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?"