Chapter 4
Behind her, the heavy iron door of the Sterling family creaked shut.
Serena made no look back. Barefoot, she stepped into the torrential rain, her tattered dress clinging to her scarred body. The gravel cut into her feet, blood mixing with the mud, but the pain somehow dulled everything else. For a moment, it made her forget the deeper wound inside her.
She did not go to the hospital arranged by Vincent with "good intentions." She would never allow his money to touch her again.
She dialed a number she hadn't used in three years. It was the secret legal counsel of her late mother, whom she had distanced herself from to be Vincent's "obedient wife."
"Mr. Lee," she whispered into the microphone, her voice hoarse as a withered leaf. "I'm going to reclaim what's rightfully mine."
An hour later, a black Maybach came to a stop. An elderly man rushed out with an umbrella, his face pale. He was horrified to see the Cross family's former heir trembling, covered in blood and filth.
"Good heavens, Miss Cross... What have they done to you?"
"They killed the old me," she said, watching the rain wash away the bloodstains on her hands. Her eyes were dry, as if scorched by icy blue flames. "Take me away. Prepare the lawsuit. Not for divorce—I've already signed the divorce papers. It's for personal injury, defamation, and to reclaim the Cross family's shares."
That night at the private clinic, while doctors were suturing her wounds and treating her uterine infection, Serena refused anesthesia, wanting to remember the sensation of pain.
She gazed at her reflection on the cold metal tray. The woman appeared haggard, her face pale and gaunt.
She picked up the surgical scissors from the tray and deftly cut off her long jet-black hair—hair that Vincent had once said he loved most. The dark strands fell to the floor, lifeless as dead snakes.
When she looked up again, the gentle and obedient wife was gone.
The rain had stopped, but the Sterling family’s mansion felt heavier than ever, weighed down by a suffocating tension.
Vincent sat on the living room sofa, the ashtray before him already stuffed with cigarette butts. The wall clock struck two in the morning, and the woman had not returned.
"Vincent, don't wait up," Isabella said softly, gliding over in a silk nightgown with a warm glass of milk in her hand. "Serena's probably acting out. You know she'd swallow her pride just to stay with you—there's no way she'd really leave. After she cools off, she'll be back in the morning, begging for your forgiveness."
Vincent took the milk but didn't drink it. He rubbed his brow restlessly.
In the past, Serena would always apologize with trembling sincerity whenever he showed the slightest displeasure, even if the fault wasn't hers. But today, the emptiness in her eyes—so full of despair—felt like a splinter in his heart he couldn't pull out.
"Where's the security team?" Vincent suddenly asked. "Which hospital did she go to?"
Isabella's eyes flickered briefly as she told a lie. "The security guard said she refused to go to the hospital and ran away. Vincent, she must be fine. If she really had a miscarriage, how could she have run that far? She's just putting on a show of suffering for you."
Vincent snorted, seemingly convinced. "She just doesn't know what's good for her."
He rose and went upstairs, pushing open the door to the master bedroom. The room was dark, with Serena's signature faint cold fragrance still lingering in the air.
He turned on the bedside lamp and his eyes froze.
On the bedside table, the signed divorce agreement lay buried under a crystal ashtray, with a plain ring beside it.
These are their wedding rings.
After three years of marriage, Serena cherished this ring as her life's treasure, never taking it off even during showers or sleep. She said it was her only constant companion.
Now the ring lay there alone, its surface dull from dried blood. Beside it sat a black voice recorder and a USB drive, beneath which lay a note: THE TRUTH.
Vincent's heart clenched. He strode forward, his trembling hands grasping the ring. The inner rim still carried a damp, blood-stained scent, as if she'd ripped it off her finger with force.
A sinister premonition suddenly gripped him. Driven by an inexplicable urge, he grabbed the USB drive and plugged it into the nearby computer.
The screen turns on, and the first video file plays automatically.
The scene shows Isabella Wade standing at the stairwell. She crashes into the wall with a violent force, then rips her clothes to shreds. From her pocket, she pulls out a bloodied handkerchief and smears it across her face. Finally, she gives the camera a sinister grin and lets out a shrill scream: "Serena, don't push me! Ah!"
Vincent's pupils constricted sharply, nearly crushing the mouse in his hand. So this was what Isabella called Serena bullying her?
With trembling hands, he clicked open the second folder, revealing a detailed technical appraisal report and a reconstructed surveillance footage.
The report showed that the "adult video" that had sent him into a rage and led to his humiliating search of Serena was completely fake—created using AI face-swapping technology. IP address records traced the upload directly to Isabella Wade, who's pretending to be the victim.
With a loud bang, Vincent's mind went blank.
The truth was a heavy hammer that shattered his reason.
No betrayal, no bullying.
From start to finish, Serena was innocent. She bore all the slander, endured Isabella's treachery, and was ultimately cast into hell by the man she loved most.
"No... that's impossible..."
