Just as Cynthia was reaching her wit’s end, Michael called, demanding she rush to the club where he usually entertained his lovers—or he would reject her application on the spot.
The moment she stepped into the private room, Cynthia saw Michael locked in a slow, deep kiss with Hannah as the others cheered them on. Instinctively, she dropped her gaze.
Even so, she couldn’t miss the expensive new jewelry Hannah wore—especially the glass-jade bangle circling her wrist. That was a piece reserved only for the wife of the Michael family.
Right after their wedding, Michael had wrenched that same bangle from Cynthia’s arm. “You don’t deserve to wear this.”
“Sis Cynthia, I’m allergic to alcohol. You’ll have to handle this for me.”
Hannah’s face was flushed and smiling sweetly, but her eyes glittered with malice. Immediately, three glasses of strong liquor were set before Cynthia.
“…I had a cephalosporin injection today. I can’t drink.” Cynthia held out her right hand toward Michael.
Even under the swirling psychedelic lights, he could see the faint bluish needle marks on the back of her thin, pale hand, and her fingers thickly bandaged from frostbite—an unusually pitiful sight.
“Drink it yourself, or I’ll have someone help you drink it. Your choice.” Michael’s face stayed utterly indifferent, clearly disbelieving her.
Cynthia knew she had no choice. Taking a deep breath, she clumsily dialed 911.
“Hello, I need an ambulance. Someone at The S Club drank alcohol after a cephalosporin injection. Thank you.”
After hanging up, she drained all three glasses of liquor without expression.
“Wow! Sis Cynthia, you’re amazing… Michael, let’s keep playing!”
In the rounds that followed, Hannah began losing on purpose. More and more glasses of strong liquor piled up in front of Cynthia.
Cynthia said nothing, enduring the violent reaction building inside her. She drank one glass after another as calmly as if it were water—yet her cheeks flushed rapidly, and she gradually grew unsteady, swaying visibly on her feet.
Michael noticed. He knew Cynthia’s alcohol tolerance was high, honed through endless business negotiations and social rounds. This shouldn’t have been enough to drunk her.
He instinctively frowned, about to tell her to stop.
Suddenly, someone knocked at the private room door. An anonymous parcel had arrived for Hannah.
Curious, she opened it in front of everyone. Inside was a document envelope. Hannah glanced at the contents—then immediately broke down into hysterical sobs.
Photos spilled across the floor. With her vision already blurring, Cynthia strained to see: they were explicit pictures of Hannah, clearly taken under coercion.
“Sis Cynthia, I know you hate me! You can’t stand me being with Michael! Do I have to die before you’ll leave me alone?”
Screaming through her tears, Hannah snatched a paring knife from the table and plunged it into her own chest. Blood gushed out, some splattering across Michael’s face.
“Hannah!” He scooped her up and rushed out—just as the ambulance arrived. Paramedics ran upstairs with a stretcher; Michael laid Hannah onto it and turned to leave.
By now, Cynthia could no longer stand. She collapsed painfully to her knees, struggling even to breathe.
On the verge of suffocation, she mustered her last strength and carefully clutched the hem of Michael’s trousers. “Michael… save… save me. I… don’t want to die yet.”
“You’d be better off dead.” Tossing the words coldly over his shoulder, he kicked her hand away without looking back.
The back of Cynthia’s head struck the sharp corner of the coffee table with a heavy thud—and the world before her eyes went completely dark.
