"Leon, I'm so heartbroken."
After that, she spent the four years she should have been in prison receiving an education, traveling the world.
So did my mother, who she repeatedly ran over and killed in her car dozens of times, deserve this?
I covered my mouth and swallowed back tears.
With trembling hands, I saved the evidence and logged out.
A new text message popped up on my phone, from a completely unfamiliar address. But every house there is worth hundreds of billions.
I smiled bitterly and touched the pregnancy test report in my pocket.
I don't want either the child or you.
Suddenly, a familiar voice rang out.
"What do you want?"
I realized then that I had just let my heart slip. Without wiping my tears, I turned and hugged Leon.
"Leon, I miss you."
I felt his body stiff for a moment, then relaxed. He kissed away my tears, his eyes full of the tenderness I'd grown to trust.
"For the rest of your life, you still have me."
You?
But Leon, are you really still with me in your heart?
He held me, sensing the wrongness in the air. "What's wrong? Who upsets you?"
"Leon, are you hiding something from me?" I asked.
His clear eyes reflected my face. He laughed softly. "How could I? What nonsense are you reading online?"
"Really?" I pulled away from him. "Then I want to go to Manhattan Correctional Facility to see Lila."
Everything froze. His voice went hoarse. "What are you talking about? Why would you go see her when all this time—"
I cut him off. "Lila isn't in prison, is she?"
"In these four years, she's only been in jail for three days, right?"
"Leon, please speak!"
By the time I finished, my eyes were burning and my nails had torn my skin. Leon grabbed my hands, prying them apart to stop me from hurting myself. "Okay, Claire, listen. I can explain."
His phone buzzed—three short tones and one long. He'd called the emergency contact pattern his assistant, and he used it. I had believed him for four years without checking once. Today I glanced, but he was quicker than I was; he hung up without answering.
"Claire, I have to handle an urgent matter. I'll explain when I return." He fumbled for words to soothe me, and I said, "Okay." The blood on my fingertips stained the sheets, and he didn't look at it. He used to change the sheets himself.
Leon told the servants to clean and hurried to put on his shoes. He left the room. His phone rang again; this time, I wasn't beside him, and he answered right away. The tenderness in his voice sounded real. "Brother didn't mean to hang up on you... Be good, stop causing trouble." "What do you want to eat? I'll queue and buy it for you." "I'll stay with you tonight, don't cry."
I knew he wouldn't return tonight. But what I had said was also true: I would find Lila. I wanted her dead.
--
I stared at the surveillance feed, watching Mr. Leon—the business tycoon often featured in financial news—actually queuing at a street food stall. People recognized him; they lifted their phones to record and whisper.
He stood there, ordinary and exposed—no chauffeur, no blacked-out car—just a man in a simple jacket, waiting for his snack as if nothing rotten had ever happened. A shallow, public intimacy that made me sick. My hands trembled. I wiped my face, imagined Lila’s quiet suffering, and promised myself, in that instant, I would unmask every lie and drag the truth into the light now.
