Clifford Delaney's spoiled girlfriend had a miscarriage. At the company's annual meeting, for the first time, he lost his composure in front of everyone.

"Faith, I told you the child was innocent and wouldn't affect your position. Why can't you just tolerate it?" he yelled, his face red with fury.

"Now Denise's child is gone, and the one in your belly won’t survive either!" His words were laced with venom.

With rage in his eyes, he tied me to the bed and performed the abortion himself.

The procedure left me bleeding heavily, and one of my fallopian tubes had to be removed. Meanwhile, he was at an auction, bidding on sky-high collections to "compensate" his girlfriend. The scene, with him adoringly pampering her in the media, made me realize that this marriage was beyond repair.

I picked up the phone and called across the ocean. "Do you still mean it? Do you still want to marry me?"

There was a slight pause on the other end before a soft laugh. "Of course."

——

When I returned to Clifford's house after being discharged, I froze in shock at the sight of a pair of elegant high heels at the door. Before I could process, Clifford's lazy voice came from the sofa.

"You're back... Just in time. Denise isn't used to having strangers around, so I gave the house staff a few days off. Can you make some chicken soup for her to help her recover?" His tone was casual, but I saw her—Denise—nestled in his arms, her delicate face peeking out.

"Clifford, Faith is still weak from her surgery. Let me do it…" Denise's soft voice tried to intervene, but it only ignited Clifford's fury.

"Don’t be fooled. She’s the best at pretending. It was just a small procedure, but she dragged it out for over half a month before being discharged. She did it for my sympathy!" His words were sharp, his anger palpable. "Faith, don't think I’ll feel guilty. You owe Denise that child!"

I let out a bitter laugh. A month ago, Denise had been told by the doctor that her pregnancy was ectopic and needed a uterine curettage. But Clifford, believing gossip from somewhere, accused me of bribing the doctor to kill Denise’s child. No matter how I explained, he refused to believe me.

At the company’s annual meeting, Denise played an audio recording of a conversation between me and the doctor, publicly accusing me of conspiring against her.

In an attempt to comfort Denise, Clifford, without any regard for my three-month pregnancy, forcibly tied me to an operating table and personally removed my child, while burying Denise's child with it.

He didn’t wait for me to recover but whisked her away on a trip abroad. He spent a fortune at an auction, buying expensive collections and even a medieval crown, all in an attempt to make it up to her.

Meanwhile, I was left alone in the hospital, suffering from heavy bleeding. One of my fallopian tubes was taken, and no one cared enough to stay with me.

Now, he accuses me of owing Denise. It’s laughable.

As I walked calmly toward the kitchen, Clifford raised an eyebrow, continuing his demands.

"Don’t forget, Denise doesn’t eat coriander. Make sure the fish is boneless and light…" His words were dripping with thoughtfulness, a gesture that made Denise giggle as she flirted with him, hands playing with his collar.

I shut the kitchen door, blocking out the sounds of their affection. Suddenly, I remembered—after five years of marriage, he couldn’t even name a single dish I liked, yet he knew Denise’s every preference.

A mist rose in my eyes, and I wiped it away, forcing myself to focus.

After finishing the last dish, I turned to go upstairs to pack my things, but Clifford stopped me.

"I forgot to mention, I had someone pack your things in the guest room. Denise can’t get used to the northern room. She’s been spoiled since childhood..."

I immediately sensed something was wrong and rushed to check the guest room.

Sure enough, I searched every corner of the room, inside and out — but the amulet my parents left me was gone.

Panic gripped me. I rushed to Clifford, my face pale, my hand trembling as I held it out in accusation.

"Clifford, where did you hide my amulet?"

He looked up lazily, brows furrowing with impatience.

"Denise’s been having dreams about children lately. I heard your amulet was... effective, so I borrowed it for a couple of days."

He leaned back as if this was perfectly reasonable.

"What’s wrong? You owe her a life. Don’t tell me you’re being stingy over a charm now?"

I stood frozen, my chest heaving.

Just then, Denise stepped forward, flustered. She pulled out a crumpled ball of paper from her pocket and pressed it into my palm with a pitiful expression.

"I’m sorry, Faith... I didn’t know it meant that much to you. I’ll give it back..."

I reached out with shaking hands, but before I could take it, she pulled back suddenly — and the amulet slipped from her fingers.

Splash.

It dropped into the steaming chicken soup on the table.

"Denise!"

The soup was still boiling. I lunged forward without thinking, plunging my hand into the pot.

The amulet surfaced — but it was already ruined, its paper soaked and warped beyond recognition.

Red blisters quickly bloomed across the back of my hand. The pain was searing, but Clifford merely clicked his tongue.

"It’s just a talisman," he muttered. "Why hurt yourself over that? And now the soup’s ruined."

I squatted down, trembling, unable to hold back my sobs.

"I'm sorry..." I whispered.

He blinked, surprised by how broken and subdued I sounded. For once, he didn’t scold me.

"If it means that much to you... I’ll go with you to the temple next time."

I didn’t respond. I turned and walked toward the guest room, my heart crumbling inside me.

That "sorry" wasn’t for him. It was for my parents.

I was a disgraceful daughter — I couldn’t even protect the last thing they left me.

Behind me, Clifford stared at my back, a flicker of unease in his eyes. He seemed about to speak, but before he could, Denise slumped against his chest, hands on her belly, crying softly.

His attention snapped back to her in an instant.

Seeing her pale face, he panicked. He scooped her into his arms and rushed her into the master bedroom.

I barely heard the sudden commotion at the front door — voices, hurried footsteps. Doctors. Nurses. He must’ve called in half a hospital.

Meanwhile, I lay in the guest room, delirious from a high fever and the burns on my hand. My body throbbed in pain, but worse was the ache in my chest.

I remembered how gentle Clifford had been after we got married — how he once fussed over a small scratch on my ankle.

Everything changed the moment I lost our first child in that fall.

From then on, the women around him came and went. He rarely came home. His gaze when he did… was always cold, always distant.

Suddenly, the door burst open.

I opened my eyes groggily, and Clifford stood beside my bed, fury etched across his face.

"You couldn’t tolerate Denise, so you poisoned her food?"

His voice trembled with rage.

"I told you — you owe her this child. I’ll make it up to you, but you… what more do you want?!"

"Faith, you weren’t like this before. You’re becoming someone I can’t even recognize!"

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and dragged me across the floor, all the way into the master bedroom.

The doctor was wiping sweat from his forehead, visibly anxious.

"Mr. Delaney, Denise shows signs of food poisoning. We’ve stabilized her for now, but we need to know what she ingested so we can administer the right medication—"

Clifford glared at me, wild with suspicion.

"What did you do?!"

I stared back, confused and weak. "I didn’t do anything... This has nothing to do with me."

He sneered, then shoved me toward the doctor.

In one swift motion, he snatched a bottle of alcohol from the bedside table and poured it directly onto my burned hand.

The sting was instant and unbearable — I screamed, my body recoiling in agony.

But he wasn’t finished.

He pressed his heel onto the back of my injured hand, grinding it in without mercy.

The doctor, sensing the growing danger, tried to intervene. “Mr. Delaney, your wife has just been discharged. If her wound gets infected, it could be life-threatening…”

But Clifford remained unmoved, his voice icy cold.

“If you won’t tell the truth, then you don’t deserve to keep these hands.”

I looked up at him, eyes hollow. “Do whatever you want.”

The storm in his gaze swelled, and the next second, he slammed my injured hands down without mercy.

My vision went black. I lost consciousness instantly.

—

When I regained consciousness, I was back in the guest room. Both hands were tightly bandaged.

Clifford entered with a nurse, ready to change the dressings.

Pain surged as the gauze peeled away from torn skin. I inhaled sharply but bit my lip to keep from making a sound.

Before I’d passed out, I vaguely remembered hearing the doctor mention Denise’s test results—just a gastric spasm from overeating.

“This time… it had nothing to do with you. I was impulsive,” he said.

Then, as if that made things right, he added, “Does it hurt?”

There was a flicker of pity in his eyes as he reached out, wanting to personally re-bandage my wounds.

I turned away. “No need.”

He froze, hand suspended mid-air, then slowly pulled it back with an awkward expression.

“Faith,” he said, frustration laced in his voice. “I’ve already lowered myself like this. Why are you still so cold?”

I almost laughed.

He always did this. Even when he was the one who hurt me, I was expected to forgive him unconditionally—to be soft, gentle, and endlessly understanding.

Anything else, and I was labeled ungrateful.

I didn’t respond. Instead, I looked past him and gave a slight nod.

He turned.

Denise stood behind him, face pale. The moment their eyes met, she turned and fled.

Without hesitation, he chased after her.

Soon, the sound of her sobbing echoed from the living room.

“Don’t cry, Denise,” Clifford’s voice turned gentle, doting. “Your body’s still weak. I feel terrible seeing you like this…”

“Alright, alright,” he coaxed, “I promise—I'll never go into her room again. Happy now, my jealous little one?”

The nurse finished changing my dressings and left silently, her eyes full of sympathy.

Denise threw a childish tantrum, and he catered to her like she was made of glass.

Me? He accused without proof, tortured without hesitation—and still expected silence from me.

It was always this unfair.

But I was used to it.

—

That night, even with earplugs, I couldn’t block out the shrill cries from the master bedroom. Denise seemed determined to flaunt her presence—moaning loudly, as if putting on a show.

Morning came. I was alone.

As I stepped outside the room, I noticed a gown hanging by the door.

It reminded me—the company’s cocktail party was tonight. As the president’s wife, I was supposed to attend.

I reached for the dress and let out a bitter laugh.

The front was exquisite—pure elegance. But the back had been deliberately slashed to ribbons.

A petty act. Denise’s handiwork, no doubt.

My phone buzzed, dozens of messages flooding in.

Photos of Denise posing in luxurious gowns, each one more revealing than the last, a smug smile plastered across her face. Over a hundred pictures, flaunting her beauty, her victory.

Then came a video call.

“Faith,” she said sweetly, “I wanted to wear your dress, but Clifford insisted on buying me new ones. I’m so tired from trying them on. Which one do you think suits me best?”

In the corner of the screen, Clifford lounged on the sofa, watching her with quiet adoration.

I hung up without a word.

Seconds later, the phone rang again—his number.

His voice burst through, tight with fury and underscored by her soft sobs in the background.

“Faith! Denise was being polite, just asking your opinion. And you had the nerve to insult her?”

“How can a heartless woman like you be worthy of being the president’s wife?”

“You’re not going to the cocktail party tonight. Don’t even think about it.”