The tall figure of Lysander was quickly soaked through by the water. Beside him, Shiloh remained perfectly dry.

Lysander pressed his thin lips together, his deep gaze locked on me—but he said nothing.

Piper noticed the way he was staring and let out a sharp, mocking laugh.

"What? Are you thinking of what crime you can accuse Aliyah of next? Listen, if you want revenge, come for me. Don't even think of threatening her again."

When Lysander first mentioned divorce, saying he wanted to "give Georgette a home," I refused to sign. I clung to the marriage, unwilling to hand over our child.

Back then, some part of me still believed in him. I thought that once the thrill of Georgette wore off, he'd come back—return to his senses and to the family we built.

But I was far too naïve.

When Piper found out he was not only divorcing me but also fighting for full custody, she lost control.

She stormed into his law firm, found Georgette, and slapped her several times in front of everyone, calling her a homewrecker.

The result?

Lysander and Georgette turned around and sued Piper for intentional injury and defamation.

Lysander was a renowned divorce lawyer.

He knew exactly how to protect himself, how to make sure not a single piece of evidence could be used against him.

Everything I knew about his affair was what he allowed me to know.

When I hired a lawyer to defend Piper, they told me, "If you can show proof of his infidelity, we can counterattack."

But I had nothing.

He was too careful. His phone wallpaper was a family photo of me and the child; all his chat logs with Georgette looked strictly professional.

Whenever they met, there were always others present. I couldn't find a single trace.

In desperation, I knelt before him, crying and begging for Piper's sake. He didn't even flinch. His eyes were as cold as stone as he said, "You only have one choice. Agree to the divorce and give up custody—or I'll make sure Piper pays dearly for what she did."

That threat haunted me for weeks.

I couldn't sleep without medication.

But what I didn't expect was that, on the day of the divorce trial, he'd use those very things against me.

He presented the video of me taking sleeping pills and kneeling before him, sobbing.

He told the court I was emotionally unstable, a stay-at-home mother incapable of raising a child.

I had a severe speech disorder, and under stress, it worsened dramatically.

Standing there on the defendant's stand, I tried to explain, but all I met were puzzled, pitying, and impatient stares.

When I opened my mouth to speak, no sound came out. Only the silent motion of lips and the tremor of fear.

My gaze pleaded with him for mercy. But he looked away, heartless. Then he pulled out the notebook he had once given me—the one he told me to use whenever I couldn't speak.

Holding it up, he struck again while I was speechless. His voice was calm and deliberate. "Aliyah is a mute. This is the notebook we used to communicate. She can't even manage basic speech—how could she possibly be fit to raise a child?"

No one knows how to destroy you better than the person who once loved you most.

He struck precisely where it hurt the most, again and again, without mercy.

And I—I couldn't even utter a word in my own defense.

I wanted to scream I'm not mute! But time ticked away, and no sound left my lips. In the end, I lost completely.

When I walked out of the courtroom with the judgment in my hands, I saw them approaching.

Lysander and Georgette, holding our one-year-old child.

Georgette's face glowed with triumph. She smiled sweetly, her tone gentle and condescending. "Aliyah, don't worry. Leave the child to me. I'll treat him like my own and raise him well with Lysander."

The way Lysander looked at Georgette that day—it was the same way he used to look at me, full of affection.

He spoke in a low, steady voice, "I trust you. The child is better off in your care than with her."

Then his gaze shifted to me, sharp as a blade. His next words cut deep.

"Aliyah, don't blame me for taking away your custody rights. You wouldn't want the child to be asked at school why his mother can't even speak properly, would you?"

He stripped everything away from me so effortlessly—then told me not to blame him.

The sunlight that day was warm on my skin, yet I felt like I'd fallen into an ice cellar. The cold bit through me, bone-deep.

I cried, desperate, asking again and again why he would do this to me.

The only answer I got was the sight of their backs as they turned and walked away, carrying my child with them.

Now, as Piper's words of mockery hung in the air, Lysander said nothing—just stood there in silence.

But Shiloh spoke up softly, his voice trembling. His little eyes were full of both hope and fear.

"Dad said... Mom had a hard time when she gave birth to me. Today's my birthday, and also Mom's hardship day... So I used all my allowance to buy dinner for Mom."

When I gave birth to Shiloh, Lysander was away handling a divorce case in another city.

We were both orphans—no parents to help, no one to lean on.

My contractions weren't fully open yet, so they placed me in the labor room to wait. The pain came in waves so fierce I could hardly breathe. Between sobs, I called his name over and over, terrified and alone, wishing he would just come back.

He couldn't. But he called me on video instead.

Back then, he was still the man who cared about me.

On the other side of the screen, he paced the corridor anxiously, holding his phone with trembling hands, voice shaking as he comforted me, "Aliyah, don't be scared. You and the baby will be fine. I'll be home soon, okay? Let me tell you a story. Don't cry, be good..."

He began telling me fairy tales—beautiful, comforting stories to calm me down. But his voice broke halfway through. His eyes turned red.

Then he said, choking back tears, “Aliyah, after this child… we won’t have any more. This will be our only one.”

No one could have guessed his words would become a prophecy.

After giving birth to Shiloh, our love ended too.

No one knew that the story of Lysander and Georgette also began that very night.

While I was writhing in pain on the delivery bed, he was drunk—and he and Georgette stumbled into the same hotel room.

When I sent him a message to tell him both the baby and I were safe, he was still in bed with her, catching his breath after a night of betrayal.

The next day, I received a message from his phone, saying he'd been drunk and had just woken up.

But that message... was sent by Georgette.

He was torn between guilt for betraying me and fascination with her bright, lively nature.

From that point on, his patience with me began to fade.

Sometimes I'd barely say a single word before he would interrupt, irritated. "If you want to say something, just write it down. The baby is sleeping light—you'll wake him."

Yet in the middle of the night, when Georgette called him crying, he could spend hours talking softly to her.

He knew she wasn't content being a mere legal assistant, so he broke his own rule of never taking apprentices and accepted her under his name.

Ignoring firm policy, he even let her assist on divorce cases before she was certified.

He gave her every privilege, every favor.

When others questioned his favoritism, he brushed it off calmly, saying, "Because she deserves it."

Why she "deserved" it, only he knew.

But as a senior partner in the firm, his words carried weight. No one dared challenge him, even if they saw what was happening.

When Shiloh finished speaking, a trace of mockery flashed in Piper's eyes.

"You're right," she said coldly. "The day you were born truly was her day of suffering. But do you know who caused that suffering?"