She Died That Stormy Night
Chau · Ongoing · 5.1k Words
Introduction
When Vincent Sterling gave the order, Serena clutched her stomach in despair: "I'm carrying your baby!"
Vincent just lit a cigarette, watching coldly as the bodyguard’s boot slammed into her belly. "Get rid of it. I don't want anything filthy."
That night, to avenge his childhood sweetheart, Vincent personally killed his own flesh and blood, trampling his wife—whom he had loved for ten years—into the mud.
Later, the truth came to light.
The so-called "infidelity videos" are AI-generated, and the manipulative woman's pain is self-perpetuated.
Seeing the signed divorce agreement and the blood-stained ring, the arrogant Vincent went completely mad.
He knelt in the pouring rain for three days and nights, begging her to come back.
This time, Serena sat in her wheelchair, gazing down at him with an icy, detached gaze.
"Vincent, I don't hate you, but I hate you for being filthy."
Chapter 1
The video shows a woman who bears a striking resemblance to Serena entangled with two men in a hotel room. The audio is explicit, containing moans, vulgar language, and sounds of physical slapping.
Vincent Sterling stood before the screen with his back to Serena, clutching the remote control and his fingers turning pale.
"Turn it off," Serena pleaded, her face flushed with shame. She stood trembling in the center of the living room. "Vincent, that's not me. With deepfakes these days, anyone can make something like that!"
"What about Isabella Wade's attack?" Vincent turned around, his eyes bloodshot with disgust and fury. "Were those three thugs who surrounded her in the parking lot tonight also computer-programmed? Did her shirt get torn apart by deepfake technology?"
"I don't know what you're talking about!" Serena shouted, "I never hurt her!"
"Liar!" Vincent roared, hurling the remote control. It crashed against the wall beside her head, shattering into pieces. "She called me in tears! She said you ordered them to 'ruin' her, to make her filthy, so I'd never want her again."
He approached her, "Do you think just because you're a slut, others should follow your example?"
"I'm not a slut!" Serena took a step back and bumped into the edge of the sofa.
"That's not what the video says," Vincent sneered, slapping his hands twice.
The side door swung open, and ten men filed in. They circled the living room, surveying Serena from above like spectators at a dogfight.
"Since you enjoy sending men to strip women," Vincent said in a low, abusive tone, "let's see how you like it. If you love putting on a show for the cameras, then we'll have an audience for you."
Serena looked around and saw a wall of people blocking her path. Panic gripped her throat. "Vincent, what are you doing?"
"Take off her clothes," Vincent commanded, lighting a cigarette and sitting in the high-back chair. "Everything. I want to see if the woman in the video is the same person as the one in front of me."
"No!" Serena screamed, watching the crowd close in. "Vincent, you can't do this! I'm your wife!"
"You're a whore," he corrected coldly. "Go on."
Serena let out a gasp, her porcelain-skinned face suddenly exposed to the air. The black lace lingerie couldn't conceal the delicate curves of her pampered body. Under the gluttonous gazes of several burly men, her skin seemed almost translucent, and she shook like a deer caught in headlights.
"Vincent!" Serena blushed crimson with shame, clutching her chest with tattered cloth while her legs were locked together. "I'm your wife! How could you do this to me..."
Vincent stood in the shadows, his eyes cold and sharp, raking over her trembling figure before lingering on her waist, so slim it looked like it could break with a touch.
"Wife?" he sneered, stepping forward and his icy leather shoes lifted her shoulder strap, letting it slip abruptly.
Snap.
The shoulder strap pressed against the tender flesh, instantly turning it red.
"Is this body of yours meant for men's amusement?" Vincent's voice was hoarse with cruel lust. "Since you're so fond of seducing men, I'll make it happen. Strip her naked."
The bodyguard's calloused hand mercilessly gripped her waist and violently yanked off her final pair of underwear.
"Let me go!" Serena kicked and screamed, struggling desperately like a trapped beast. "Don't touch me!"
Rough hands were everywhere—on her shoulders, around her waist, and even gripping her bra. As she struggled, the men laughed loudly, treating her resistance as part of the game. "Take off her clothes!"
Serena fought with everything she had, but before she could break free, another man grabbed her and yanked down the zipper of her evening gown. She clung to the torn fabric in despair, but how could she possibly contend with the burly men?
Serena screamed, her voice breaking: "Vincent! I'm your wife! Are you out of your mind? How could you let them do this to me?!"
He growled, "Wife? You're nothing but a slut who sleeps around! Strip her down—make sure she's got nowhere to hide!"
"No—no—"
"Help me!"
She had never been so scared in her life.
Serena's tears began to roll down her cheeks.
She is his wife. How could he do such a thing to her?
No ...
Serena was mistaken. Did Vincent truly regard her as his wife?
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