Eight months pregnant, and the housekeeper's daughter had suddenly drawn up a "prenatal wellness plan" for me.

It required me to sit outside in 108-degree heat for six hours a day.

By the time I was on the verge of my baby's heartbeat stopping, I begged her to open the door and let me inside.

She just sat there eating chilled watermelon, smiling sweetly. "Ma'am, pregnant women need plenty of sunshine. It's good for your health. I'm only doing this for your own good."

The doors were locked. Not a single person dared open them.

I couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed a flower pot and smashed through the glass window on the balcony.

An hour later, Bernard Farley stormed in, fresh from cutting a meeting short, and tore into me before I could say a word.

"Sharon Fox, how can you be so vicious? Do you have any idea that your little tantrum with the glass put Ivy Winfield in the ICU with heatstroke?"

"Bernard, you have time to worry about the housekeeper's daughter, but you can't spare a thought for your own wife and child? If I'd stayed out there any longer, the baby inside me would have died!"

Bernard studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable. He said nothing, turned, and walked out.

That night, I was dragged out of bed and locked inside a roasting chamber with iron walls on all four sides.

Outside, dozens of the Winfield family's relatives had gathered.

Bernard stood with his arm around Ivy's waist, watching me with cold eyes.

"Sharon, you're cruel beyond measure and completely unrepentant. Today I'm standing up for Ivy and giving her the justice she deserves."

My heart sank, falling and falling, until there was nothing left but complete disappointment in him.

I pulled out my phone without hesitation and dialed.

"Jacob. The Farleys and the Winfields. Don't spare a single one. Kill them all."

——

The moment the words left my mouth, the color drained from every face in that crowd of relatives outside.

Only Bernard let out a cold scoff.

His contemptuous laugh was a signal. The crowd caught on a beat later and erupted into howling laughter.

"Miss Fox, do you still think you're some underworld princess? Your brother had his limbs hacked off and was mutilated beyond recognition three years ago. Who exactly are you trying to scare?"

"Exactly. If Mr. Farley hadn't been kind enough to take you in, you wouldn't even be fit to carry Ivy's shoes!"

Bernard listened to them humiliate me, a faint smile on his lips. He didn't say a word in my defense.

He pulled Ivy close by her slender waist, strolled to the small window, and rapped his knuckles casually against the glass in front of my face.

"Sharon. Hot in there? Figured out what you did wrong yet?"

The red thermometer mounted on the iron wall read 122 degrees. They had cranked the roasting chamber to its limit.

The air inside was suffocating, hellish. My skin had already turned an angry, scalded red.

I gasped for air, mouth wide open, but every breath drove needles through my chest. I was smothering.

Sweat poured off me in sheets. My voice came out raw and shredded. "Bernard, what's my crime? Not wanting to roast alive? Wanting to get into an air-conditioned room? If I hadn't forced my way inside, your child would already be dead!"

I opened my mouth to say more, but a violent, twisting cramp ripped through my lower abdomen under the blistering heat.

The baby kicked frantically. I doubled over, crouching, curling around my stomach, and screamed.

"Bernard, let me out! It's too hot in here, the baby can't take it! Isn't this the child you've been desperate to have?!"

Bernard's gaze dropped to my belly. Something dark and unreadable shifted behind his eyes.

Watching his reaction, I felt the last warmth in my heart go cold, degree by degree.

My body was fragile. Before this pregnancy, I had been pregnant five times. Every single one ended in a miscarriage.

Each time, Bernard had been so devastated he looked ready to kill someone.

This time we had been more careful than ever, guarding every week, every day, and we had finally made it to eight months.

I remembered the night I'd been cooking him birthday noodles and the heat from the stove had set off frantic kicking in my belly. He'd been furious and terrified all at once, and he'd stayed up the entire night watching over me.

And now, because of Ivy's absurd claim of heatstroke, he had locked me inside a roasting chamber with his own hands.

The bitterness burned through me. I clenched my teeth and was about to speak when Ivy swayed against Bernard, clutching her head, her voice barely a whisper.

"Bernard, please let her out. She's been pampered her whole life. How could she endure something like this? She didn't do anything wrong. It's all my fault. I'm just a housekeeper's daughter. Even if I collapsed from heatstroke in that kind of temperature, it would only be what I deserved..."

My blood surged violently.

Minutes after I'd smashed through that glass, she had already turned and strolled back to the bedroom, pausing on her way to have a servant bring her half a chilled watermelon.

I was the one who'd been baking in the sun for hours, on the verge of heatstroke!

My eyes burned crimson as I fixed them on her. I was about to speak when Bernard slammed his fist against the glass window.

His voice turned ice-cold. "Go turn the temperature up another ten degrees. She's not the pampered little princess who can't take the heat? Fine. Today I'll personally make sure every ounce of suffering Ivy endured gets paid back."

He stroked Ivy's hair with such tenderness it was almost spilling out of his eyes.

"I know you've been wronged. You were kind enough to help her with prenatal care, and she nearly killed you for it. Go on, Ivy. Adjust it yourself. I dare her to say a single word against it."

When Ivy came back, the red thermometer on the iron wall already read 140°F.

She had cranked it up a full twenty degrees.

The roasting chamber became instant hell. My entire body felt like it was being deep-fried alive.

My dress was soaked through with sweat, clinging to the high swell of my belly.

The frantic kicking inside me was my baby's desperate plea for help.

For my child, I dragged words out of a throat that felt like it was smoldering. My voice was barely a rasp. "I was wrong. Bernard, I know I was wrong..."

The instant I spoke, Ivy's father cut in, his booming voice drowning out my plea. "Mr. Farley, your wife's got quite the figure. Even with that belly she's all curves. A man could just stare and stare..."

My raw, broken voice was swallowed whole.

His gaze was locked on me, brazen and excited, not bothering to hide a thing.

That look made my skin crawl. I pressed my arms over my body and shrank toward the corner.

But after so long in the searing heat, the moment I lifted my foot, the sole peeled clean away from the flesh beneath it. Blood welled instantly from the raw, separated skin.

The piercing pain buckled my leg. I staggered, and my other foot, stripped of its skin, slammed down flat against the scorching iron floor.

The agony that shot up through my skull ripped a shrill wail from my throat.

Bernard clearly heard me. His brow creased. He shot a warning glance at Irvin Winfield, then stood and walked to the small window.

He saw it on the iron floor: a complete layer of sole-skin, and the bright red smear of blood beside it. Something stabbed through his chest.

He was about to speak when Ivy appeared at his side, biting her lip, looking frail.

"Sharon, just apologize to Bernard. Even if you don't mean it, it's fine. You know his temper. If you don't apologize, he'll never let you out..."

Every organ inside me was churning. The heat was cooking me alive. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

Watching me struggle, Ivy's lips curled. Then she raised her hand and slapped herself twice across the face, crying and clawing at the door, begging to be let in to share my punishment.

"Bernard, if she won't apologize, then let me go in there with her! I can't stand watching her suffer like this. Just say it's all my fault. It's my fault for getting heatstroke. My fault for ending up in the ICU!"

Seeing Ivy act so selflessly, whatever softness had flickered in Bernard's chest vanished like smoke.

He glared at me with pure venom, his voice thick with disgust.

"Sharon Fox, you are a complete disappointment. You used to have at least a shred of shame. Now you're utterly shameless. You hurt Ivy and you don't feel an ounce of remorse. She's kind enough to want to suffer alongside you, and you don't deserve it."

"Fine. Since that's how you want it, I'll discipline you on behalf of your dead father today!"

He waved his hand and gave the order. "Go. Raise the temperature another nine degrees. A hundred and fifty-eight. I don't care how stubborn you think you are. You don't apologize, you don't come out."

The moment the words left his mouth, the other maids in the house came running over, begging on my behalf.

"Sir, please spare her this once. She's eight months pregnant. The temperature in there is already so high, it could be fatal for the baby."

Bernard's brow furrowed. He glanced at me through the small window.

A few seconds of silence. He was about to nod when Ivy let out a sharp cry and collapsed to the floor.

Bernard rushed to scoop her into his arms. "Ivy, what's wrong? Tell me where it hurts. I'll take you to the hospital."

Ivy shook her head, eyes brimming with tears. "It's just my own weak body that landed me in the ICU. It had nothing to do with her. Everyone's already pleading for her, so please, just let her go. I'm fine..."

Before she could finish, her whole body curled in on itself, gasping for air in great heaving gulps, as though she were about to go into shock.

The "okay" that had been sitting in Bernard's throat never made it out. His voice turned cold and sharp.

"You do something wrong, you face the consequences. Do as I said."

The maids stole a glance at the horror inside the roasting chamber and tried to plead again, but Bernard's icy glare stopped them dead.

"Ivy had her sunbathe for the baby's sake. Instead of being grateful, she smashed the glass and hurt someone. She still hasn't shown an ounce of remorse. She deserves to suffer. Anyone who begs for her again can pack their bags and get out."

He paused, then added, "Go. Adjust the temperature. And have an ambulance waiting outside."

After that, none of the maids dared say another word.

Mamie Winfield exchanged a look with Ivy, then hurried off to adjust the thermostat.

When she came back, the temperature inside the chamber had climbed to a hundred and fifty-eight degrees.

She had added a full eighteen degrees instead of nine.

The sudden blast of heat hit like a wall. My legs gave out. My whole body shook as I collapsed onto the scalding metal floor.

The instant my feet left their position, one sole lost a sheet of flesh to the iron plate. The other ripped away a layer of dried scab.

When my body hit the surface, the skin that touched the metal sizzled. It swelled red immediately, blood seeping through, as though I were being seared alive.

Pain tore through every inch of me, bone-deep, relentless. Blood oozed from everywhere at once.

To protect the baby, I forced myself past the agony and twisted my body so my back faced down.

Every movement peeled another strip of flesh from whatever part of me pressed against the scorching iron.

By the time I'd gotten into position, there was almost no unburned skin left on my body.

And the baby inside me had gone completely still.

The people outside who had been watching and snickering fell silent as they took in the carnage through the window.

Feeling my child's life slip away, I screamed with everything I had. "Bernard Farley! My baby is dead! You killed him with your own hands! When I get out of here, my brother will slaughter every last one of you! You all deserve to die!"

The color drained from Bernard's face.

In the silence, he walked to the small window, as though he needed to see my condition for himself.

When he saw me drenched in blood, not a single patch of intact skin left, his pupils contracted.

He opened his mouth to order someone to bring the key, but Ivy stepped forward and caught his hand.

"How could you say something like that?" Ivy's voice was soft, wounded. "You know how much your brother put him through. All those years of being undermined and humiliated. Your brother's been dead for ages, and you're still using his name to threaten him. How could you twist the knife like that?"