“So disgusting.” Irene wrinkled her nose as she glanced at the mess I had just vomited. Her tone was sharp, her expression filled with disdain.
She had never endured the darkness of prison, never known the depths of hunger or the value of survival. She couldn’t possibly understand how precious life was to me now. Every breath, every moment, was something I’d clawed my way back for.
The life she so effortlessly enjoyed now—the comfort, the warmth, the love—it should have been mine.
As the nausea subsided, a dull ache throbbed in my stomach. I couldn’t even remember when this pain first began. During the worst days, I’d drink cold water just to numb it.
Dinner ended in suffocating silence. I was about to retreat upstairs to my old room when Irene stepped in front of me, her smile sweet but her eyes cutting.
Mrs. Bolton followed, handing me a document with an air of cool finality. “Amelia, let’s be realistic. Your current situation is no longer compatible with Gilbert’s status. He’s a director in the group now, and your criminal record is... unfortunate. It’s unbecoming. This is a divorce agreement. If you sign it, we’ll still help you get back on your feet.”
The words sliced through me like shards of ice. Everything they had—the life they lived now—was built on what once belonged to me. And now they wanted me to quietly disappear, as though I had never existed.
From the moment I stepped out of that prison, not one of them had truly cared about me. They didn’t ask how I survived or even if I was okay. I was the innocent one in all of this, but to them, I was just a stain on their perfect image.
Gilbert, seated at the table, glanced briefly at the document. His expression remained unreadable as he spoke. “I don’t agree to divorce.”
Mrs. Bolton and Irene froze, their shock evident.
“My position in the group is still precarious,” he explained casually. “If I divorce now, it could cause unnecessary complications.”
I let out a bitter laugh. How naive of me to think, even for a second, that he might harbor a shred of guilt, a flicker of care for me. He wasn’t fighting for me—he was protecting his own image, his future.
They didn’t care about me. Not my pain, not my survival, not my existence. All they cared about was themselves, their plans, their perfect little world.
Suddenly, I felt drained, as though my body and soul had been hollowed out. Without a word, I turned and headed for the stairs.
Before I could take a step, Irene’s sickly-sweet voice stopped me again. “Amelia, your room is downstairs now.”
She pointed toward a small, inconspicuous door tucked into the corner of the villa. It was a storage room once—a place for forgotten things.
This villa had been a gift from my father, my name etched into the property deed. But since my imprisonment, Gilbert had taken over everything. Now, even my most basic right to a room was stripped from me.
I stared at the door for a long moment, swallowing the lump in my throat. For now, even this would have to do. As long as my father was alive, I could start over.
The room was cramped and cluttered, filled with discarded items. My belongings were tossed carelessly into a corner, covered in a thick layer of dust, as though they too had been forgotten.
Determined, I grabbed a basin and set out to clean. As I passed by the study, faint voices drifted through the slightly ajar door.
"Amelia is back now. If you don’t divorce her soon, are you planning to let Irene stay by your side without a name or status?" Mrs. Bolton’s sharp voice carried from the study, cold and calculating.
After a pause, Gilbert’s voice followed, steady and indifferent. “She still has her father’s shares in the group. They account for a significant proportion. Divorcing her now would jeopardize my position.”
“Fine,” Mrs. Bolton replied, her tone softening with calculation. “Wait until you secure the shares, then divorce her. But when are you planning to tell her about her father’s death?”
Father’s death.
The words felt like a punch to the chest, leaving me breathless. My legs weakened, and for a moment, I couldn’t move. My mind struggled to process what I had just heard.
Irene’s voice jolted me back to reality. She stood behind me, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Amelia, is something the matter? Why don’t you go inside?”
I turned to face her, my body trembling. It took every ounce of strength to steady my voice. “When... when did my father die?”
The walls seemed to close in around me, and my heart felt as though it was being crushed.
“Oh,” Irene said lightly, as if she were discussing the weather. “Your father passed away about a week after you went to jail.”
The ground beneath me seemed to shift. My vision blurred with tears, but I forced myself to stay upright.
Gilbert stepped out of the study then, his expression shifting the moment he saw me. He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped as he noticed the storm brewing in my eyes.
I stumbled forward and grabbed his arm, clutching it tightly as if it could anchor me. “You promised,” I choked out, my voice trembling with anguish. “You said that if I went to jail for her, you would take care of my father. You swore it to me!”
My voice rose, raw and desperate, as tears spilled down my cheeks. “How could he die? How could you let this happen?”
