I held the funeral in secret at a small, remote parlor.

It was the only way to give Benjamin a moment of peace. I refused to let his death become another sensational headline plastered across the tabloids.

His urn went into my suitcase. His favorite portrait, too.

My eyes were dry.

I had no tears left to shed.

Throughout my marriage to Joel, the internet had branded me a mistress, a gold digger, a parasite. They doxxed me, dug up every detail of my past, and harassed the design studio I had built from the ground up until it went bankrupt.

For a long time, the trauma blocked my creativity completely.

But when the hate was at its peak, Joel had posted a photo of our marriage certificate and a diamond ring, captioning it with a promise to shield me.

I thought it was love.

But that grand proposal—was that just another exclusive scoop he handed to Naomi?

I didn't want to think about it, but masochism drove me to check my phone. I wanted to see how Naomi reported the accident.

Instead, the front page was dominated by a different photo.

**"Mistress Finally Triumphs? Hong Kong Scion Accompanies Childhood Sweetheart for Prenatal Checkup."**

The photo was blurry, but undeniable. Joel was studying a prenatal ultrasound report with intense focus.

He had never come to a single checkup with me.

When we found out Benjamin's gender, I had excitedly tried to show him the ultrasound. He hadn't even looked up from his laptop, merely patting my hand.

"Boy or girl, I like them all," he had said, his tone perfunctory.

That evening, Joel came home with a massive bouquet of roses.

"Wife, I'm sorry." He walked into the bedroom, his voice soft. "I was too busy today, and I was harsh with you."

He sat on the edge of the bed. "Those troublemaking paparazzi—I've dealt with them."

"But you have to understand, this is training. For you and the baby. As a Mason heir, he would have had to get used to the spotlight eventually."

*But he will never grow up.*

I forced the corners of my mouth up into something resembling a smile. "No need."

Joel frowned, confused by my lack of gratitude. "It's just two photos, Anna. Are you really still angry? You're my wife. You need to be tougher than this."

My voice came out hollow.

"Forget it, Joel. We aren't built for this honor. I'm tired. Find someone else."

He gripped my shoulders, a flash of panic flitting through his eyes.

"What do you mean, 'forget it'? I said I'd punish the paparazzi. If you're scared, I'll assign more bodyguards to you, okay?"

Years ago, when the media slandered my parents, hounding them until their business collapsed, Joel had comforted me with these exact words.

He comforted me right up until the paparazzi chased their car off a bridge and into the sea.

Joel had stayed by my side for two months after the funeral.

I never suspected that he was the one holding the match that lit the fire.

Looking at his feigned concern now, a dull ache throbbed in my chest.

He stepped into his study to take a call. Through the door, I heard him scolding someone.

"Who told you to be so blatant? Get those reporters out of sight—don't push her too hard yet."

My face stayed blank.

It didn't matter what he was planning. I wouldn't be around to see it.

His tone shifted, becoming gentle. He was talking to Naomi.

Tomorrow was the company's new product launch. Naomi was hosting.

He coached her patiently on how to handle the cameras, reassuring her that she could leave the stage the moment she felt uncomfortable.

When *I* gave my first interview as Mrs. Mason, I mispronounced one word.

To "train" me, Joel forced me to stand under the strobe lights for twelve hours straight.

A dry laugh escaped my lips. I wiped a stray tear and continued packing my meager belongings.

The gown I had designed for the launch—a piece I spent half a month perfecting—went straight into the trash.

"Isn't that what you're wearing tomorrow?"

Joel's voice came from the doorway. "Why is it in the trash?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He reached into the bin, pulled out the silk gown, and inspected it.

"Luckily, it's not dirty."

He set up the ironing board and began pressing the fabric himself, meticulous and calm. "There. Wear this tomorrow. And remember—don't be late."

The launch event was a shark tank.

Hundreds of media outlets packed the venue. As the flashes erupted like lightning, my body went rigid. A stress reaction kicked in, my breath hitching in my throat.

Naomi Henson stood center stage, linking arms with Joel. Her poise was flawless; she looked like the mistress of the house.

When she spotted me, Naomi gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in exaggerated shock.

"Sister... how could you openly wear a plagiarized gown to such an important event?"

Instantly, every camera swung toward me.

On the massive screen behind the stage, a video began to play. A former employee from my studio, tearfully accusing me of stealing her designs for years.

The room turned hostile in a heartbeat. The whispers were loud and venomous.

"Wow, big news! The so-called 'original designer' is a fraud."

"She really will do anything to cling to the Mason family wealth."

"Thank god for Reporter Henson. If she didn't have such a strong sense of justice, this woman would have fooled us all!"

I looked at Joel, desperate for a lifeline.

Instead, I met a gaze of icy disappointment.

"You don't believe me?" I whispered, my heart stinging. "You won't even listen to an explanation?"

"The evidence is conclusive." His voice was sharp enough to draw blood. "Do you expect me to listen to your lies?"

He looked away, disgust etched on his features.

Naomi stepped forward, her voice trembling with righteous sorrow.

"I know you've always envied my career, Sister. But you can't hurt innocent people just because you're jealous."

She lowered her head, looking like a wilted flower. "It's my fault. If I hadn't been so ambitious, I wouldn't have provoked you. Maybe I should resign."

Joel turned on me, his voice booming through the microphone.

"I always admired your talent, Anna. Or what I thought was your talent."

"To marry into the Mason family, you really have no bottom line. If I had known you were this kind of person, I never would have let you step foot in my house."

My stomach dropped.

When he proposed, Joel swore that no matter what the world said, he would stand by me.

When the cyberbullying was at its worst, he claimed he would resign from the company and take me into seclusion rather than let me suffer.

Those promises were just dust in the wind.

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from crying. "My design drafts... you picked them up from my desk last night! You saw the dates!"

"Shut up!"

Joel cut me off, his voice sharp as a whip. "I don't know how you stole them, but I didn't expect you to use the title of 'Mrs. Mason' to bully subordinates and steal their hard work."

The defense died in my throat.

I looked at Joel standing beside Naomi—the white knight protecting his damsel.

Finally, the illusion shattered.

Joel didn't care about the truth. He didn't care about me.

He only cared that Naomi's report was successful.

The event was spiraling. The employees who had worked tirelessly on the launch began to grumble.

Naomi looked at the crowd, tears shimmering in her eyes. "I'm so sorry. This is my fault. My reporting ruined the launch. I just... I couldn't let the truth be buried. I apologize to everyone."

Joel stepped in front of her, shielding her from the crowd.

"You exposed a fraud, Naomi. There is nothing to apologize for. The person who should be sorry is Anna Harding."

He pointed a finger at me. "The media is here. Perfect. Apologize to the victim you plagiarized. Now."

My eyes were dead as I looked at him.

I asked softly,

"Is a simple apology enough? Do you expect me to kneel? That would give you the sensational headline you're desperate for, wouldn't it?"

A flicker of guilt passed through his eyes—there and gone in a heartbeat, replaced by a mask of cold indifference.

"An apology isn't enough." His voice dropped an octave. "Take the dress off. Now. Return it to its rightful owner."

The words hit the room like a match to gasoline. Shutters exploded into a frenzy, capturing my humiliation from every conceivable angle.

*Did I hear him right?*

Underneath, I wore only a thin base layer. If I stripped off this dress, I would be exposed to the world.

Naomi's gaze slid to my trembling hands, a sickly sweet smile curling her lips. "You really seem to like this dress, sis. Maybe I should just apologize to the designer and beg her to let you keep it."

Something inside me snapped.

"This dress was mine to begin with!" My voice cracked, raw and hysterical. "I designed it myself!"

*Slap.*

Joel's hand struck my cheek, wrenching my head to the side.

"Enough!" Shards of ice glittered in his eyes. "You still have the nerve to lose your temper at Naomi? You're wearing a base layer. The photos will be censored. What exactly are you pretending to be so precious about?"

My cheek burned, a stinging red mark blooming across my skin. But the pain was nothing—*nothing*—compared to the agony ripping through my chest.

The press conference had transformed into my public execution.

From start to finish, I was the only one on trial.

As I unzipped the dress, mocking laughter filled the air. Lips smacked wetly. Naomi hoisted her camera, the shutter clicking in rapid bursts, capturing every second of my shame.

"Here's a headline for you," she purred, venom dripping from every syllable. "'Retribution Never Fails—Thief Apologizes Naked in Public.' What do you think?"

The reporters cheered, feeding on the spectacle like vultures on carrion.

Joel watched me, twisted admiration flickering in his gaze—not for me. For Naomi's handiwork. "Looks like you'll own the front page tomorrow."

She looked down at me from her high vantage point, eyes gleaming with contempt and triumph.

When the farce finally ended, Joel spoke lightly, as if discussing the weather. "Don't worry. Everyone here is a female reporter. Your photos will be censored."

He paused, adjusting his cuffs.

"I'll let you off this time. Do not let it happen again."

All the strength drained from my legs. I didn't spare him another glance. I only wanted to grab my suitcase and board the first plane out of this hell.

But when I returned to the room, my blood ran cold.

The suitcase I had packed lay torn open, its contents strewn across the floor in a chaotic mess. The urn I had carefully hidden away—

Vanished.

The black-and-white memorial photo had been ripped to shreds, the face unrecognizable.

A primal scream tore from my throat. I ran out of the villa like a madwoman.

In the driveway, I found it.

The urn. Shattered. Its contents scattered across the pavement.

A stray dog was lapping at a pile of gray dust.

The nanny stood nearby, pointing at the ash with feigned innocence. "Ms. Henson said it was expired milk powder. She told me to feed it to the dog."

After the press conference, Joel cleaned up the PR disaster and sent me a message.

*Don't worry. I won't let your mistakes affect our son.*

*He is still my heir. As long as you behave yourself from now on, I will pretend today never happened.*

The messages sank like stones into a deep, dark sea.

No reply.

Joel walked into the villa, frowning as he caught two nannies gossiping near the driveway.

"Why does that milk powder look so much like... ash?" one whispered.

"And look at this." The other held up tattered pieces of paper. "I pieced the photo back together. Guess who it is? It's the Young Master's memorial photo!"

Joel froze.

He grabbed the nanny's arm, his voice rising in pitch. "What memorial photo?"