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.”

Not long after the call ended, the doorbell rang. A man in a sharp black suit stood at the entrance, carefully holding a large, exquisite gift box.

“Ms. Faith, this is from Mr. Brown.”

I accepted it with a quiet nod.

When I arrived at the banquet hall, a few young women from the company stood in a circle, whispering excitedly. Their eyes sparkled with envy as they glanced at Denise, who clung gracefully to Clifford’s arm.

"Denise is so lucky," one said in awe. "President Cliff is handsome, wealthy, and spoils her like a princess. That dress she’s wearing tonight? Easily eight figures."

"What's there to envy?" another chimed in with a sneer. "No matter how much he spoils her, she's still just the mistress. President Cliff already has a wife."

“Wife?” the third scoffed. “Didn’t you hear? When Denise had her miscarriage, President Cliff lost it. I heard he even forced an abortion on his own wife because of it. That title of ‘Mrs. Delaney’ is probably just a placeholder now…”

I said nothing. Silently, I circled the pool, picked up a glass of wine, and took a slow sip.

Then came the voice I dreaded.

Denise.

She approached with a smug smile, casually scanning me from head to toe. In her eyes—gleaming with jealousy and triumph—I saw the kind of hatred that never needed a reason.

“You really have no shame,” she sneered. “Clifford told you not to come, and yet, here you are, showing up uninvited.”

“In his heart, you’re not even worth the dirt under my shoes,” she continued, venom dripping from every word. “I faked an audio file saying you caused my miscarriage, and guess what? He believed it. He tied you down and almost had your baby aborted—in public.”

“That first time you got pregnant?” She laughed coldly. “I only had someone smear oil on the stairs to humiliate you. I never expected you were already carrying a bastard then.”

“If I were you, I would’ve disappeared a long time ago. Oh, and just so you know—the only medicine that could’ve saved your dying mother?” She paused and leaned in. “Clifford bought it. At an outrageous price. To save my kitten.”

My face went pale.

Seeing my reaction, she grew more pleased. She pulled out her phone and shoved it in front of me. In the photo, she and Clifford were beaming, blowing out candles beside the tiny, fluffy kitten.

The timestamp?

The exact date of my mother’s death.

The rage erupted from somewhere deep within me. I couldn’t hold back—I grabbed her by the throat.

She gasped and flailed, pulling me into the pool with her. The cold water erupted around us in a splash of chaos, drawing attention from all sides.

"Wait—isn’t that Mrs. Delaney? I think she came with President Cliff!" someone exclaimed in the crowd.

Clifford came running, eyes wide, and without hesitation, dove into the pool.

Under the water, our eyes met. I saw the flicker of surprise in his expression. But it lasted only a second. He reached for Denise’s hand and swam toward the surface—leaving me behind.

As she clung to his neck like a trophy, she kicked me downward, pushing me deeper into the water with a smirk.

She had been on the college swim team. Clifford knew that.

And yet, he chose to save the one who could swim—and abandoned the one who couldn’t.

The water burned in my lungs. My limbs flailed weakly as I tried to reach the edge, vision blurring.

Just as I was on the brink of slipping away, a pair of strong arms pulled me up. Through the haze, I vaguely saw another man—Wesley Brown.

Clifford emptied the pool in desperation, searching for me. But by then, I was already gone.

When I woke up in Wesley’s manor, the first thing I did was glance at my phone.

Unread messages. All from Clifford.

"Faith, I’m not done with you! You pushed Denise into the water!"

"You bitch! Get back here and apologize to her!"

"What’s wrong with you? Have you lost your mind? Don’t you even remember where your home is?!"

I deleted the thread without hesitation.

Blocked his number.

And erased five years of my life in a single tap.