The next morning, she felt a sharp pain with every step she took.

Chloe found Julian in the main dressing room, where he was tying a silk tie in front of the mirror. Rows of custom-made suits lined the walls like an army.

He saw her in his reflection, a cold smile playing on his lips. "Wake up?"

"We need to talk about divorce."

He chuckled, a brief, unfunny laugh. "Let's be realistic. Without me, you couldn't afford a studio in this city. What have you been doing for the past five years? Flower arranging? Attending charity luncheons?"

Every word felt like a slap in Chloe's face. Chloe's hands trembled. "I gave up my PhD from Columbia University and my career as Christie's youngest chief auctioneer. What do you think I was doing before you showed up?"

His sneer remained unchanged. "I thought you were smart enough to know which side to stand on."

"I was at the hospital yesterday—"

The door was suddenly pushed open. Seven-year-old Stella ran in crying, clutching a limited-edition doll tightly in her arms; the doll's porcelain arm was broken.

"dad!"

Julian's expression changed abruptly. Without turning around, he pushed Chloe aside and knelt before his daughter. "What's wrong, Princess?"

" Daddy! My arm is broken, Daddy, please fix it for me! " Stella cried .

" Chloe , I have to go to the company. You stay and keep the Strauss doll company," Julian instructed without turning his head.

Chloe was still weak from surgery, and the push made her sway, a wave of dizziness washing over her. "Julian, I don't feel well. I can't help you with the baby. I need to rest."

He didn't even look up. "For God's sake, can't you stop being jealous of a child for five minutes?" He scooped Stella up in his arms, turned, and left, his face full of anger. "I'll wire you 100,000. Go to Bali. Go to Paris. Stop messing around."

“I don’t want your money,” Chloe said, her voice trembling. “I just want you to listen to me.”

“I’ve had enough.” He straightened his coat, his eyes icy. “You’re utterly humiliating yourself.”

Stella peeked out from behind his legs, her eyes filled with childlike hostility. "You're such a bad woman. You didn't take me to Central Park yesterday like you promised."

Chloe stared at the child she had read to, comforted, and bandaged for five years. A chill ran through her bones.

At that moment, a memory surfaced—an email from a former Sotheby's colleague, a gentle invitation to return to the company. She had ignored it then. But now, this email felt like a priceless treasure.

Julian gave her one last look. "Think about who you are, Chloe. Don't do anything you'll regret."

He took Stella's hand and led her out. The door clicked shut.

The silence was suffocating. A sharp pain shot through her abdomen, and she clung tightly to the wardrobe to keep her balance. The comfort of this life—ease, luxury—was tempting her. But the longing for a meaningful life was even stronger.

A loud bang came from the living room.

She went outside and found that Stella had deliberately knocked over a pot of orchids—Chloe's favorite orchids—the porcelain shattering on the white carpet. Mrs. Gabby hurried to clean it up, glancing nervously at Chloe.

Chloe understood now. Everyone in this house treated her like an outsider, a high-ranking employee.

She didn't react, and turned to walk into the study.

The black American Express card was still lying on the glass table. She picked it up and tossed it into the corner of the mahogany desk. A silent rejection.

A sharp pain shot through her, and cold sweat instantly broke out. She looked around—priceless works of art, first editions, stark perfection. This was a museum, not home.

Her gaze fell on the bottom drawer of the desk. Her drawer.

She pulled it open. Beneath the old art journal, her fingers touched smooth, worn wood.

That was an auction gavel.

She picked it up, her palm resting perfectly on the handle. She stroked the faint scratches on it, each scratch carrying a memory—the thrill of record-breaking bids, the breathless anticipation, the crisp sound of the hammer falling.

She wanted to do it again.

Julian's words echoed: You can't live a single day without me.

They've now been turned into fuel. Armor.

Her gaze fell on the dinner invitation on the table. She picked it up, walked to the shredder, and put it in. The machine roared throughout the room.

With the disappearance of the invitation, Mrs. Julian Carlyle also disappeared.

She straightened up; the gavel in her hand was still warm.

I am Chloe Hayes.

By the afternoon, the dull ache in her abdomen had escalated into a severe burning sensation.

Post-operative infection. The doctor advised her to rest, but the emotional turmoil of the past 24 hours had left her exhausted. Her fever rapidly rose, reaching 102 degrees Fahrenheit. A sharp chill swept through her body.

She staggered from the study back to the master bedroom, the empty and desolate space feeling more like a tomb than ever before. She collapsed onto the king-size bed, the cool silk sheets doing nothing to ease her burning skin.

She drifted in and out of consciousness, shrouded in the haze of fever. In the moments of lucidity, one thought was heartbreakingly clear: Julian hadn't called or texted. He didn't care at all.

Her last remaining feelings for him withered and died, leaving only numb, physical pain.

The bedroom door creaked open.

Not Julian.

Stella tiptoed in, but she wasn't alone. She was holding the hand of Julian's administrative assistant, Carla Foster. Carla's sharp high heels clicked jarringly on the smooth hardwood floor, a sound that stung Chloe's throbbing head.

Kara's small, greedy eyes scanned the room, taking in the expensive furniture and the walk-in closet visible through its open door. Her gaze finally settled on Chloe on the bed.

A smug, triumphant smile played on her lips.

“Yo, yo,” Kara said loudly, her tone deliberately condescending. “Sleeping in broad daylight? Looks like someone isn’t taking their responsibility for looking after Stella seriously.”

This is a naked power game. It's a declaration that she, Kara, is right here, in the master's private room, and Chloe is nothing but an obstacle.

Chloe felt a splitting headache, as if her head was about to burst. She was exhausted and powerless to resist. She struggled to sit up, trembling and weak. On the bedside table was a glass of water and painkillers prescribed by the doctor.

She reached for the glass, her hand trembling violently.

“I want that!” Stella saw this and immediately rushed forward. She tried to snatch the glass from Chloe’s trembling hands in a childish attempt to get attention.

"Stella, no—"

It was too late. Their hands collided. The glass tilted, spilling scalding hot water—left by the housekeeper ten minutes earlier—splashing directly onto Chloe's hand. A sharp, dizzying pain shot through her. A bright red welt immediately appeared on her hand.

The impact of the hot water startled Stella. Her face contorted, and she let out a sharp scream.

Kara saw an opportunity, a wicked gleam of triumph flashing in her eyes. She lunged forward and pulled Stella into her arms, protecting her.

"My God!" Kara screamed hysterically, "Chloe, how could you do this? You poured hot water on her! You monster!"

The butler, drawn by the commotion, appeared at the door, his face filled with terror.

Kara immediately began to recount her story, embellishing every detail. "She's insane! I saw it with my own eyes. She deliberately burned poor Stella to death out of jealousy!"

Chloe carefully cradled her burned hand, a wave of excruciating pain washing over her. She looked at Stella, the child she had raised as her own, the one she loved dearly. She waited for her to speak, for her to tell the truth.

Stella's eyes met hers for a moment. Chloe saw a flicker of guilt in the child's eyes, but it was quickly swallowed by fear. Stella buried her face in Carla's shoulder and continued to sob; her silence itself was a condemnation.

Betrayal is more painful than burns.

Chloe's last line of defense crumbled. The warmth she once had for this child, the maternal instincts she had carefully nurtured over the past five years, all turned into cold frost. Looking at Stella's face, a carbon copy of Julian's, she finally let go.

“I’m calling Mr. Carlisle right now,” Carlisle announced triumphantly as she pulled out her phone. “He needs to know how much of a threat you pose to his daughter.”

Chloe looked at her, at this ambitious, cunning woman, but felt nothing. No fear, no anger, only a vast, empty weariness.

She slowly and painfully threw off the covers, her legs dangling off the edge of the bed. She stood there unsteadily, her body emitting a protesting scream.

She walked past them without a word. Past the lying assistant, the silent child, the terrified butler. She went into the enormous marble bathroom and locked the door.

This is utter surrender. It's an admission that she cannot fight these people and win in this house. It's also a complete act of self-preservation.

Outside the door, Stella's sobs gradually subsided. Chloe heard Carla's gentle voice and handed her a piece of chocolate. A child's sorrow could be so easily bought.

Carla's voice rose again, loud enough for Chloe to hear through the door. "Mrs. Gabow, she's completely insane. We have to tell Mr. Carlisle and ask him to help her."

In the bathroom, Chloe turned on the cold tap and rinsed her burning hands under the running water. The sound of the water echoed in the empty bathroom, a lonely, hissing sound.

The intense stinging pain from the burns, combined with the deep, tearing pain from the surgery, was almost unbearable for her. The high fever made her legs weak, and she slid down the cold marble wall to sit on the tiled floor.

She bit down hard on a soft handkerchief, struggling to suppress a scream of pain. She would never let them hear her collapse.

She could hear Carla on the phone in the bedroom, her voice sweet and cloying, filled with feigned concern, reporting "that thing" to Julian. Carla distorted the facts, portraying Chloe as an emotionally unstable, violent monster.

Chloe listened, a strange sense of alienation washing over her. Everything was so predictable, so tragic.

The cold water poured onto her hands began to numb the pain and dispel the slight fog brought on by the high fever.

She sat on the cold floor of the luxurious bathroom, methodically going through the past five years in her mind. She recounted every sacrifice, every compromise, and every lonely night.

The accounts have been settled and the debts have been cleared.

She's finished.

She leaned against the dressing table to stand up and looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was pale, and sweat soaked her cheeks. Her eyes were bloodshot. But behind the pain and exhaustion lay a new kind of resilience, an iron will.

She lost her child, her husband, and her home.

But in that cold, sterile bathroom, she rediscovered herself.