"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.

The final signature on the contract belonged to Cliff. I stared at it in disbelief. I had to confirm it with him in person to avoid any misunderstanding.

I drove to the company, and as I arrived, I spotted Cliff's secretary, Shayne, downstairs. At first, she looked like she wanted to avoid me, but she composed herself when our eyes met.

She was carrying several bags—it was clear she was preparing to leave. I bent down to help her pick up a folder that had slipped from her grasp and asked why she was suddenly resigning.

Unable to hold back any longer, Shayne burst into tears. I took her to the tea room and comforted her as she cried.

Through her sobs, she revealed the real reason she quit: Cliff had been exploiting her appearance to entertain clients. He had even pressured her to sleep with them, and she felt powerless to refuse.

"Here’s what we’ll do," I said firmly. "I'll talk to Ian and have you transferred to the field department. That way, you won’t have to see him again."

She stopped crying and thanked me. As a gesture of gratitude, and perhaps relief, Shayne told me everything she knew about Cliff—things she had kept to herself until now. The list was staggering: forcing employees to entertain clients sexually, tax evasion, wage withholding, and more.

Ian had mentioned some of these issues to me on the phone earlier. Now, Shayne's testimony confirmed it all.

I made my way to Cliff’s office. When he saw me, he appeared surprised but quickly masked it with concern.

"Vivian, why are you here so suddenly? Are you feeling better now?"

His sudden display of affection felt strange and disingenuous. Most people in the company still assumed we were married, and Cliff continued to act the part in public.

"You know Austin’s brother committed suicide. I found the mortgage papers in his house—it was mortgaged to you." I said calmly.

Cliff looked up and feigned surprise, his tone turning cold. "Debts must be repaid. Is that why you came?"

"Really? His company spiraled into debt in just six months. You expect me to believe that has nothing to do with you?" I said, tossing the mortgage contract onto his desk.

"It’s normal in business—some win, some lose," he replied indifferently.

I didn’t argue further—I didn’t have all the evidence yet.

"Don’t forget the press conference in three days. I’ll be announcing your release from the hospital. All our business partners will be there, so cooperate, Vivian," Cliff said, abruptly changing the topic.

My mind was consumed by thoughts of my brother. Emotion surged through me and I finally snapped.

"In order to be with Ginger, you really went so far as to kill him!"

Cliff stood and picked up the mortgage contract. "Nian Nian and I are getting married soon. He couldn’t bear the pressure of debt collectors. A man like that could never make Nian Nian happy."

"You’re well now. You can go home anytime after the press conference. And if you’d like to attend the wedding—you’re welcome."

Their wedding was fast approaching. If my brother had lived, it would have scandalized Ginger’s name. I now understood—they pushed him with pressure and shame until he "accidentally" took his own life.

Even under my relentless questioning, Cliff’s expression didn’t waver. Only when I said I wouldn’t attend the press conference did his mask begin to slip.

"Vivian, be good and show up. Otherwise..." He leaned in close, his voice low, "I can't guarantee what I might do."

I trembled. My eyes reddened. I couldn’t believe how calm he remained—he, a murderer. My brother had helped him in the early days. And now this man, with cold precision, had destroyed him—and might destroy me next.

If today he could crush my brother with business pressure, what would stop him from using public opinion to ruin me tomorrow?

I looked at the man in front of me—so cruel, so empty. With a sigh of despair, I turned and left.

---

Twenty-three days left. Two hours before the press conference.

Shayne had negotiated with the housekeeper and obtained a full investigation file. Everything was there—Cliff's crimes over the past six months.

When the press conference began, Cliff stepped on stage first. He announced that he had taken me out of the mental hospital, claiming I was fully recovered.

He glossed over the past, blaming everything on my “mental illness.” He described how tenderly he cared for me post-treatment. The audience applauded. Some even praised him. Then, he turned to me and gave a cue to join him on stage.

I didn’t move. I waited until he started getting anxious, then slowly walked up.

He gently took my hand. "Vivian, you look beautiful today."

I avoided his gaze. Adjusting the microphone, I cleared my throat.

"I’d like to clarify the truth about the past. It wasn’t mental illness. It was coercion—from Cliff."

I pulled out a recorder I’d used for months and played it aloud.

"Cliff, please, I can’t take this anymore. He’s my brother..."

"If you don’t listen, don’t expect to see Lindsey again. Your mother wants to take her—or maybe I should just send her there..."

The crowd gasped. Whispers became outrage. Cliff's eyes widened. He hadn’t expected I kept a recording.

Panicking, he tried to grab the mic, but I stepped back and raised my voice.

That was just the beginning. One by one, I displayed hard evidence on the big screen—tax evasion, wage theft, fake contracts. The room turned cold.

CEOs started leaving before I even finished. When I finally did, not a single person remained.

Cliff rushed offstage, insisting I was still mentally unstable. But it was too late—every document I showed was stamped, signed, and dated. No one believed him.

I looked at his crumbling figure and said softly, "Uncomfortable, isn’t it—being despised?"

Walking past him, I placed a hand on his shoulder. "If you do too much evil, eventually you’ll be left with nothing."

He lunged at me, eyes bloodshot, but stopped—this press conference was being broadcast live. He stood there, helpless.

I tossed a thick stack of files into the air like confetti and walked away smiling.

---

After the Press Conference

Cliff's empire collapsed overnight. Every partner cut ties. He was buried under pressure—and didn’t even realize I had left.

Three days later, the wedding went on. But both bride and groom were visibly distracted.

While guests smiled and posed for pictures, Ginger’s eyes were blank. Cliff kept thinking about how to recover from the fallout.

At the altar, when the pastor asked them to vow eternal love, Cliff rushed through it. Ginger paused for too long. Then, claiming morning sickness, she stepped down to rest.

When Cliff offered her water, she didn’t take it.

"What’s wrong, my wife?" he asked gently.

Ginger pulled away. After a moment of silence, she said, “I saw the press conference too. I spoke to the board. The company’s stock tanked. The losses are… astronomical.”

“I’ll fix it. Don’t worry.”

“I think we need to reconsider the wedding. Things are too unstable.” Her voice trembled.

Cliff understood. The collapse had scared her off. In the end, money mattered more to her than he did.

He said nothing. Just nodded.

"I’ll go greet the guests," she said quickly—and walked away, not looking back.

Watching her go, Cliff suddenly thought of me. Of our wedding. Of how happy we were.

I was genuinely excited that day. Even our simple life after—full of laughter and struggle—had been beautiful in its own way. I had believed in him. Loved him.

He smiled bitterly.

Then he realized: he hadn’t seen me since the conference.

He pulled out his phone. No signal. Only a cold, automated voice saying the number was unreachable.

He called Ian.

“She left three days ago,” was the reply.