He pushed the door open and left without a second glance.

“This tattoo doesn’t mean anything. If you like roses so much, you can get one yourself—after you’ve had the baby.”

The pain in my stomach was unbearable. I couldn’t even stand upright, no matter how much I screamed for him. Benjamin didn’t turn back.

I clung to consciousness, fighting against the waves of agony threatening to pull me under. Summoning every ounce of strength, I managed to call for an ambulance.

When I woke up, the pain jolted me again, sharp and unrelenting. The sterile scent of the hospital filled my senses. I was alone in the ward.

Disappointment settled deep in my chest.

A nurse murmured nearby, her voice dripping with sympathy.

“She’s so pitiful. That man should rot for his domestic violence.”

But another voice interrupted, colder, judgmental.

“Maybe she chased after the old man’s money and got beaten for being a homewrecker. A woman like that doesn’t deserve sympathy.”

“Or maybe she wanted to get rid of the child and used this as an excuse.”

Their words pierced me, but I refused to show weakness. I turned my cold gaze toward them, silencing the room. The nurse scoffed and left.

Lying there, I made my decision.

I didn’t want Benjamin anymore.

And I didn’t want the child either.

I called for a doctor to discuss terminating the pregnancy.

The doctor hesitated, her tone gentle but firm.

“The baby is healthy. If there’s any chance of keeping it, please reconsider. The child is innocent.”

Tears welled in my eyes as I pulled up my hospital gown, exposing the fresh bruises on my stomach.

My voice cracked as I sobbed, “I can’t keep this child. I can’t forgive the pain he’s caused me.”

The doctor sighed, shaking her head.

“Think carefully. A decision like this is final. With your past injuries, you might not be able to conceive again.”

Her words hung in the air like a heavy weight.

Later, staring at the ultrasound image on the screen, my resolve wavered. The baby’s delicate features had begun to take shape. His eyes and nose mirrored mine—and Benjamin’s.

This was the child I had carried for seven months.

I stumbled out of the clinic, disheveled and drained, and sank onto a cold bench.

Alone, I scrolled through my phone.

Benjamin’s text messages flashed on the screen, sharp and accusing:

[Spend less money. Money is hard to make.]

Right below were messages from his mother:

[My son works so hard every day. You can’t just spend all his hard-earned money.]

[You don’t work. How could you possibly understand the value of hard work?]

Not a single word of concern. No one asked if I was okay, if I was unwell, or why I was at the hospital.

Every cent I spent, if not on Benjamin, was met with scrutiny and suspicion.

My mind drifted back to the name I glimpsed on Benjamin’s phone. My fingers trembled as I searched it on the platform.

The latest video loaded instantly.

[Even when he’s drunk, he still comes to me.]

The man in the video had most of his face obscured, but his smile—faint and familiar—was unmistakable. The watch on his wrist confirmed it.

Benjamin.

The girl nestled against him, her posture intimate.

I scrolled through video after video, each one a snapshot of their happiness, each one a betrayal etched across the past three years of my life.

When I opened the comments, a glint on my wrist caught my eye.

[Wow, such an expensive necklace—and the bracelet is gorgeous! My sister gave it to me!]

My heart sank. The gift I had once cherished, the one I had so eagerly awaited, was nothing more than a cast-off, something his sweetheart had rejected.

The comments buzzed with admiration:

[The blogger is rich and stunning, and her boyfriend is so handsome!]

Isabelle’s reply was simple but deliberate:

"Benjamin is the best to me~"

She didn’t even bother denying their relationship.

I clicked on an older, dormant account by accident. A video played. The girl in it looked eerily like Isabelle but wasn’t her.

Her soft voice echoed:

"Benjamin, would you give everything for me?"

The camera shifted, revealing a younger Benjamin. The love in his eyes was impossible to miss as he responded:

"Maxine, I would."

He took the girl’s hand and kissed it, his devotion written in every gesture.

The screen flipped again, now showing a scene in the snow. Benjamin, his youthful self, picking up a girl with tender care—only to throw her to the ground.

My chest tightened.

The girl on the screen trembled in the snow, her face etched with pain.

It was me.

It was me—ruined by Benjamin.

The phone slipped from my hand, clattering to the ground, but the pain in my chest was far worse.

Fragments of memories echoed in my mind:

"Classmate, I don’t like this kind of joke."

"Classmate, please—I still have to take the art exam..."

"Classmate..."

The voice grew fainter, dissolving into silence, as if it were slipping away with the phone that lay shattered on the floor.

Then, a loud bang.

"Maxine, don’t... don’t!!"

When the phone was picked up again, the video resumed. A younger Benjamin appeared, his eyes red with desperation.

It hit me like a tidal wave. The murderer who couldn’t be identified, the justice that was never served—it had all been deliberate.

And because of that, my father had died, consumed by grief and anger.

I was left behind to pick up the pieces. My repeated efforts to salvage my life led to nothing more than a mediocre admission into a second-tier university. My body, so frail it could barely stand, and my knees, throbbing with pain after only a few steps, crushed whatever pride I had left.

I cried until I had no more tears to shed.

With trembling hands, I signed the agreement to consent to an abortion.

Moments later, a private message from Isabelle appeared.

[Amelia, Benjamin and I are just ordinary friends.]

Attached was a photo of Benjamin holding her close, his hand gently patting her shoulder.

Her messages kept coming:

[Amy, it’s all my fault for being so stupid. Otherwise, why would he spend late nights accompanying me?]

[Amy, you’re so beautiful. Why does he like me instead?]

I stared at her words, her taunts wrapped in faux innocence. My lips curved into a bitter smile.

[You’re just a stand-in. Can you ever compare to Maxine?]

She didn’t hesitate to respond:

[It doesn’t matter. We’re all family, after all. We can’t let outsiders take advantage, can we?]

Her words twisted my stomach into knots. I couldn’t stop the nausea from rising. I leaned over and vomited, the taste of bile lingering on my tongue.

Enough.

I drafted a divorce agreement.

When I finally returned home, the sun was at its peak.

Benjamin's mother had been waiting at home for a long time.

The moment I stepped inside, her sharp gaze landed on me. She wasted no time before scolding, "You actually have the nerve to sit around while my son works himself to the bone? He has stomach problems! How can you bear to let him suffer like this?"

Her tone was biting, as always. She had risen to wealth and status midway through her life, but her stinginess remained unchanged. Or maybe, she simply didn’t want me to have an easy life.

I lowered myself onto the couch, cradling my pregnant belly. "I’m pregnant. Does that make my life any easier?"

She scoffed, crossing her arms. "Oh, please. That child isn’t just Benjamin’s responsibility. He works so hard; what’s wrong with you working harder, too?"

She moved toward the table, dividing the neatly arranged dishes into two portions. The organic vegetables she prided herself on went onto one plate, while the blemished ones—the ones with wormholes—were tossed onto another.

She shoved the cheaper plate toward me. "Amelia, you eat this. As for this one, prepare it and cook it properly for Benjamin. He needs good nutrition to keep earning money."

Then she settled into the sofa, the TV remote in hand, but her eyes never left me, quietly scrutinizing my every move.

"We aren’t an ordinary family, you know," she continued, her voice dripping with superiority. "Living in this big flat costs money. Hiring a nanny isn’t free either. You don’t work, so why should you be sitting around doing nothing?"

Her words stung, but I knew better than to expect sympathy from her. She only cared for her son, never for me.

I snapped, grabbing the plate of vegetables she’d thrown at me and flinging it back at her. "He’s your son, not mine!"

She shrieked as the plate clattered to the ground, half-sitting on the floor, clutching her arm dramatically. Then, as if on cue, she started wailing and rolling around.

I glanced toward the door—Benjamin was home.

His mother always loved putting on a show for him.

Benjamin stepped in, his brows furrowed in displeasure. "Amelia, what are you doing? She’s also your mother."

I felt a bitter laugh rise in my throat. "She is not my mother," I said coldly. "My mother would actually care about me."

Benjamin didn’t respond. He just stood there, letting his mother rant and insult me.

Then he looked at my belly, his expression hardening. "Amelia, this is the child you wanted. I don’t care if you feel sorry for yourself, but at least feel sorry for it."

I stared at him, my chest tightening with anger and disgust. The absurdity of it all made me laugh bitterly.

"This child?" I said, my voice trembling with rage. "This is the child your mother wanted. She’s the one who swapped out the contraceptive pills."

"You love her so much, why don’t you wear a condom? Why insist on making me take the pill?" I snapped, my voice trembling with anger.

Benjamin’s face darkened, but I didn’t stop. "You love her so much, why don’t you just die?"

He turned to his mother, who sat silently, her expression unreadable. His voice was low, almost cold. "Amelia, calm down. My mother is just old."

"Old?" I scoffed. "You want children and grandchildren so badly, don’t you? Then why can’t you fulfill your filial piety yourself?"

My words hung in the air, sharp and cutting. I was done being polite.

"I want this child," I continued, my voice cracking, "but you call me cheap. If it weren’t for you—" I pointed at him, my finger trembling, "—how could I even have gotten pregnant with this child?"

Benjamin pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience visibly thinning. "Amelia, calm down. Let’s have some food and talk later."

"Food?" I laughed bitterly. "Benjamin, let’s get a divorce. If you don’t agree, I’ll sue. I won’t give birth to this child!"

I grabbed the divorce agreement from the table and threw it at him. The papers fluttered to the ground, landing amidst the mess of dishes and spilled food. His mother sat frozen, her gaze darting between us.

Benjamin sighed deeply, his tone indifferent. "Amelia, I’ll transfer the money to you. Just stop making trouble."

He glanced at his mother, then added, "After all, the child is her wish. Think of this money as compensation for the trouble."

With that, he pulled out his phone and transferred 700,000 dollars to my account.

"Pack these things up," he said, motioning to the mess. "I’ll take my mother and leave. We won’t come back for dinner."

I stared at the notification on my phone—a transfer of 700,000 dollars.

I took the money. After three years of playing nanny for Benjamin, it wasn’t much.

I hadn’t planned to confront Isabelle, but she came to me instead.

She looked just like in the videos—young, coquettish, and full of herself.

"Amy," she began with an expectant smile, "when are you divorcing Benjamin?"

Her eyes darted to the bracelet on my wrist, her expression faltering for just a moment.

Then she added, almost casually, "He still cares about me more, you know."

I met her gaze with a cold smile. "What if I don’t divorce him? Do you want to spend the rest of your life as a mistress who never sees the light of day?"

Her face turned red. "You—you!"

She lunged forward, her bag raised like she wanted to hit me. But her arrogance was her downfall. She thought she had control of everything.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the signed divorce agreement. Calmly, I held it out to her.

"Miss Grant, if you’re so confident, why don’t you have him sign this yourself?"

Her expression crumbled as she snatched the document from my hands.

When I sent the divorce agreement to the hospital, I ignored all of Benjamin’s calls.

Finally, he messaged me:

"Amelia, don’t touch my things! How am I supposed to find them?"