“The doctor prescribed this for you. Take it.”

She stared at me until I swallowed the pills.

“Mrs. Thompson, my eye hurts a bit. I need to rest.”

She nodded and went to wash the dishes.

When she came back, she saw me lying still and assumed I was asleep.

She went straight for my baby’s container.

I suddenly grabbed her hand.

“What are you doing?”

She jumped in shock.

“Ms. Summers, I thought you were asleep!”

“I’m just following Mr. Hayes’s orders. Please don’t make this harder on me.”

She shook off my hand and grabbed the container.

I lunged forward to stop her.

“Let go of it! Do you hear me?”

She slapped me so hard I fell back onto the bed.

Blood seeped through the gauze on my right eye.

“What are you doing! You’re just a caregiver — how dare you hit me?”

But Mrs. Thompson showed no fear, clutching the container tightly.

“As long as I get this out of here, my daughter’s future will be safe!”

Daughter?

I froze.

Of course — she was Zoey’s mother.

So Ethan had chosen her deliberately.

I staggered forward to stop her, but she kicked me hard in the stomach, sending me sliding across the floor.

I curled up, gagging, my lips trembling.

“Put it down! I’ve already called the police!”

Mrs. Thompson spat at me.

“Ha! Mr. Hayes will take care of it!”

Then she walked out without looking back.

I crawled back to the bed, barely breathing.

After what felt like an eternity, my phone rang.

“Thank you, Claire!”

I sneered.

“You’re thanking me too early, Ethan Hayes.”

“Claire Summers! Are you trying to ruin me?”

His furious roar echoed through the phone from the exhibition hall.

On the giant screen of the exhibition, a video was playing —

Zoey and Ethan, having sex in the studio.

When I first saw the video, my nails dug deep into my palm.

Especially when I heard Ethan moaning “Zoey” over and over, his hands groping her shamelessly.

That night, the entire exhibition went viral.

Screenshots flooded Facebook.

When Ethan stormed into the hospital room like a man possessed,

I calmly set down my book and glanced at him.

I had seen this scene before — but the roles had changed.

Years ago, when my mother was rushed into the ICU,

I had offered a huge reward for a donor, but everyone failed the match test.

When I was sitting hopelessly in the hospital,

I met Ethan, a street artist selling sketches.

He was the one match who succeeded.

I tried to pay him to settle the matter, but he refused any money — he only asked for a chance.

Maybe he truly was a struggling artist.

I gave him a little help,

and he shot to fame overnight.

Then he started pursuing me relentlessly.

He had saved my mom, he was talented, and little by little, I fell for him.

I poured all my resources into him — even accompanied him to clients’ drinking parties, drinking until I ended up in the hospital — and I never complained.

All I ever wanted was to see him succeed.

But I was left with lasting damage: getting pregnant would be hard, keeping a pregnancy even harder.

I can still hear the doctor’s sigh on the day I lost my only child.

“Miss, this pregnancy is gone. I’m afraid it may be difficult for you to conceive again—your uterus is extremely fragile.”

He wiped his eyes and comforted me, promising he would see that my barely formed baby was laid to rest with dignity.

And the result?

“Claire, what are you playing at?”

He slapped the book from my hands and clamped his fingers around my throat.

“Cut the act. Don’t pretend you don’t know what’s going on!”

His eyes were a little wild, but when they met my calm, flat stare, his momentum faltered.

“Do you have any idea? You’re not just destroying me—you’re destroying yourself! The entire studio’s resources are invested in me!”

My face flushed red under his grip; I couldn’t breathe.

I grabbed the soup bowl beside me and smashed it into his forehead.

Porcelain shards flew, nicking my face; blood streaked my eye, but my voice was cold as ice.

I stared him down. All of this was mine. If I chose to burn it down, so what?

“Ethan, after everything you’ve done, ruining you ten times over still wouldn’t be enough.”

“My baby was perfectly healthy. You used a fake prenatal report to make me terminate—just so Zoey could have her ‘artwork,’ right?”

“Wait and see. The thing you want most is the very thing you’re about to lose.”

Ethan sat there, blood running down his forehead, eyes wide.

“Claire! Don’t you dare!”

Before the words finished echoing, Zoey burst in sobbing.

Irritated, Ethan barked, “Stop crying! What happened?”

Startled by his tone, Zoey choked back her tears and glanced at me.

“Ethan… I—I don’t know who did it, but someone posted online that I took someone else’s spot when I got into school, and I… I—”

Ethan snapped his head toward me, ignoring the gash on his brow.

He grabbed me like a rag doll and threw me to the floor. “Claire! Are you trying to scorch the earth? What do you even gain from this?”

Endorsements and sponsorships Ethan had lined up for Zoey started demanding refunds.

Even many of Ethan’s own partnerships, waiting on a denial, pulled out as fresh scandals surfaced.

He went berserk, calling every PR firm he knew. He was willing to spend a fortune, but no one wanted to touch his mess.

It could have been salvageable—if I’d wanted it to be. I didn’t.

In the end, Ethan dropped to his knees with a heavy thud.

“I’ll take it down. I’ll return everything. I’ll go with you right now to give the baby a proper burial!”

I said nothing, just stared out the window.

Ethan yanked Zoey forward.

“If you’ll let me go, I’ll make Zoey disappear. I was wrong!”

“Help me clarify the video as art—say there was nothing between me and Zoey. Please.”

I turned my head and spoke slowly. “Fine. Go get ready for tomorrow’s exhibition. I’ll be there…”

Ecstatic, Ethan didn’t even let me finish before thanking me profusely and dragging Zoey out.

I murmured, “When a net tears, does it really take everything down with it?”

That night, just as I was getting ready for bed, staff brought armfuls of boxes into my room.

A few questions later, I learned Ethan had arranged it all.

Then the messages started flooding in from him:

“Claire, look at that gown—it’s the one we commissioned from the Italian designer. I rushed it!”

“Claire, and the necklace—your skin is so fair, those rubies will look perfect on you!”

“Claire, and the SS lapel pin—nice, right? One for each of us!”

“Claire…”

He kept saying my name over and over.

If none of this had happened, I might have squealed over these presents like a giddy girl.

Even the couple’s pins I once forced him to order were now his last lifeline.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

I sighed, shook my head, and sent back a single “Mm.”

Seeing I had accepted the gifts and replied, Ethan finally relaxed, convinced the storm had passed.

He glanced at Zoey lying on the bed, and a calculating glint flashed in his eyes. He had no power or connections,

but as long as he showed up at tomorrow’s exhibition with me—me, the woman who built him—the rumors would collapse.

What he wanted was the entire creative agency—an agency without me in it.

He couldn’t let me burn it down before it was in his hands.

He’d been biding his time for a very long while.

Despite everything, because I was still scheduled to attend, there weren’t many cancellations.

People love a spectacle.

But the next day, his heart leapt back into his throat.

I was late. The room buzzed with whispers.

He wiped sweat from his brow; his fists clenched.

Only when I arrived—wearing the gown and holding the leash of a golden retriever—did he finally exhale.

But then his brows knit again, eyes fixed on my chest.

Why wasn’t I wearing that pin? He wanted to demand an answer, but with all eyes on us, he forced a sunny smile and reached for my hand.

Right then, the big screen lit up.

As the footage played, the crowd erupted.

Ethan turned to look—and went white.

I ignored him, walked onto the stage, and took the mic.

I scanned the guests. My voice wasn’t loud, but it carried.

“Many of you here are industry peers, so you know exactly what you’re looking at. These are the works—and the methods—of our celebrated artist.”

“Ethan has produced popular pieces, yes. But what’s behind them?”

I clicked open a folder: all his creation contracts, the behind-the-scenes paper trail.

Another file: ghost-artist contracts—hundreds of them.

“Ethan deceived the agency for years, letting this so-called ‘shadow’ create his work. From what I found, aside from a few pieces, the rest were made by the shadow.”

“Tell me, superstar—am I slandering you?” I smiled brightly at him.

“It’s not true! Don’t listen to her—it’s all fake!”

Ethan flushed scarlet and pleaded with the audience.

They ignored him; their mutters rose up clearly enough:

“I must’ve been blind, paying for a thief’s work. Who did I think he was—some all-around prodigy? I want my money back. Call the boys and put the fear of God in him.”

“Knew he looked shifty. I only backed him for Ms. Summers’ sake. If he doesn’t return every cent, get those enforcers to break his hands.”

“What’s she doing all this for, anyway? If they go down together, she won’t get much either…”