When I returned to that so-called "home" after being discharged from the hospital, a strong smell of alcohol mixed with cloying perfume hit me. The living room looked like it had been ravaged by a hurricane—the crystal ashtray was shattered on the cashmere carpet, my old books were torn and scattered, the glass of the wedding photo frame was cracked, and Liam's smiling face in the photo, with his arm around me, was stained beyond recognition with red wine.

The source of all this chaos was coming from the kitchen.

The ambiguous sounds of water, the sticky slurring of flesh colliding, the woman's seductive panting and the man's heavy growls intertwined to create a nauseating web. My hands, which were maneuvering the wheelchair, froze on the spot, and my blood seemed to freeze instantly.

As if possessed, I moved toward the half-open kitchen door.

A horrible scene pierced my eyes. Liam , with his back to me, had Vanessa pinned against the cold marble countertop, his movements violent. Vanessa's arms were wrapped around his neck, her upturned face filled with ecstasy, but when her gaze passed over Liam's shoulder and met mine, a vicious pleasure suddenly erupted within her.

Her red lips moved silently, each word distinct and clear:

"You piece of trash, have you looked enough?"

She then clung even tighter to Liam , letting out a deliberately high-pitched, sickeningly sweet moan, her gaze like a poisoned needle, fixed firmly on my pale face.

"vomit--!"

My stomach churned violently. I jerked my wheelchair around and rushed uncontrollably to the first-floor bathroom, where I vomited violently by the toilet. My stomach was empty, only bitter bile burning my throat. Tears welled up naturally, mingling with cold sweat. I gripped the cold ceramic rim tightly, my knuckles turning blue, my whole body trembling like a leaf in the wind.

I don't know how long I slumped on the cold floor tiles before I finally managed to pull myself up, wash my mouth, and look in the mirror at the woman with sunken eyes, a sallow complexion, and unhealed burn scars on her neck.

Is this really Clara ? The Clara who once smiled brightly, believing in love and the future ?

Dragging his weary body back to the bedroom door on the second floor, Liam was already leaning against the wall, waiting in the shadows. He had changed into a silk robe, his hair was slightly damp, and he still carried the languid scent unique to those who had lost their passion, as well as a hint of... Vanessa 's perfume.

Upon seeing me, he suddenly stood up straight, rushed forward, and grabbed my thin wrist with his iron-like hand, the force almost crushing my bones.

" Clara , do you have any shame?" he demanded, his voice icy and his eyes filled with undisguised disgust. "Hidden in your house like a ghost, spying on you? Are you out of your mind?! Didn't I tell you to turn yourself in? Do you have to wait for the police to come to your door, handcuff you, and let the whole city know that I, Liam , am going to marry a murderer before you're satisfied?!"

An angry roar echoed in the empty corridor. He raised his other hand, seemingly intending to slap me as usual, but he suddenly stopped when his gaze fell on the hideous, unhealed burn blisters and gauze on my neck and arms.

The gruesome wounds were clearly visible under the light, with traces of tissue fluid seeping from the edges of some of the gauze. A complex emotion flashed across Liam's face. As if burned, his pupils contracted, his Adam's apple bobbed, and the unspoken insult stuck in his throat, turning into a feeling of irritable frustration.

Taking advantage of his momentary lapse in concentration, I forcefully shook off his hand, leaving a distinct red mark on my wrist. Looking up, I said in a calm tone that surprised even myself, " Liam , how could I, a person with paralyzed legs who is almost completely unable to care for myself, have the strength, or the opportunity, to 'stab' Ms. Vanessa 's strong and healthy client?"

My voice was hoarse, but every word was clear: "The police won't believe it, and the forensic doctor will examine the injuries. If you're going to make up a story, at least make it believable."

"You...!" Liam was clearly taken aback by my direct and calm rebuttal, and his anger instantly overshadowed his earlier unease. His face turned ashen, and he was about to explode—

"Ring ring—"

His phone rang urgently in his pocket. Glancing at the word "Mom" flashing on the screen, he glared at me and walked aside to answer it.

"Mom?...I know, she just got back...I didn't!...She's the one who's indecent!...Okay, okay, we'll talk about it tomorrow!"

The call was short, and Liam 's tone shifted from impatience at the beginning to suppressed anger at the end. After hanging up, he didn't immediately cause me any more trouble; he just gave me a gloomy look, turned around, and went downstairs, probably to his study.

I rushed back to the bedroom and locked the door , even though I knew it was useless to him. I slid down onto the cold door, hugged my trembling body, and buried my face in my knees.

Tears finally streamed down her face, not for him, but for the five years of foolish devotion, for this hellish humiliation. Only one voice screamed wildly within her, holding her crumbling nerves together:

One more day. Brother, one more day.

I groped my way to the bedside and struggled to wrap myself in the blankets, as if that would shut me out all the filth and harm from the outside world. Exhausted in body and mind, my consciousness gradually blurred as I was torn between despair and hope.

However, just as sleepiness began to set in—

"Bang!"

The door was kicked open violently, the loud noise making my heart stop. Liam returned, ten times angrier than before, like a wild beast that had been completely enraged. He rushed to the bedside and ruthlessly ripped off my blanket, the icy air instantly enveloping my body, which was only dressed in a thin hospital gown.

“ Clara ! Do you really want to die?!” His eyes were bloodshot, veins bulging on his forehead. He grabbed me and dragged me up, pinching my chin to force me to look up at him. “You fucking went to tell my mother again! Huh? ‘ Liam brought a woman home to fool around and assaulted me’—you’re quite adept at sending text messages, aren’t you? Who are you trying to fool with this pitiful act? You’ll stop at nothing to secure your position as Mrs. Foster , it’s disgusting!”

I was stunned, completely unable to understand what he was saying: "I didn't..."

"No?!" He scoffed, not believing me at all. His gaze fell on my hospital gown, suddenly tinged with a cruel mockery. "Fine, didn't you want to marry into the Foster family ? Didn't you go to great lengths to get my attention? I'll grant your wish!"

Before he could finish speaking, he suddenly exerted force—"Sizzle!"

The thin hospital gown was roughly ripped open at the collar, buttons popping off and rolling to the floor. Large swathes of my chest were exposed to the cold air and the man's aggressive gaze. I screamed and instinctively curled up my arms to cover myself.

"Now you know to cover up?" Liam sneered, grabbing my hands as I tried to push them away and easily pressing them above my head. His body pressed down, bringing a suffocating sense of oppression and a familiar, yet now utterly repulsive, masculine scent.

"You sent those kinds of texts just to get me to sleep with you, didn't you? Now what are you pretending to be, this virtuous woman?" His burning lips and tongue, carrying a punitive tone, landed heavily on my neck and collarbone, leaving a sticky, wet sensation and a slight stinging pain. It wasn't a kiss; it was a brand, an humiliation.

"Let me go! Liam, you bastard! Let me go!" I struggled desperately, kicking my powerless legs, tears streaming down my face, a mixture of endless fear and nausea.

Hot tears dripped onto the back of Liam 's hand, and he froze abruptly.

He looked up and saw my face covered in tears. The surging lust and anger in his eyes vanished as if doused with ice water, leaving only deeper frustration and...contempt.

"Disappointing." He spat, turned over and left without hesitation, standing by the bed straightening his slightly disheveled robe, his eyes coldly looking down at my trembling body curled up like a rag doll.

"What a pretentious act." His tone was extremely sarcastic, every word like a knife. "You were already worn out by hundreds of men in prison, and now you're putting on this act of being raped for who are you trying to impress? Clara , with your body, you're only good enough for me to vent on occasionally. Don't overestimate yourself."

I pulled the tattered blanket over myself, trembling violently, my ears ringing, and I could barely hear what he was saying. Only an overwhelming cold and a feeling of nausea enveloped me.

"Tomorrow, at nine o'clock in the morning, go to the police station yourself." Liam finally gave the order, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Don't force me to personally escort you there; the scene... I'm afraid you can't handle it."

Just then, his phone rang again. The unusual ringtone sounded particularly jarring in the quiet bedroom.

Liam answered immediately, her tone instantly switching to a gentle and anxious one I had never heard before: " Vanessa ? What's wrong? Don't cry, tell me slowly... What? Had a nightmare? Don't be afraid, I'm coming right away!"

He didn't even glance at me again, gently reassuring the person on the other end of the phone as he hurriedly turned and left. The door slammed shut again, knocking off a patch of peeling paint from the corner of the wall.

After confirming he was gone, I gasped for breath like a dying fish. A long while later, I mustered my last remaining strength to pick up the tattered hospital gown from the floor and barely managed to put it on. Then, I moved to the wardrobe.

The moment I opened the wardrobe door, I was completely stunned.

The closet was overflowing with a dazzling array of items, all in Vanessa 's style—sexy silk nightgowns, brightly colored slip dresses, and various styles of black stockings… My fingers traced the fabric, feeling its cool, smooth texture. In the far corner of the closet, on a solitary hanger, hung the faded old tracksuit I wore five years ago when I went to prison.

The huge wardrobe doesn't have an inch of space for me right now.

An indescribable sense of sorrow and anger surged to my head. I turned around and searched the room, finally finding a sharp paper cutter in the desk drawer.

Back in front of the wardrobe, I stared at the clothes that belonged to Vanessa , which seemed to be mocking me for taking over her place, and picked up the scissors.

"Snap—Snap—!"

Cutting these pieces seemed to sever the absurdity of the past five years, cutting off the last laughable connection between herself and Liam . The sound of the silk tearing was crisp and resolute; black, red, purple... fragments fell to the ground like withered flowers of evil.

After doing all this, I was almost completely exhausted. But a voice inside me urged me: Leave, you must leave.

I clutched the small box containing the broken jade pendant tightly to my chest, and then hastily packed away my few remaining belongings—a tracksuit, an old photo album, and a dried-up lipstick—with an old cloth. Then, I maneuvered my wheelchair and quietly opened the door.

In the stillness of the night, only a few dim wall lamps remained in the villa. I carefully descended the wheelchair ramp, my heart pounding like a drum.

However, I froze just as the wheelchair reached the edge of the first-floor living room.

The living room light had been turned on at some point, and in the bright light, a figure dressed in an elegant silk suit sat quietly in the center of a messy sofa, gracefully sipping a cup of steaming black tea.

It was Mrs. Foster .

She seemed to have been there for a while, and perhaps even... witnessed some of the unpleasantness. At this moment, she put down her teacup, raised her well-maintained yet shrewd eyes, and looked at me, her face bearing the same unfathomable gentle expression as always.

My heart clenched suddenly, and my fingers instinctively tightened around the box in my arms.

Taking a deep breath without making a sound, I forced myself to calm down, maneuvered my wheelchair forward a few steps, lowered my eyelids, and spoke in the most obedient and gentle tone possible:

"Auntie, what brings you here so late?"

Upon seeing me, wrapped in bandages like a broken porcelain doll in my wheelchair, clutching a meager bundle in my arms, the usual composure and elegance on Madam Foster's face finally shattered. The bone china teacup in her hand clattered onto the glass coffee table, the scalding tea splashing onto her expensive dress, but she seemed oblivious.

" Clara ?!" she exclaimed, jumping to her feet and rushing towards me. Her eyes initially showed pure shock, then a surge of intense heartache welled up within her; the expression was so genuine that even my cold heart trembled. She reached me, her hand trembling as she reached out, seemingly wanting to embrace me, but froze as if electrocuted just before her fingertips touched the blood-soaked gauze on my shoulder, afraid of aggravating my pain.

"Oh my God... Clara , my child, how... how could you be hurt like this?" Her voice choked with sobs, her well-maintained fingers hanging in mid-air, unsure of what to do. "Was it... was it that bastard Liam who did this? Did he hit you again? Or... or that woman?"

I lowered my eyes and didn't answer. Silence itself was the sharpest accusation. My taut lips and slightly trembling eyelashes betrayed my silent pain and humiliation.

As Mrs. Foster watched my lifeless reaction, her face grew paler and paler. She wasn't stupid; the mess in the living room, the lingering ambiguity in the air, my injuries, and my current disheveled state—all clues pointed to that cruel answer. Yet, she seemed to still cling to the last straw, to find a plausible excuse for her son, and for herself, for all these years of "matchmaking."

“ Clara , don’t be afraid, Auntie is here.” She took a deep breath, trying to make her voice sound firm and strong, as if that could dispel the pervasive despair. “I’ll get revenge for you! That little brat, he’s getting more and more outrageous as he grows up, he’s become so arrogant, he doesn’t even listen to me anymore! I’ll make him pay for this today!”

As she spoke, she seemed to regain the dignity of the Foster family matriarch, quickly took out her phone from her handbag, found Liam 's number, and dialed it.

"Beep—beep—beep—"

The busy signal sounded particularly jarring in the quiet living room. Once, no one answered. She frowned, hung up, and dialed again.

The second time, there was still only the sound of a long wait.

The third time... the fourth time...

Her dialing became increasingly frantic, her fingertips turning white from the force, and the forced composure on her face gradually gave way to anxiety and a hint of embarrassment. Each missed call notification was like a silent slap in the face, resounding against the face of this mother, this head of the household who believed she could control everything.

Finally, after what seemed like the umpteenth attempt, she dejectedly lowered her arm, and the phone screen went dark. She turned to me, a forced, almost pathetic smile on her lips, trying to explain, " Clara , you...you shouldn't overthink it. I guess, I guess Liam is busy with important company business, or driving, he didn't...he didn't hear me...you see, maybe we should wait for him..."

"aunt."

I calmly interrupted her feeble explanation. I looked up and, with my bandaged fingers, slowly and laboriously operated my old phone with its cracked screen, then handed it to Mrs. Foster .

On the screen was Vanessa's latest "trophy," sent just two minutes earlier. It was a candid photo taken from a tricky angle—in a dimly lit luxury suite, Liam , his back to the camera, had just finished showering, with only a towel loosely wrapped around his waist. At the edge of the photo, a woman's foot, painted with bright red nail polish, was suggestively hooked around his calf. The caption was incredibly arrogant: [Substitute sister, thank you for 'taking care' of Liam so well~ Now, he's back to his rightful owner! He couldn't wait to come back and keep me company even after showering~ Guess if we won't sleep a wink tonight?]

Next to the text, there was a provocative emoji sticking out its tongue.

Mrs. Foster 's gaze froze on the screen, as if the image had burned her eyes. The last vestige of her forced smile crumbled completely, her lips drooped weakly, and her hand holding the phone trembled violently, the veins on the back of her hand bulging. She seemed to age ten years in an instant, her straight back hunching over.

After a long silence, she managed to squeeze out a voice through gritted teeth, filled with disbelief, sorrow, and despair: "...He, he really is... 'quite busy'."

When she looked up at me, her eyes were filled with complex emotions—heartache, guilt, but deeper still, a sense of powerlessness and embarrassment at the complete loss of control over her plans and the utter exposure of her true colors.

“ Clara …I’m sorry.” Her voice was dry as she repeated those three pale words, “It’s all my fault, Auntie misjudged you, it’s me…it’s me who hurt you.”

She seemed to want to take my hand seeking some comfort or forgiveness, but I slightly withdrew my hand. Her fingers hung awkwardly in the air.

“If I had known Liam would turn out like this, I… I shouldn’t have forced you two together.” She began to recount her mistakes, trying to attribute them to “misjudging him” and “my son changing,” her voice filled with regret. “During those five years you were in prison, I felt so guilty. I kept urging him, every week, to go see you! Every time he came back, he told me he had, and even showed me photos of you looking ‘good’… I… I actually believed him! If I had known he was lying to me, if I had known you were suffering in there, I…”

“Auntie,” I spoke again, my voice calm and even, yet like a dull knife, slowly cutting through the facade of peace and tranquility, “did you really just ‘misjudge’?”