All that was left were his eyes, full of defiance, and a terrified "Mom" squeezed from his throat.

That day, I lost my child.

That same day, I lost my father.

At the funeral, the local media tore me apart—wall-to-wall coverage calling me a death omen, a lone star who killed her father and her child.

They said bad luck clung to me. That I killed my own son.

Old Mrs. Patterson even waited along my route and splashed chicken blood on me to "drive away evil."

Alex rushed to the hospital and didn't blame me. He sued over a dozen outlets for reckless reporting. He held me, told me again and again it was an accident, that I still had him.

After Ethan died, every six months a new "sister" moved in.

And I accepted every single one, obeying Alex's demands in almost self-punishing obedience, becoming a laughingstock in the local press.

Because I was terrified he'd leave me.

Until six months ago.

A box of film negatives arrived.

And I finally learned the truth about Ethan's death.

Through the haze, I swore I heard him calling "Mom" again.

I touched his photo and murmured, "Soon, Ethan. Mommy will get you justice. Very soon."

The next morning, before dawn, the bedroom door swung open.

Lily strolled in and sprawled across my bed like she owned it. She picked up Ethan's photo and laughed.

"So this is the dead kid."

"You still keep his picture around? Aren't you afraid it'll bring bad luck?"

I snatched it back and clutched it to my chest, voice ice-cold. "Get out."

She stuck her tongue out, unafraid.

The moment Alex walked in, she ran into his arms, tugging his hand, voice syrupy. "Honey, you said I could stay wherever I wanted. I pick this room."

"The windows are huge."

Without bothering to hide it, she pulled out little toys meant for lovers and set them on the nightstand—right where Ethan's photo had been.

Alex frowned and glanced at me, wanting to speak but stopping himself.

I turned away, placed the photo in front of my vanity, and set a bag of snacks beside it like I always did.

Behind me, her breathy voice wouldn't stop: "The doctor said babies need sunlight. And last time we had so much fun here... there are still marks from us on the glass."

"I've got even more exciting things we haven't tried yet."

"I heard there's a typhoon coming. Lightning and thunder—that's what makes it romantic..."

She'd learned fast. Every word I said yesterday, parroted back perfectly.

Today she wore a pure white dress, but her moves were shameless. She bit Alex's ear and whispered to him right in front of me, not taking me seriously at all.

He didn't agree right away. But his throat bobbed—clearly tempted.

I tucked away the mockery in my eyes and reminded him, staking my claim: "Alex. Did you forget what you promised me?"

This house was my father's legacy.

Back then, Alex had been penniless—the most invisible intern under my father. Because of me, he was kept close and taught everything.

My family's business became his foundation. He mortgaged this property for capital and inherited every connection my father left behind.

He made it. Five years ago, he tore down the old house and rebuilt it. He said he wanted to erase the bad memories, and so I could wake up to the ocean, he had an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling glass custom-made for my bedroom. After that, he set up one little love nest after another outside.

But we both understood without saying: no matter how he played around, those women would never set foot in this house.

This is what the media in Harbor City call my last shred of dignity. Whoever holds this place holds the title of Mrs. Fleming.

So all his women—just like Lily—want to replace me and move in here.

No matter how favored the previous ones were, none of them ever stepped foot inside this house.

She's the first.

Lily played along, leaning into his arms. Maybe because of what I said yesterday, she was even bolder now, teasing Alex right in front of me. I watched the veins on his forehead bulge—that's what it looked like when he was barely holding back.

I knew he'd agree.

His tastes were... particular. It was rare for him to find a woman so willing to play along.

He also knew I wouldn't leave.

Sure enough, the next second he wrapped an arm around me and, in his gentlest voice, said the cruelest thing:

"Honey, she likes it here, so just give it to her. You stay downstairs; upstairs is hers. For the next few months, you'll take good care of Lily."

"When the baby's born, you can treat it like our Ethan has come back. These little grievances—think of them as suffering for Ethan's sake. As the wife, you need to show the generosity a wife should have."

The sneer froze in my eyes.

Wave after wave of sour, metallic bitterness crept up my throat. Hatred surged from the pit of my stomach, nearly shattering my composure, making me want to lunge forward and sink my teeth into his throat.

I don't understand.

The man who used to blush from his earlobes to his neck just from saying something sweet. The man who lied to my father about needing time off so he could sneak out to date me—so nervous he actually fainted. How could that same man now so casually talk about replacing Ethan with someone else's child?

Not even a flicker of guilt.

Sunlight poured through the window, but it couldn't chase the cold from my bones.

I took a deep breath, swallowed the metallic taste in my throat, and said softly, "Okay."

If I don't see what happens to them with my own eyes, I won't accept it.

His brow relaxed, and that smug smile returned—the one that said he had everything under control.

For the two days after Lily moved in, I personally handled all her meals. Even the sheets they slept on—I changed them myself.

Alex saw it, and he played even more recklessly with her. Ordering me around became second nature.

The day the typhoon made landfall, I gave all the servants the day off.

When he woke up and found his wrist still cuffed to the bed, he probably assumed last night with Lily had just gotten out of hand. When he saw me walk in, he frowned and raised his arm—not even bothering to hide the red marks on his body, the evidence of their wild night—waiting for me to fetch the key and unlock him.

I didn't obey like usual. I walked to his bedside and stopped.

When he sensed something was off and opened his eyes fully, when he saw what I was cradling in my arms—Ethan's urn—his expression finally changed.

"Honey, what are you doing."

My smile was colorless. "Alex. I'm asking you—how did Ethan die?"

His face stayed blank, like he thought I was just throwing a tantrum.

He even chuckled, a lazy, placating sound.

"Honey, didn't we agree—we don't bring this up? It was an accident. I don't blame you anymore."

"Lily and I went too far and upset you. Can you let me go? I'll kick her out right now. She'll never appear in front of you again, okay?"

Seeing that even now he refused to tell the truth, I smiled bitterly. I had to admit—he was even more shameless than I'd imagined.

Thunder crashed outside, nearly splitting the sky in two. Wind howled like a ghost coming to collect its due.

"Do you want me to help you remember?"

"The day Ethan had his accident—where were you?"

His gaze flickered. He stayed silent.

The last sliver of light in my heart shattered.

I pulled out the developed photos and hurled them at his face. The sharp edge sliced his cheek, blood dripping onto the images—but it couldn't obscure the date, or the picture of him leading a woman out of this house while I followed an ambulance away. All those times he'd claimed to be on business trips.

The reason Ethan had his accident that day was because Alex used my time at the hospital caring for my father to bring his lover into our bedroom.

It wasn't his first time cheating. But it had the worst consequences.

He'd given all the maids looking after Ethan the day off. To keep my son from crying and ruining the mood, he casually bought French fries to stuff in his mouth.

Our child was allergic to potatoes. The doctor had warned us from day one. I reminded everyone daily.

That day, when I rushed home to save him—

Alex was upstairs, holding the terrified woman, watching me break down. Watching me blame myself.

Only after I'd taken Ethan to the hospital did he come downstairs, destroy all the evidence, and bribe the media to denounce me. Making me believe I was a murderer.

Then he showed up in public, playing the husband who'd rushed back from his business trip.

Red-eyed savior. Kneeling, pulling me into his arms, kissing me over and over. Telling me it was an accident. That it wasn't my fault.

For six months, he never said a harsh word. Never blamed me once.

Several times I caught him getting up at night, punching the bathroom mirror until glass shattered everywhere and his fists were a bloody mess. Under my horrified gaze, he'd turn back, hold me—trembling, gentle.

Even now, I can't tell if he was tormented by guilt or performing to keep me bound.

He thought I'd never learn the truth.

A hundred times the liquidated damages as leverage—but he forgot that no wall is airtight.

"Alex. That was our child. Do you even have a heart?"

"So what? Tell everyone he died because I was cheating? What about the company—you want to tank our stock?"

"It's just a kid. We can have another. You want me to die for him?"

The wind screamed, snapping roadside trees and hurling them at the glass wall.

The impact made the glass shudder. The two on the bed couldn't stay calm anymore.

"You're insane! You're fucking insane!"

"Baby, do something! If the glass breaks, we're both dead!"

Lily shook Alex frantically. He sneered, teeth clenched, glaring at me. "This wall is custom bulletproof glass. We've had worse typhoons. It held. What are you afraid of?"

I bent down and cupped his face the way I used to, stroking it gently.

Then my hand came down hard across his cheek.

"Baby, you've been away too long. Two months ago, when you brought her here and fucked her on this bed—when you dirtied this glass—I replaced it all."

"This is ordinary glass now."

"Guess how long it'll hold."