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’?”