On the day of my daughter’s birthday party, my cousin Ginger Strickland stumbled toward me, blood-soaked and trembling. She collapsed to her knees, clutching an abortion report in her hand.

“Vivian,” she cried, her voice trembling with pain and accusation. “You seduced your cousin over and over, and I tolerated it. But now—why did you have to hurt my baby? Will you only be satisfied if I die?”

My husband, Cliff Curtis, stood by without a flicker of sympathy. He had once threatened me with my daughter’s life, forcing me to seduce my own cousin for the sake of a sordid plan. I failed. That day, with Ginger bleeding at my feet, he presented me with divorce papers and ordered me to sign.

That moment shattered everything.

The scandal humiliated the Curtis Family. My daughter was taken from me and sent to a welfare home. I was labeled unstable, and without consent or warning, committed to a mental hospital.

I didn’t even know I was pregnant.

In that place, stripped of dignity, I was abused and degraded. Rich young men used me like a plaything. I was fed pig slop and left to rot in a sterile hell. The miscarriage came as cruelly and suddenly as everything else. There was no pity. No one came.

Cliff’s silence during those six months cut deeper than any physical wound. That’s when I understood: I was never a wife to him. I was a pawn—fodder for manipulation, a puppet in his carefully curated image.

So I made a choice.

I feigned madness to survive. To buy time. To plan.

And then, one day, the tide shifted. Public pressure forced Cliff to retrieve me. There was one month left until I would begin my revenge.

---

“Vivian, your family is waiting for you at the gate. Please pack up and leave within fifteen minutes.”

The announcement blared across the hospital, robotic and cold.

On paper, it was a prestigious psychiatric facility. In truth, it was a prison for the unwanted.

I sat motionless, expression blank. I hadn’t truly processed that I was being discharged.

“Come on, Vivian! Mr. Curtis is here!” the staff barked, shoving my few belongings into a box. I said nothing. I didn’t fight them. I just waited to be escorted out like a package.

For six months, I longed for a call from Cliff. Every day, I fought to earn privileges—one more phone call, one more letter. I always reached out to him first. He never picked up. Never once.

Eventually, I understood: I meant nothing to him.

So when I heard he was coming for me, I allowed a flicker of hope. Maybe he had come to make amends.

At the gate, the sunlight felt foreign. My body trembled with anticipation as I saw him—tall, groomed, still cold as stone. The same man, untouched by time, by guilt, by grief. He hadn’t changed.

But I had.

I smiled weakly. My eyes welled with tears.

He frowned, as if unsure whether my expression was joy or madness.

“Cliff…” I started.

He interrupted.

“Where’s her doctor? I need to speak to him. Is she really... stable?”

Stable? He didn’t even look at me, only at the staff.

I was never unstable. The tears and laughter he saw now were calculated. A mask. A means to freedom.

As the staff called my attending physician, Dr. Jones, Cliff’s phone buzzed. He read the message, glanced at his watch, and turned to leave.

“Ian, let’s go. She’s waiting at home,” he muttered.

She?

I stood frozen as he climbed into the car without a backward glance.

Ian gently took my box and offered me a seat. I wiped my tears, straightened my spine, and got in.

Cliff kept coughing, eyes averted. He couldn’t even look at me.

The car was silent. My hands shook from exhaustion. I caught a glimpse of the trunk—roses and a beautifully decorated chocolate cake. My favorite.

My heart skipped. Was this his way of saying sorry? Was this for me? For Lindsey?

I turned to ask about my daughter, but the moment I opened my mouth, he scoffed.

I froze.

We arrived. Cliff got out quickly. I followed, nerves frayed. Ian retrieved the flowers and cake.

“Wife,” Cliff called out cheerfully.

I turned to respond, only to hear a familiar voice.

“Ginger?!”

My cousin stepped into view, her hand resting on a pregnant belly. Cliff embraced her, kissed her cheek.

“I woke up and you weren’t there,” she pouted.

“I was picking someone up, as you asked,” he said gently. Then he turned, handed her the bouquet. “These are for you. To celebrate our love. I also got your favorite cake—chocolate. Lindsey’s coming soon. Let’s celebrate together.”

I stood in silence. The air left my lungs. My cousin—the one who knelt in blood before me—was now being embraced as his wife. They were having a child together. The roses and cake weren’t for me at all.

I bit my lip to hold in the scream.

“Mom! I’m back!” a little voice chirped.

Lindsey!

Tears sprang from my eyes. I ran to greet her, arms open, my heart desperate.

But she ran past me. Straight into Ginger’s embrace.

She called her mom.

“No… Lindsey…” I reached out, but she shrank away, burying her face in Ginger’s chest.

“Don’t scare the child,” Cliff snapped, yanking me back. I stumbled, crashing into a vase. Pain shot through my spine. No one reacted.

The three of them—my husband, my cousin, my daughter—climbed the stairs, laughing.

I collapsed. My body refused to move. My tears soaked the cold floor.

That cake… That bouquet… That smile from my daughter… It was supposed to be mine.

I endured half a year of torment just to be reunited with them. But they had erased me, rewritten my place in their lives as if I never existed.

I broke.

My cries were drowned by the sound of celebration upstairs.

The agony overwhelmed me. My body convulsed. My breath hitched. The scent of disinfectant and chemicals filled my lungs as I passed out—poisoned by heartbreak and alkaline fumes.

When I opened my eyes, fluorescent lights glared overhead. I was in the emergency room—Cleveland’s largest.

"Madam, you're finally awake."

I turned my head. It was Ian.

Disappointment swept over me.

"You cried so hard, Madam," he continued softly. "When I came in, you'd already fainted. You were unconscious."

I stared at the ceiling, my gaze empty. After a long silence, I finally spoke.

"Where is Cliff? Does he know I’m in the hospital?"

"He knows," Ian replied, then paused, hesitant.

I lifted my head slowly. "What is it?"

He faltered. "Mr. Curtis... he's also at the hospital."

I let out a bitter laugh, choking on my own voice. "Let me guess—he’s with his new wife?"

Ian nodded reluctantly. "Miss Ginger had a scare. She slipped while cutting the cake, and the fetus showed signs of distress. Mr. Curtis brought her here immediately."

I laughed—loud and hollow. Tears streamed down my face as I understood, without needing any confirmation, that it was not Cliff who had sent me to the hospital. He had chosen her again. Always her.

When I looked at Ian, I saw sweat beading on his forehead. I understood instantly—he was the one who had saved me.

Ian had been with me long before I married into the Curtis Family. We were more like family than servant and mistress. He, more than anyone, must know what had happened during my six-month disappearance.

I whispered, "Thank you, Ian. If it weren’t for you, I might not have made it."

"This is my duty, Madam," he said. “As long as you’re okay.”

His sincerity only deepened the ache in my heart. My husband of seven years was less concerned than the old man who served us.

I hesitated, then asked, "In the past six months… Cliff—"

But my words were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. The attending doctor walked in, holding a file.

"Are you Vivian? After the IV drip, you’ll need a few days of rest. But physically, you’ll recover."

He looked at me curiously. "I’ve seen plenty of patients, but you’re the first whose respiratory poisoning was caused by excessive crying. What could have broken you this badly?"

I lowered my head, unable to answer. The pain was too vast for words.

"I’ve brought your report. You’ve sustained a lot of injuries—what happened?" He handed me the thick file.

I opened it with trembling hands. The red-highlighted diagnoses stabbed at me like knives.

Severe bruising to the chest and lower back. Inflammation of the spleen. Multiple abrasions. Compression trauma to the abdomen. Swelling and tearing... The list went on and on, two full pages of physical devastation.

I couldn’t breathe. Every word was written in blood and pain—my blood. My pain.

Memories flooded back: the abuse in the mental hospital, the hunger, the cold, the beatings. They hated my beauty, envied me, humiliated me. They spat in my food. Peed on my bed.

Then one day, a group of rich young men visited. I recognized some of them. They pretended to come bearing gifts, but once the staff left, their true intentions were clear.

One slap silenced my protests. I bled.

I was no longer a person—just a tool. They used me, day after day.

Then the pain in my stomach began. My body bled, my skin turned pale, I vomited violently. The doctor glanced at me and said dismissively, “It’s just a miscarriage.”

A miscarriage?

I hadn't even known I was pregnant with Cliff’s child.

Now that child was gone.

I broke. In that place, I cried until I was hollow, until there was nothing left inside me but silence.

My hand instinctively moved to my abdomen. It was empty now. I wept bitterly, unable to stop.

“Don’t be too upset,” the doctor said, his voice softening. “You need rest. I suggest staying for at least a month.” Then he left.

Ian had read the report too. His eyes were full of tears. He wanted to ask what had happened but couldn’t bring himself to speak.

I wiped my face and sat up, deciding to tell him everything. I didn’t need to hide anymore.

When I finished, he was silent. He cried with me, gently patting my shoulder. "It’s over now, Madam," he choked. "You survived."

But my eyes lingered on the remaining pages. One report was missing: the psychiatric evaluation. Ian looked puzzled too.

That’s when I overheard voices outside the room.

"Mr. Curtis, this is Vivian’s psychiatric report," the doctor said.

"There are also her injury reports—do you want to see them?"

"No need." Cliff snatched the report, quickly skimming it. It confirmed I hadn’t been faking madness.

He sighed in relief… and threw the report into the trash.

Then he entered the ward—not mine, hers.

“My love, are you okay? It’s all my fault. I should have protected you,” he whispered, cupping Ginger’s face with sickening tenderness.

“It’s nothing. I was just careless. Thank God the baby is fine,” she said sweetly, stroking her belly.

She glanced toward my room. “Is Vivian here too? I thought I heard her name.”

“Yes. She fainted. Ian said she cried herself unconscious,” Cliff said flatly.

Ian had told me the truth—Cliff had refused to take me to the hospital until he’d been pressured. He suspected I was still pretending to be insane. He wanted to see for himself.

And I wasn’t even his priority. That was her idea—to bring me home, parade their love in front of me, rub their victory into my wounds.

After Ian finished settling me in, he returned to take care of Lindsey. I fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

The next morning, I asked to see Lindsey. But when I opened my eyes, it wasn’t my daughter I saw—it was her.

Ginger stood by my bed.

“I asked Ian to take Lindsey home,” she said calmly. “I thought you needed space. That was my decision.”

Her gaze roamed around the plain ward. She smirked. “So this is your room?”

I stared at her coldly. “Why did you take my daughter away? Why does she call you mother?”

She gently patted her belly and replied proudly, “Don’t worry. I’ll be giving her a sibling soon. She’ll be a big sister—you should be happy for her.”

The image of her, bloodied, crashing into Lindsey’s birthday party with an abortion report in hand—burned vividly in my memory.

Suddenly, she leaned in and grabbed the back of my neck.

“You think I’d let you off just because you’re out? I haven’t forgotten.”

Her eyes were venomous.

Just then, the door burst open.

Cliff entered, breathless.

Ginger immediately changed her expression, stepping back and throwing herself into his arms.

“Honey, I was just trying to comfort Vivian, but she pushed me away,” she said, tears shimmering in her eyes.

Cliff held her close, his gaze hardening as he turned toward me. His brows furrowed, and his eyes filled with contempt.

posted the photos online. I became the subject of public scorn, a target of cyberbullying. I was called every vile name imaginable. I said nI had never been afraid of Cliff—until that moment. The way he looked at me sent a chill down my spine. It was the first time his eyes made me feel truly scared.

The atmosphere in the ward dropped to freezing point, heavy and still, like the calm before a violent storm.

Just as Cliff was about to speak, Ginger cut in, her voice smug and calculated.

“Vivian, Cliff and I are together now. You’re not uncomfortable with that, are you?”

She touched her belly gently, a triumphant gleam in her eyes.

“I’m pregnant with Cliff’s child, and we’re getting married soon. It’s such an important occasion—how could we not have you there? I’ll ask Cliff to come and pick you up himself.”

I hadn’t known about Cliff’s affair until after I was hospitalized. It was only in the mental hospital that I was finally able to contact my family. The phone, when it was handed to me, delivered more than verbal abuse—it brought headlines and gossip. Paparazzi photos of Cliff kissing a mysterious woman had flooded the internet.

He had once forced me to seduce my own cousin. I did it. And then heothing. I had to grit my teeth and endure it.

But when I saw those pictures—Cliff tenderly kissing that woman—I shattered.

My hands trembled uncontrollably. My mind collapsed. I couldn’t breathe. My fingers, clutching my thighs, clawed so tightly that blood began to seep from the scratches.

I tried to come to terms with it. I tried to be rational. But after I was discharged, I learned the truth. The mysterious woman in those photos—was my cousin, Ginger.

And now, she stood in front of me, basking in Cliff’s affection, flaunting her victory like a crown.

I stared blankly, eyes dulled with disbelief, trying to mute her voice. But her next words were like a dull knife, slowly carving into my heart.

“Even if you get out, don’t think Cliff will ever love you again. I’m the mistress of this family now,” she said with venomous delight.

“Cliff and I grew up together. If it weren’t for you, we would’ve been together long ago. Did you really think he married you out of love? Seven years of marriage, and you still had to use IVF to get pregnant…”

She rubbed her belly, smirking.

My eyes locked onto Cliff. “Is this true?” I asked, voice cold, almost detached.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he gently helped Ginger to sit down, his gaze tender as he looked at her—completely ignoring me.

No words were needed. I understood. The seven years I spent with him were nothing but a delusion. A one-sided love.

I had endured two years of grueling IVF treatments. I gave birth to Lindsey through sheer perseverance. Yet Ginger became pregnant so easily. My so-called love was just a long, drawn-out mistake.

My heart tore apart, not for Cliff—but for the youth I wasted chasing a lie.

Then Ginger dealt the final blow.

“Oh, and your daughter—Lindsey. No, I mean my daughter now.” She smiled like she had won a prize.

My blood boiled. “That’s my daughter!” I snapped, my voice sharp and raw.

But she remained calm, almost too calm. She described with theatrical sweetness how she tucked Lindsey in, played with her, and “gently corrected” the little girl’s understanding of who her real mother was.

“She kept asking about you,” Ginger said, “but Cliff stayed silent. And then I came into her life. I told her I’d be her new mom. I told her everything you did.”

Children can’t discern truth from manipulation. Lindsey believed her. Ginger’s lies turned my daughter against me.

I should have been the one holding her at night, braiding her hair, hearing her laughter. Instead, Ginger took my place.

I snapped.

My body shook uncontrollably. I laughed, wild and broken, as tears streamed down my cheeks. I lunged at Ginger, screaming, demanding to know what poison she fed my child.

Startled, Cliff stepped in and shoved me away with such force that I collapsed. His glare was sharp, cold—cutting through me like a blade.

Ginger, now emboldened, clung to him and laughed, pointing at me.

“See, husband? She really is insane.”

I had only ever pretended to be crazy. But now, with my daughter stolen and my suffering mocked, I was spiraling.

My back hit the corner of the bed hard, and pain rippled through my body. I curled on the floor, writhing silently.

Ginger, draped in Cliff’s arms, said sweetly, “Husband, look how frail Vivian looks. Shouldn’t you be taking better care of her?”

“What are you saying, wife?” he replied. “You come first now, always.”

She touched her face dramatically and sighed.

“I’m not as radiant as Vivian once was. She’s been quite... busy in the hospital. I hear she had plenty of men to keep her company. So full of life. Unlike me—who only has you.”

Her grip on Cliff tightened. She was twisting the knife.

She knew about the mental hospital. She said it to provoke me—and it worked. I saw it in Cliff’s face: disgust, revulsion. He looked at me like I was nothing more than filth.

She came closer and grabbed my hand. I struggled, but her grip was iron.

“If you’ve been with other men, maybe you didn’t love Cliff that much after all,” she whispered.

“Touch our child. Maybe you’ll get some good luck.”

She forced my hand to her belly. I yanked it away, heart pounding.

Just then, Ian returned, and Ginger lost interest. She turned cold.

“Ian, from now on, don’t bring Lindsey to the hospital. I’m afraid she’ll be tainted by... misfortune.”

Her words left deeper wounds than any physical blow.

That day marked the 28th day of the plan. They humiliated me beyond comprehension—and my thirst for revenge became a fire that would never be extinguished.

Ian looked at me, sorrowful. He promised to bring Lindsey to see me when possible. I clung to his hand, thanking him with all my heart.

I also asked him to look into Cliff’s company. It had grown too fast—unnaturally fast. There had to be a secret.

Just then, a phone rang outside the ward. Ginger glanced at the screen, then silenced it, annoyed.

“Him again?” Cliff asked, taking her phone.

“Yes. He keeps pestering me. I already filed for divorce, but he won’t let go.”

The call was from my cousin—Austin.

After I was institutionalized, Ginger divorced Austin and moved in with Cliff. Now, she found Austin’s concern for me a nuisance.

“Don’t worry, wife. I’ll handle it,” Cliff said darkly. They whispered together, perfectly in sync.

I remembered how Cliff had used my daughter to threaten me. How he forced me to seduce Austin. I went along with it, even staged it with my cousin’s help. I didn’t expect Cliff to photograph us secretly and leak it online. He wanted to destroy Austin's reputation.

I always blamed myself. If it weren’t for me, Austin wouldn’t have been dragged down.

After I recovered, I vowed to visit him—to apologize, and maybe learn the truth behind Cliff’s schemes.

But the “accident” came earlier than expected.

Two days after my discharge, I went to find Austin.

I called him—his number was no longer in service. He must have changed it. As a CEO of a top Cleveland textile firm, that wasn’t unusual.

But when I arrived at his estate, my heart dropped. The garden was overgrown, the air lifeless. The gate bore a government notice:

“Sealed by law.”

I pushed it open. Inside, I heard someone crying.

“Mr. Qin! Mr. Qin!” It was April, the family’s housekeeper.

I stumbled forward—then froze.

Bloodstains. Torn fabric. A body swaying gently.

Austin had hanged himself.

April told me everything. Over the past six months, Austin’s wealth had crumbled. The mansion had long been mortgaged. Harassed by debtors, he finally broke.

I didn’t want to believe it. This was the man who once gifted Lindsey something worth seven figures for her birthday.

I asked April for the mortgage contract. I read every line, my hands trembling.

And then, at the very end—I saw the signatures.

I stared. I blinked. I read it again.

It was Cliff.