowly, his small hand curled around my fingers, holding on tight. Martha finally recovered her nerve. She slapped her hand against her thigh and raised her voice. “You have some nerve showing your face here! You took the money! What are you doing at his school? Haven’t you humiliated our family enough?” “I came to ensure Ms. Davis has the facts,” I said smoothly, keeping my eyes on the counselor. “It is true that Derek and I divorced, and I received my half of our marital assets. But I did not abandon my son. My ex-husband offered me an ultimatum. I could either walk away with my child and face total bankruptcy, or take the financial settlement and temporarily surrender physical custody.” I paused, letting the weight of the words settle. “Ms. Davis, as an educator, I’m sure you understand. If I had walked away with nothing, how could I feed my son? How could I afford his tuition here? How could I give him the life he deserves?” The discomfort in Ms. Davis’s eyes shifted into dawning comprehension and deep sympathy. “I took the assets because I know that without financial ammunition, I cannot protect him. The money ensures that in the near future, I can rescue my son from an absentee father and a grandmother who clearly enjoys manipulating the truth.” My voice was steady and absolute. Martha’s face flushed a deep, ugly purple. “Lies! Derek is a wonderful father! You are slandering us!” “Am I?” I offered a razor-thin smile and held up my phone. “I recorded everything you both just said. The lies, the character defamation. I imagine the school board, or perhaps the other parents in the PTA, would find this recording fascinating.” All the blood drained from Martha’s face. Brenda looked like she wanted to sink into the floorboards. “You… you wouldn’t dare,” Martha hissed. “Test me.” My eyes were dead. The heavy silence was broken by Ms. Davis standing up. She had heard enough. “I think we are done here, Martha. This is a private family matter. The school is not the place for this, and we will not allow it to affect Finn.” Her tone was frosty and dismissive toward the older woman. She turned to me, her voice softening. “Nora, I completely understand your position. Please rest assured, Finn is a brilliant boy and he is perfectly safe here.” “Thank you, Ms. Davis.” Knowing she had been completely outplayed, Martha shot me a venomous glare, grabbed Brenda by the arm, and stormed out of the office. Once the door clicked shut, I crouched down to meet Finn’s eyes. “Finn, listen to me. Mom has some battles to fight right now, so I can’t be at the house. But you have to know I love you more than anything. Once I have everything set up, I am coming back for you. Do you understand?” He looked at me. For the first time in weeks, the fear in his big brown eyes was gone. He nodded firmly. “I believe you, Mom.” A lump rose in my throat. When I walked out of the school building, the sun felt warmer. The future wasn’t just a distant hope anymore. It was a target. My phone vibrated in my pocket. [Stella just maxed out her credit cards to cover a twenty-thousand-dollar gambling debt. Derek bailed her out for half, but she needs the other ten grand. She’s going to come begging to you.]

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On our seventh anniversary, police called. A couple claimed my company’s product poisoned their child. At the station, I saw Tristan—her ex—filing the report, with Vivienne, my wife, beside him as his “wife.” She looked at me coldly, stating, “We have a three-year-old. That’s how it is.” We’d reconciled four years ago. I pulled out the divorce papers I tore up back then, now reprinted, and said, “Let her be with him openly.” I thought back four years, after three years of marriage. To protect Tristan, she falsely reported me ten times. Each release led to fights that put me in the hospital—eleven times total. Then, on a Middle East trip, our hotel was hit. She shielded me from debris; I shielded her from bullets. In hospital beds, holding hands, she tearfully promised to send him away for good. I tore up the divorce papers, saying we’d try one last time. She erased him completely, even tattooed my name over her heart, vowing I’d never regret it. Now, it all felt like a sick joke. 1 Tristan eventually left the precinct with red eyes, holding his son tightly in his arms. He left because I had verbally backed him into a corner. Faced with my absolute command of corporate law and product liability, he was trembling with rage, entirely unable to utter a single word in his defense. When we got home, I strode through the front door. Vivienne followed closely behind, her brows furrowed in annoyance. “Could you not have a better attitude? What kind of man bullies a father and his sick child?” Bullying? I spun around abruptly. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with my company’s food products. It is glaringly obvious that he fed his kid something he shouldn’t have and is trying to pin it on me to extort a settlement! Are you completely blind to that? Who is bullying who here?!” Vivienne frowned, clearly displeased with my tone. I took a step closer, my voice dropping. “You know exactly how pristine my manufacturing formulas are. Yet you still stood by his side and helped him call the cops on me.” A cold, mocking laugh escaped my lips. “You really are exactly the same as you used to be.” She let out a heavy sigh. “You really lack empathy sometimes, Victor.” I froze. “The child is only three years old. He is a first-time father. Seeing his kid poisoned like that, it is natural for him to panic and make a mess of things. If you cannot be understanding, fine. But there was no need to back a single father into a corner over a small mistake and beat him down like that.” She paused, looking me up and down. A cruel, mocking smile suddenly tugged at the corner of her lips. “Oh, right. You are someone who can never be a father. No wonder you cannot possibly understand what someone with a child feels.” I stared at her in sheer disbelief. The next second, a sharp slap echoed through the room, landing hard across her cheek. “Vivienne! Who is the reason I can never be a father?! Have you conveniently forgotten?!” The memory seemed to finally crash into her. She lowered her eyes, dodging my furious gaze. But I refused to let her hide. “Back in college, you got drunk and picked a fight with a group of guys. They came at you with a broken beer bottle. I took that hit for you! That jagged glass shredded my abdomen, and that is why my fertility is practically gone!” A flicker of guilt finally crossed Vivienne’s face. I offered a bitter, hollow smile. “If I had known you were fighting those guys that night defending Tristan, I would have let them kill you.” Her lips parted, trembling slightly. “I… I am sorry. I misspoke.” “You have misspoken a lot over the past seven years.” I stared at her, my voice turning eerily calm. “To put it plainly, you never cared about me. You never cared about this marriage. If you did, those words would never have left your mouth so easily. Have you ever misspoken in front of Tristan?” She remained silent. I answered for her. “Never, right?” “I…” “Vivienne.” I cut her off. “Save the excuses. You don’t care, and that is the truth. Just like I told you before, that was your absolute last chance.” I looked at the spot on her chest where my name was inked. And I sneered. “You only talk a big game about cherishing our final chance.” “I already moved him underground! What more do you want from me?” I looked at her, entirely stunned by her twisted logic. She ran a hand through her hair, looking incredibly frustrated. “In the past four years, have you ever seen a trace of him or his son in my life? No, right?” I could barely breathe. “Vivienne…” “Enough, Victor.” She frowned deeply. “If you hadn’t been so petty and unreasonable today, you wouldn’t have even found out. You wouldn’t have ruined the peace between us. We could have lived a perfectly good life together.” When a person is pushed to the absolute limit of their anger, they actually start laughing. My company receiving a legal complaint was normally a matter for my corporate legal department. I never needed to show my face. But I had recognized the phone number on the complaint. It was Tristan’s. I investigated it personally and uncovered the sickening truth of her ongoing affair. Vivienne sighed softly. “Just pretend this never happened. Victor, please don’t destroy the relationship we worked so hard to repair.” I laughed. I slammed the freshly printed divorce agreement onto the coffee table. “If you truly cherished this relationship, you would have never kept in touch with him!” “What are you doing?” Seeing the words ‘Divorce Agreement’ printed in bold at the top of the page, Vivienne’s breathing hitched visibly. “Take this back!” She reached out to tear the papers, but I pinned them down with a heavy hand. “Vivienne, I meant what I said. Four years ago was our final chance.” “Victor…” “Three days.” I stared straight into her eyes. “Give me an answer in three days.” “Victor! Victor!!” I turned and walked out the door without looking back. She didn’t chase me. She just stood there alone, staring at the legal document, her fingers trembling slightly. I waited for two days. Vivienne gave me no answer. She completely ignored the messages I sent. I decided to head back to the house to force the issue. But the moment I stepped onto the front porch, I heard the clinking of wine glasses and laughter coming from inside. “Vivienne, it is the last day for that divorce agreement. Are you really not going to make a plan?” “A plan?” Vivienne laughed coldly. “He is the one crossing the line! He is the one who owes me a plan!” What? My hand froze on the doorknob. “We have been married for seven years. I can forgive the past, but bringing Tristan back here was a bit much, so I understand why he brought out the papers. But we have loved each other more fiercely than any normal couple for the last four years. Even when we fought, he never actually used a divorce to threaten me.” I could hear the rustle of paper as Vivienne waved the agreement around. “Has he ever considered how much damage throwing a tantrum like this does to our relationship?” I gritted my teeth. One of her friends glanced toward the hallway and suddenly stopped breathing. They saw my shadow under the door but chose not to alert her. Instead, they asked another question. “But Vivienne, what if Victor is actually serious this time?” “Serious?” Vivienne laughed, a light, dismissive sound. “We have literally bled and almost died for each other. We are not going to fall apart that easily.” “Then why did you have a kid with Tristan? I really thought you had turned over a new leaf for Victor.” I heard the sound of Vivienne clinking her glass against theirs. “When you have a life-and-death kind of love, you don’t need to be as cautious and serious as you were in the beginning. We saved each other’s lives. He and I are bound for life. He could never truly leave me.” I sucked in a sharp breath. My heart hammered against my ribs, fueled by pure, unadulterated fury. I quietly let go of the doorknob and walked away. It seemed it was time to bypass the negotiations and go straight to litigation. While I was having my executive assistant, Carter, prepare the lawsuit materials, Vivienne finally sent me a message on the third day. [Instead of wasting time throwing a tantrum, you should expedite the compensation for Tristan’s losses.] Immediately after, a digital copy of a court summons was forwarded to my phone. It was a lawsuit filed by Tristan. He was officially suing my company for severe food safety violations, claiming our product directly caused his child’s life-threatening poisoning. I hadn’t expected him to keep pushing after I had humiliated him at the precinct. But a persistence like that meant someone powerful was backing him. I called Vivienne immediately. “Did you file this for him?” Vivienne let out a soft chuckle. She didn’t answer. The silence was an admission. “And if I refuse to pay his extortion fee?” “Husband, you need to think this through. The legal team representing him in court will be my corporate litigators.” My breath caught in my throat. “Why be so stubborn about this? Just admit fault and pay the man.” I gripped my phone tightly. “This company is a legacy brand founded by my grandfather. We have built a pristine reputation over decades. You want me to admit fault to a fabricated claim and destroy the Valiant Group’s entire brand image?!” Vivienne sighed. “Do you really have to make things so difficult for a father and his son?” “You are the ones making things difficult for me!” I ground my teeth together. “Tristan fed his own kid garbage, and you know it!” Vivienne went completely silent. When she finally spoke again, her voice had turned ice-cold. “Then you are on your own. Good luck.” The dial tone echoed in my ear. I stood in my office, gripping the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. Carter, my head of legal and operations, looked at me with deep concern. “Mr. Victor, Vivienne’s corporation has already sent us the formal notice. Her legal team is entirely undefeated in both domestic and international courts. We…” I clenched my fists. “We fight. I will personally lead the defense with you.” Carter’s eyes lit up with sudden hope. On the day of the trial, when I walked into the courtroom as both the defendant and the lead defense attorney, Vivienne was visibly stunned. She never knew that I possessed a fully certified, top-tier legal degree. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a message from her. I ignored it entirely. I faced her elite legal team head-on. Throughout the entire proceeding, Vivienne’s expression grew darker and darker. She quickly realized that her million-dollar lawyers were not omnipotent gods. And she realized that I had been hiding my true capabilities from her for years. When the judge entirely dismissed Tristan’s frivolous lawsuit for lack of credible evidence, Tristan threw a massive, screaming tantrum right in the middle of the courtroom. I shot Vivienne a cold, mocking smirk. Her face was an unreadable mask. But as we were exiting the courthouse, she intercepted me by the heavy oak doors. She smiled, a deeply calculating look in her eyes. “You are vastly more capable than I ever imagined, Victor.” “What is the matter? Is the CEO planning to file an appeal for her little kept man?” “No.” She smiled softly. “Since my husband is so brilliant, why would I ever want to make an enemy out of you?” I frowned, completely unable to read her angle. She turned on her heel to leave. “I wish you and your business continued prosperity, Mr. Victor.” “What exactly is she plotting?” I muttered to myself. That night, I stayed at the corporate headquarters. I personally audited the warehouse inventory and conducted a rigorous check of all our security and fire suppression systems. Only when I was certain there were no vulnerabilities did I finally relax. Carter walked with me as we left the building late that night. “Thank god you were there, Mr. Victor! Otherwise, those corporate vultures would have swindled our entire quarterly profit! Vivienne is so ruthless, actually ordering her team to bleed us dry just to line Tristan’s pockets. It was so obvious Tristan screwed up his kid’s diet! Her bias is sickening!” “Exactly! Who is she even married to?!” Carter quickly clamped a hand over his subordinate’s mouth, nervously checking my expression. I just stiffened for a fraction of a second before offering a tired smile. “It’s fine. Let’s go home.” Carter smiled in relief. “Yes, sir!” We had barely driven out of the industrial park when a deafening explosion shattered the night sky behind us. Carter violently pulled me down as the shockwave rattled the car windows. A blistering wave of heat washed over us. I whipped my head around. Above the manufacturing plant, a towering inferno of orange and black tore into the sky. “Mom! Dad!” I threw the car door open and sprinted back toward the flames like a madman. Carter and the security team tackled me to the asphalt. “Mr. Victor! It’s too dangerous! You can’t go in there!” “My parents’ belongings are in there!” I screamed, struggling against their grip. “Sir, stop!” They held me down with everything they had. Fire engines and police cruisers flooded the scene, sirens wailing. Yellow caution tape was rapidly strung up. Every single first responder blocked my path. My breathing was ragged, my lungs burning. “Their things are in the main office! Everything they left behind! Let me go!” “Even if they are, they are gone now, son!” a soot-covered firefighter yelled over the roar of the flames, his voice full of pity. I stared at his blackened face. Every ounce of strength evaporated from my body. I slowly turned my head. Parked in the shadows just beyond the police line was a familiar black Rolls-Royce. Behind the tinted glass, a face was illuminated by the dashboard lights. Vivienne was sitting in the back seat. She was casually watching the destruction. When she noticed me looking, she raised an eyebrow and offered a slow, deliberate smile. In the passenger seat, Tristan was holding his son, a sickeningly triumphant grin plastered across his face. Vivienne stepped out of the luxury car, her heels clicking against the pavement. “You humiliated Tristan completely in front of a judge today. You owed him a little compensation.” I could not form a single word. My vocal cords were paralyzed. “Don’t worry, the inventory is gone, but I will personally wire you the funds to cover the damages. Don’t blame him. This was entirely my idea.” My throat constricted so violently I tasted blood. Everything inside that building was a piece of the legacy my parents and grandfather had built. When I was five years old, my mother used to carry me through those very halls, showing me the machinery, telling me the story of how our family built the brand from nothing. They would stroke my hair and say, “This will all be yours one day. You have to protect it.” “Mom, Dad… I am so sorry.” The world went pitch black. The burning sky spun violently before my eyes, and gravity vanished. Vivienne’s smug, composed expression instantly shattered into sheer panic. “Victor!”

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