This was the first time I had ever embarrassed him in front of the entire company.

Ethan froze at the ice in my eyes, his reprimand dying in his throat. He stiffly dropped his arm from Vanessa's shoulders, his tone softening.

"Alex, don't be ridiculous. You'll always be the group's vice president."

"If you think it's inappropriate, then handle it by the book."

The moment the words left my mouth, Vanessa's tears spilled over. She covered her face, as if mortally wounded, and fled the room sobbing.

"Vanessa!" Panic flickered across Ethan's face. He chased after her without a backward glance, leaving a room full of executives and staff standing in stunned silence.

Soon after, the finance director messaged me, practically shaking through the screen. Ethan had ordered ten million dollars transferred from company accounts into Vanessa's personal account—"compensation," he called it.

I stared at the message and almost laughed. My position as vice president, like our marriage, had become nothing more than a hollow title.

I thought I was used to all of this by now. But when I turned toward the elevator, tears fell before I could stop them.

He was always saying Vanessa had such a tragic past, that she'd lost her parents so young. He forgot that by the time I married him, the Hensons had only me left.

Seven years ago, Ethan's startup had collapsed. Crushed under debt, cornered in an alley, he'd been beaten within an inch of his life. When I found him, he was drenched in blood, a shard of glass in his hand, ready to end it all.

In that moment, I made a decision that bordered on madness.

Without telling a soul, I sold the ancestral home my parents had left me. If I hadn't sold it that day, Ethan would have been driven to his death. But once it was gone, I lost the last piece of my parents I had left.

I took that check—weightless as paper, heavy as a mountain—paid off every debt, and moved with him into a basement that reeked of mold.

That night, Ethan held me as I shivered and swore to the heavens.

"Alex, it's okay if you don't have a home anymore. From now on, I am your home. If I ever wrong you in this life, let me die a horrible death."

I believed no one would ever love me more than he did.

Now I understood: relationships are just transactions. Ethan became wealthy and famous, a business titan. He brought home one woman after another, basking in the adoration of "innocent little flowers."

And I? I had lost everything in the deal.

When I drove down the familiar stretch of Sycamore Lane, unease coiled in my chest. This was the only thing my parents had left me—the same root I had severed with my own hands for Ethan.

The moment my car rounded the corner, I knew something was wrong.

The old house, once quiet and secluded, was now surrounded by trucks plastered with film-crew logos. Thick black cables snaked through the ornate iron gate like coiled serpents. From inside the yard came the piercing shriek of power drills and the brutal thud of hammers, each blow landing like a strike to my heart.

My chest seized. I didn't even turn off the engine—just threw open the door and ran.

What I saw made my blood boil.

A crew in work uniforms swung sledgehammers at the parquet tiles in the main hall, smashing them to pieces. Those tiles—my parents had loved the pattern. Every single piece had been shipped from Southeast Asia, chosen with such care.

Now, under the violent blows, they shattered into fragments. Splinters flew everywhere.

"Stop! All of you, STOP!"

I threw myself in front of the workers, blocking them like a woman possessed. David Whitney, the homeowner, emerged from behind a stack of camera equipment. When he saw me, a flicker of guilt crossed his face.

"Miss Henson, this... there's nothing I can do."

He rubbed his hands, eyes darting around, not daring to look at the mess all over the floor.

"The sale agreement back then did say you couldn't touch the renovations—everything had to stay the same. But this time… Mr. Sanchez personally spoke up and brought the crew."

David Whitney spread his hands helplessly. "With Mr. Sanchez's clout, who in Linford would dare refuse him?"

I froze. Before I could even process that, a familiar shrill laugh came from behind me.

"Oh my, these floor tiles are way too tacky. The color is so dull—it won't look high-end on camera at all. Smash it all and replace it with mahogany. That's classy."

I whipped around.

In the temporary set built in the middle of the living room, Vanessa was wearing a gaudy cheongsam slit all the way up her thigh, a feather fan in her hand.

Ethan sat in the director's chair beside her, head lowered as he watched the monitor. Hearing her, he nodded indulgently.

"Whatever you say. Change it however you want."

Seeing me appear, he froze, his expression clearly uneasy.

"Alex? Why are you here?"

I stared at the floor, smashed beyond recognition, my voice trembling.

"What are you doing? This is my—this is my former home! What right do you have to destroy it?"

Vanessa poked her head out from behind him, smugly raising her eyebrows at me.

"Alex, don't be so stingy. Ethan said this drama is tailor-made for me as the female lead."

She shook that gaudy fan, twisting her waist in an affected pose.

"And the script is about your grandma's story. I'm playing her when she was young. Shooting on location is for authenticity—you should feel honored."

I looked at the scene in disbelief.

My grandma came from a prominent family. She was one of the few in that generation who earned a doctorate overseas, and a famous physicist. All her life she was upright and proper—year-round in a plain white lab coat, moving through laboratories, dedicating her entire life to the country's scientific research.

But the woman in front of me had heavy makeup on, striking flirtatious poses, her eyes full of seductive invitation.

This wasn't a respected scientist. This was a socialite from the old days.

"Shut up! My grandma was a scientist, not someone a nobody actress who climbs up by relying on men could ever play!"

New grudges and old hatred surged up together. I couldn't take this humiliation anymore. I rushed forward, raised my hand—

But my wrist was seized viciously in midair.

Ethan flung me away, frowning as he blocked Vanessa, his eyes full of impatience.

"What the hell are you freaking out about? Vanessa is pregnant—what were you trying to do?"

I pointed at her ridiculous outfit, my eyes rimmed red.

"She's insulting my grandma! You know exactly what kind of person Grandma was! How can you allow this?"

He straightened his cuff, his tone so cold it was like he was discussing something that had nothing to do with him.

"Art comes from life but rises above life. What filming doesn't involve adaptation?"

He swept a glance at the set and let out a snort.

"Stories like your grandma's—cooped up in a lab all day—boring, dull, outdated. Who would want to watch that? What audiences want now is talented men and beautiful women, love and hate, tangled grudges. What's wrong with adding a little romance for Vanessa?"

I looked at the man in front of me and suddenly felt he was unbelievably unfamiliar.

Ethan seemed like he didn't want to get tangled up in this. He turned to David Whitney.

"I heard you came today to buy this house back?"

His brows furrowed deeper, a note of blame creeping into his voice.

"I didn't even know you'd sold the place. If you needed money, why didn't you tell me? I'm your husband—did you think I'd just stand by and watch you sell your family home?"

From his tone, you'd think I was some clueless kid who'd recklessly blown through her savings.

"Alright. Since you like this house so much, we'll buy it back."

Ethan waved his hand and plucked the unsigned contract from David Whitney's grip.

"You don't need to pay. I'll handle it."

He didn't even glance at the price. Just pulled out a pen, signed his name in the buyer section, and called to his assistant: "Transfer the funds to Mr. Whitney."

David Whitney beamed, clutching the contract while bowing repeatedly.

I stood there, watching Ethan's smooth, practiced routine, and suddenly smiled.

Fine.

Fifty million saved. Enough to live very well for the rest of my life.

Seeing my smile, Ethan visibly relaxed.

He thought I'd caved again—like always—and even reached out to pat my shoulder.

"That's more like it. Don't always throw tantrums with me. Since this house is for you, let Vanessa use it for filming first. It's only a few months."

With that, he turned to Vanessa—gentle reminders about her health, not overworking herself—before rushing off at his assistant's urging.

The moment Ethan left, the fragility melted off Vanessa's face.

She sauntered over, eyes raking me up and down with contempt.

"Alex, did you see that? This is the difference between us."

"Even when Ethan buys you a house, he still lets me use it first. In this family, you'll always come second to me."

She covered her mouth with her fan and laughed.

"Now then, all you irrelevant people—out. Don't stand around being an eyesore while I'm trying to get into character."

I smiled too.

Slowly, I shook the purchase contract I'd just signed, then unfolded it in front of her face.

"Miss Fox, I think you've misunderstood something."

"The name listed as owner of this property is Alex Henson."

I watched her expression freeze, and I stepped closer.

"Since I own this house, I have every right to supervise what happens here."

"From this moment on, you won't damage a single blade of grass or a single tree on these grounds. Otherwise, I'll call the police and have you removed."

Vanessa hadn't expected this. Humiliated, her face cycled through green and white.

The crew members stopped working, whispering as they watched us.

She clenched her teeth, glaring at me. Then something flickered in her eyes—a vicious smile spreading across her face.

"Alex Henson, what are you so proud of? Do you know why Ethan so readily bought this house for you? It's pity. Just a sliver of guilt."

"And do you know why, all these years, he'd rather chase other women than touch you?"

"Because he thinks you're dirty."

Vanessa stepped back, her voice rising—loud enough for everyone present to hear.

"Who knows what kind of shameful things you did with those creditors just to pay off his gambling debts!"

"A worn-out shoe other men played to pieces—and you still act like your little sacrifice was some kind of achievement!"