The women laughed even harder.

Finally, the one who had remained silent spoke up from her seat on the sofa, her voice heavy with a sigh.

"Just go."

"Even if you knelt here and kowtowed a hundred times, we still wouldn't help you."

Because Kathleen had given them explicit instructions beforehand.

Punishment was punishment.

For three full years, they were forbidden from showing me any mercy or offering me the slightest assistance.

Only then could they properly avenge her assistant, Nathan.

So how did I eventually scrape together that five hundred dollars?

I walked into a hospital and sold my blood.

When I finally brought the money to the prison, I was told Kathleen had already been released on medical parole.

That money passed through several hands before reaching one of Kathleen's friends.

I was so desperate I nearly dropped to my knees.

"Please—make sure this gets to Kathleen. She can't afford any more trouble."

But at that very moment, Kathleen was with Nathan at Disney, posing for photos.

She took my five hundred dollars and tossed it at a staff member like a crumpled receipt.

"Dirty money from God knows where. How revolting."

Just like my devotion—trampled without a second thought.

And now, here was Kathleen herself, displaying a blue-and-white porcelain vase worth over a million dollars as mere decoration for Nathan's birthday celebration.

Every detail had been meticulously planned.

But I had no stomach to watch any more.

Several times I nearly lost control—nearly charged in there.

I wanted to appear before Kathleen and slap her across the face, again and again.

I wanted to demand why she had deceived me for three years. Was it really just because I made Nathan work as a servant for three days?

I wanted to show her everything—every wound I'd suffered over those three years, every scar on my body.

Lay it all bare before her eyes.

But in the end, I did nothing.

I watched the woman who should have been behind bars for three more days. She stood there in a couture gown worth a small fortune, looking every inch the ruthless queen.

She had thrown this lavish, extravagant birthday party specifically for her assistant.

She had summoned her entire social circle to celebrate, gazing at Nathan with open adoration as she wished him happy birthday.

Then I turned away, expressionless, and returned to the basement rental.

Dark. Damp. I had lived there for three years.

The bathroom was right by the entrance, its walls thick with mold that had accumulated over time, the stench of decay drifting through at random.

I still remembered my first days there—the constant nausea, the retching.

For the first twenty-five years of my life, I had wanted for nothing. I was the eldest son of the wealthy Sanchez family, raised in privilege, never having tasted hardship.

I was also an internationally renowned painter, my shelves lined with prestigious awards.

At the height of my success, Kathleen Vance—the heiress of the Vance family—had pursued me relentlessly until I agreed to marry her.

After the wedding, I had effortlessly become what people called a "winner at life."

Until Kathleen hired a timid, unassuming assistant named Nathan.

He was the son of my family's housekeeper, yet he competed with me at every turn.

His clothes weren't as fine as mine, so he mocked me as a useless pretty boy.

His abilities couldn't match mine, so he whispered behind my back that I had only gotten where I was through birthright or my wife's influence.

Worse still, he had schemed his way into becoming Kathleen's assistant—and never missed an opportunity to poison her against me.

He told her how I supposedly mistreated his mother at home, ruined his clothes.

How I had made him kneel and serve as a manservant.

I had always believed the truth would speak for itself. I never bothered to defend myself.

Until the day I finally completed the painting I had worked on for two full years.

I was about to have it framed. I stepped out for just a moment.

When I returned, it was drenched in ink.

Nathan stood nearby, ink bottle in hand, looking insufferably pleased with himself.

"Two whole years you spent on that painting. Let's see you show off in front of Kathleen now that it's ruined."

I saw red. My fist connected with his face before I even realized I'd swung.

"You're always spreading rumors that I make you work like a servant?" I grabbed him by the collar. "Fine. For the next three days, you will be my servant. You're going to clean every inch of this studio until it's spotless."

That's when the door burst open.

Kathleen stormed in, took one look at the scene, and immediately pulled Nathan behind her like a shield.

"Abner, can you please get your temper under control?" Her voice dripped with disapproval. "Nathan tries so hard. Yes, he comes from a difficult background—but why do you always have to target him?"

My chest heaved. "Kathleen, you need to understand—he started this—"

Before I could finish, Nathan ducked further behind her, his face crumpling into a mask of wounded innocence.

"Kathleen, it's my fault. I was just trying to help Abner clean the studio, and I accidentally knocked over the ink onto his painting." His voice cracked perfectly. "He said he'd sell me to a nightclub. And then he—he called my mother a whore. Said she gave birth to a little whore."

Tears streamed down his cheeks. "I can take the hitting. I can take the yelling. But why did he have to drag my mother into this?"

He was good. I had to give him that. Every sob, every trembling word—flawless.

Kathleen didn't ask me for my side. Didn't investigate. Didn't even hesitate.

She just looked at me with cold disappointment. "Abner, what's happened to you? I don't even recognize you anymore."

I wanted to scream.

Even with Kathleen defending him, I refused to back down. Nathan served those three days as promised.

When it was over, Kathleen acted like nothing had happened. She just sighed—light, dismissive.

"Abner, that temper of yours... when are you going to grow out of it? It was just a painting." She waved her hand. "You've had your revenge. Let it go."

I was naive enough to believe it was over.

A few days later, news broke that Kathleen's company had gone bankrupt.

She was arrested shortly after, leaving me to deal with the wreckage.

At first, I wasn't worried. Even if the Vance family collapsed, I still had my parents.

I called them immediately.

Both numbers had been disconnected.

Panic clawed at my throat. I rushed home—only to have Butler Thatcher deliver the news in a hollow voice.

The day the Vance family's troubles became public, my parents had rushed back to help. Their car hit a landslide on a mountain road.

Neither survived.

My world collapsed overnight.

No parents. No husband to lean on. I sold everything I owned and moved into a damp basement, hiding from the loan sharks who'd somehow inherited my debts.

I couldn't sleep. Every creak, every shadow—I waited for them to find me.

They did.

A group of men stormed into the basement with wooden clubs. I curled into a ball, but it didn't matter.

Two ribs, broken. My wrist, shattered.

I would never hold a paintbrush again.

It took three years for me to accept my fate.

I gave up everything—my art, my pride, my hope—just to survive.

And now I was being told it was all a lie.

Kathleen's "punishment" had stripped me to the bone and rebuilt me into someone I didn't recognize.

My phone buzzed.

A message from Kathleen.

"Abner, I'm getting released in three days. Don't forget to pick me up."

My hand tightened around the phone until my knuckles went white. A dull ache spread through my chest.

Even now, she was still playing her part.

She was already at the birthday party. I'd seen it with my own eyes—her arms around Nathan, the massive cake, the beautiful decorations, everyone celebrating.

And she was still treating me like a fool.

I stared at those words until tears blurred my vision.

I blinked them away and read the message again.

I typed out a reply:

"Okay. I'll pick you up in three days."

Three days later, I didn't expose Kathleen's lies. I went to the prison gates to collect her.

I spotted her from a distance—dressed in tattered clothes, playing the part of a woman ruined by bankruptcy. She'd even used makeup to paint a fake scar across her face.

When she saw me, she limped over, throwing herself into my arms.

"Abner!"

She clung to me, eyes brimming with tears.

"I worked so hard to atone while I was inside. They said my behavior was exemplary, so they released me early." Her voice trembled with practiced emotion. "Abner, these past few years must have been so hard on you."

She looked at me with such devotion—as if she'd truly suffered three years behind bars.

I gently pushed her away, my expression unchanged. "It's good you're out."

Kathleen faltered, something flickering in her eyes. She seemed to sense something was off. But then, in the next instant, she grabbed my wrist.

"Abner, what happened to your wrist?"

Her concern looked genuine. The worry in her face didn't seem fake.

But I found it laughable.

Kathleen, what are you pretending for?

You're the one who sent those people—the ones disguised as debt collectors who beat me until I looked like this.

And now you play innocent?

A hollow weariness settled over me. Or maybe I was just afraid to face what would happen when the lies finally crumbled.

"It's nothing. I fell." I pulled my hand free. "The doctor said it'll heal with time."

Kathleen exhaled, visibly relieved. "That's good."

She reached for my hand again, lacing her fingers through mine with exaggerated tenderness.

"The injury's on your right wrist. If it gets worse and affects your painting, you'll be devastated." Her voice dripped with saccharine concern.

Every word was a knife.

I used to have extraordinary talent. International awards, critical acclaim—everyone said I had a brilliant future ahead of me.

But for the drug trials. For the money.

To get Kathleen out of prison sooner.

I let them destroy my wrist.

Now I can't even hold a brush.

And it turns out all of it—every sacrifice—was just part of some twisted punishment game Kathleen had orchestrated.

How pathetic.

I stayed silent the entire drive. Kathleen grew visibly nervous, filling the quiet with a stream of chatter—stories about prison life, carefully rehearsed anecdotes she'd clearly pulled from the internet.

All to convince me she'd really spent three years locked away.

I listened without hearing, and when she finally paused, I asked quietly:

"Kathleen."

"Did I do something wrong?"

She went rigid. Her eyes reddened as she turned to face me.

"What do you mean, Abner? Why would you ask that?"

My mind drifted to the last time I'd been allowed to visit.

I'd been so happy. I'd saved up my meager allowance for weeks, bought meat and vegetables, cooked everything myself, and brought it to her.

No wonder she'd wrinkled her nose and refused to eat.

The food was too cheap for her.

Of course it was. I thought she'd been suffering in prison for three years.

But the whole time, she'd been traveling the world with her male assistant—dining on imported delicacies and five-star meals.

Why would she ever lower herself to share my hardship?

Even that prison visit had been theater. A hundred and twenty dollars to rent out the scene and play her part.

Three years. Three years I'd been their fool, their plaything, spinning in circles while they laughed.

Tears slid down my cheeks before I could stop them.

Kathleen's composure cracked. She lunged forward, dabbing at my face.

"Abner, why are you crying? Did someone hurt you?"