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.

Clifford stared at the phone screen that had remained dark and silent for far too long, his brows deeply furrowed.

She had never gone this long without replying.

In the past, even when she stormed off in anger, she always came back within three days. But this time—it had already been ten.

A creeping sense of unease settled into his chest.

Could something really have happened that day?

For the next few days, even with Denise by his side, Clifford was visibly distracted.

Even in bed, his mind wandered—haunted by the silence she left behind.

The day before his birthday, he finally caved. He dialed her number.

“Tomorrow is my birthday. If you don’t come…”

Before he could finish, the cold, disconnected tone cut him off.

He froze.

The line was dead.

His fists clenched. He slammed them against the table.

"Tyrone, find Faith for me—now!"

His voice shook with fury.

“Damn it, Faith! When I find you, you’re done!”

After all, they were childhood sweethearts. She had been there for every birthday.

Even when their relationship cracked, even when he strayed—she never missed one.

Not once.

The next night, on his birthday, Clifford reserved an entire floor of the city’s most exclusive club.

The lights, the champagne, the music—it was all extravagant.

Denise dressed to the nines, gracefully greeting guests like the rightful hostess. She was glowing, flitting through the crowd like a butterfly.

But Clifford barely noticed.

His eyes kept darting to the entrance, as if expecting someone.

Midnight was drawing near.

She still hadn’t come.

His chest tightened. The weight of her absence grew heavier with every passing second.

Just as the hour hand reached twelve and the last bit of hope dimmed from his eyes, the club door finally opened.

He sat up abruptly—heart racing—

But it was only Tyrone, walking in with a folder in hand.

"Mr. Delaney, this was sent by your wife..."

The word wife jolted him upright. He reached for the folder, lips already curling into a smug smile.

“I knew Faith wouldn’t really leave. She just wanted attention—this must be my birthday present.”

But when he opened it and saw the first page, all color drained from his face.