I picked up the pen, turned to the last page, and signed my name. Every stroke deliberate.

My hand didn't shake.

Victor clearly hadn't expected that.

He'd probably assumed I would cry, make a scene, do what I always did when he came home late—ask him with red-rimmed eyes if he'd stopped loving me.

But there was a lot he didn't know.

He didn't know I wasn't an orphan.

He didn't know my father's name was Joshua Henson.

He didn't know that the thirty million in funding that saved his company from the grave—I got that money by kneeling outside my father's study and begging.

I finished signing and stood up.

At four months, my belly was just starting to show, but in the loose clothes I'd been wearing, he hadn't noticed.

He never noticed what I wore, whether I'd gained or lost weight, whether I looked well or not.

“Bernie.” He stopped me from behind, his voice dripping with that charitable kind of gentleness—like he was doing me a favor. “Don't go hating me over this. Belinda and I have known each other since we were kids. If she hadn't gone abroad, we would've been together a long time ago. You've been good to me all these years, I know. But feelings aren't something you can force.”

He pushed the house deed and bank cards across the table：“Take them. It's enough to get by. If you ever need anything, you can come to me.”

I told him I didn't need them.

Walking out of the villa, the sun hit so hard I could barely keep my eyes open.

I stopped at the gate and sent him one last message.

“Victor, there's something I forgot to mention. That thirty million your company got? It was my father's money.”

Then I dialed a number.

“Piers, I need you to draw up a complaint for me.”

“The defendant is Victor Matthews.”

Three seconds of silence on the other end.

“Miss Henson, you've finally made up your mind.”

When I got home, my father was in his study reading documents.

He looked up at me for three seconds, took off his glasses：“Who?”

One word.

My father had always been a man of few words. Everyone who did business with him said the same thing: every word that came out of Joshua Henson's mouth was worth a million dollars.

But the words he saved for me were never the expensive kind.

“Victor Matthews. His first love came back from overseas. We're divorced. I walked away with nothing.”

My father said nothing. He picked up the phone and dialed a number.

“Piers, it's me. Bernie says it's done. She walked out with nothing. Handle it.”

The whole call took less than thirty seconds.

He hung up, lowered his head back to his documents, his voice perfectly level：“Bernie, you're home now, so stay. When your mother passed, she told me to take care of you. These past few years, I haven't done a good job of that.”

The tears came all at once.

Not from hurt.

Because he'd found the one place inside me that had no armor at all.

After my mother died, my father kept this whole family afloat on his own—and still had to worry about a daughter who wouldn't listen.

The year I insisted on marrying Victor, he didn't say a word. On the wedding day, he stood in a far corner and looked at me just once.

Everything in that look—I didn't understand it then.

I understood now.

“Dad, I'm going to sue him.”

“Do it.”

“I'm going to make him give back everything he took from me.”

My father raised his head and looked at me：“Bernie, whatever you want, I'll give you. But one thing—from now on, you don't bend yourself for anyone. You are Joshua Henson's daughter. No one in this family was born to be wronged.”

I wiped my tears and nodded.

Piers brought the lawsuit documents over that same night. A thick stack, over forty pages—concealment of marital assets, malicious transfer of property, evidence of infidelity during the marriage, irregularities in the company's books.

“One more thing.” Piers flipped to the last page. “Bigamy.”

I looked up：“Bigamy?”

“Victor Matthews and Belinda Winfield registered a marriage in Las Vegas seven years ago. It was never dissolved.”

I froze.

Seven years ago.

When I married Victor seven years ago, he was already someone else's husband.

I'd spent nine dollars on our marriage license and made a pot of instant noodles in our rental apartment—that was the wedding.

I was the “other woman.”

I laughed.

Out loud.

“Piers, file the suit. Bury him.”

Victor received the court summons three days later.

He tried every number he had for me first and found them all disconnected.

Then he tracked down the address for Highridge Manor, drove over, and was stopped at the gate by security.

He stood outside the entrance, staring down the ginkgo-lined drive, his expression shifting from fury to disbelief, then from disbelief to something harder to name.

Eventually he left.

He couldn't call my father, because he'd never had my father's number.

Seven years ago he'd asked me once what my parents did.

I told him they were both gone.

He never asked again.

Not once.

I stood behind the second-floor window and watched his car turn around and disappear.

My belly shifted—four months along, and the little one already knew how to make herself felt.

“Don't be scared.” I rested my hand on my stomach. “Mama won't let anyone hurt you.”

Victor's lawyer contacted Piers the next day, proposing an out-of-court settlement.

The offer: an extra million on top of the original agreement.

When Piers relayed this to me, he laughed.

“Does he think you're stupid, or does he think the law is?”

“He still thinks I'm the old Bernice.” I leaned back into the sofa. “The one who got sold and still helped him count the money.”

Piers pushed his glasses up. ：“Miss Henson, the trial is set for next month. There's also something you should know.”

“What?”

“Belinda's booked an exclusive interview. Next Monday.”

I paused. ：“An exclusive interview?”

“Yes. She found an online media outlet. Says she wants to ‘set the record straight.’”

Piers handed me his phone. On the screen was a promotional poster the outlet had already published.

The headline：《LOVE, DEFAMED — Belinda Winfield on Seven Years of Waiting for Victor Matthews》.

In the poster, Belinda wore a white dress, her eyes faintly red, the picture of wounded innocence.

The copy underneath read：Torn from the man she loved by an heiress with money and power. Smeared as the other woman. Driven to the breaking point. For the first time, Belinda Winfield speaks—and tells the story no one's heard.

I stared at that poster for a long time.

“She made the first move.”

“Miss Henson, should we—”

“Don't block it.” I handed the phone back to Piers. “Let her talk. The more the better.”

“But public opinion—”

“Piers, do you know why I'm not afraid of her talking?”

He shook his head.

“Because the truth doesn't pick sides based on who puts on the better show.” I stood up and walked to the window. “The more she says, the more holes she leaves. Every word out of her mouth is another piece of evidence she's handing to the court.”

Piers was quiet for a moment, then smiled.

“Miss Henson, you really aren't the same person you used to be.”

“No?”

“The old you would never have been this calm.”

I didn't turn around.

Belinda's exclusive interview went live at eight o'clock Monday night, right on schedule.

I had Uncle Elmer prop the iPad up on the dining table so I could watch while I ate.

My father glanced at the screen, frowned slightly, and went back to his dinner.

The interview ran forty minutes. Belinda wore a white sweater the entire time, her hair falling soft over her shoulders, her eyes red-rimmed throughout, but not a single tear fell. Impeccable control.

“Victor and I were high school classmates. He was my first love.” She faced the camera, her voice soft and gentle. “Then something happened with my family, and I had to go abroad. Before I left, he told me, 'Belinda, wait for me. I'll come find you.'”

“But I never imagined that by the time I came back, he'd already be married.”

She lowered her head, lashes dropping.

“I went to see him. He told me he wasn't happy. He said the marriage was a mistake, that he regretted it every single day. I tried to talk him out of it. I said, 'You're married now, make it work. Don't hurt her.' But he said—”

She bit her lip.

“He said he thought about me every day.”

I picked up a piece of braised pork and chewed.

“She's not bad.” My dad spoke up suddenly.

“I thought you were reading your documents.”

“My ears still work.”

I laughed.

The interview continued.

Then Belinda came for me.：“Bernice Henson. I don't even know how to describe her. She was scheming from the very beginning. When she first met Victor, she pretended to be an orphan, played on his sympathy. Victor is too kind. He felt sorry for her, kept looking after her. And before he knew it, she had him trapped.”

“I only found out later that she was no orphan at all. Her father is Joshua Henson. Yes, that Joshua Henson. Two-thirds of the real estate in this city is tied to their family. She hid who she really was, played helpless, and let Victor waste seven years on her. If that isn't marriage fraud, what is?”

The host asked,：“Are you saying Bernice was deceiving Victor from the very start?”

“Yes.” Belinda nodded. “And she didn't stop after the divorce. She sued Victor, trying to take over three hundred million of his assets. Three hundred million! That's everything Victor built from scratch with his own hands. What gives her the right?”

She buried her face in her hands.

“Victor and I, we just love each other. What did we do wrong?”

The interview ended with Belinda in tears.

Within three hours, the view count broke ten million.

The comments and live reactions were almost unanimous:：

“Poor Bella! That Bernice is disgusting!”

“A rich girl pretending to be poor to trap a man, and now SHE's playing the victim? Shameless!”

“Victor is the real victim here. Seven years wasted on a liar……”

“The Hensons are all the same. Built their fortune sucking other people dry!”

I closed the iPad.

“Finished?” my dad asked.

“Finished.”

“Thoughts?”

“Mediocre performance.”

I stood up.

“Dad, I'm heading out.”

“Where to?”

“Someone's desperate to put on a show for me. Might as well go watch in person.”