The CEO's Shattered Doll

"Phoebe, I'm asking you one more time. Why did you deliberately try to run Vivian over?"

Noah White's voice was cold as ice.

In the private billiard room of the exclusive club, Phoebe Foster knelt on shattered glass. Shards pierced her knees, blood soaking through the expensive carpet beneath her.

She trembled with pain but didn't dare move an inch.

"It wasn't me, Noah. I swear it wasn't." Phoebe gritted her teeth as she looked up at him.

Before she could finish, Noah's foot connected with her shoulder, sending her backward. Her back slammed into more glass fragments, pain shooting through her body so intensely she nearly blacked out.

"You're still lying to me!" Noah looked down at her, fury blazing in his eyes. "Vivian is in the hospital. Her legs are ruined! She'll never dance again! Phoebe, you're a dancer too—you know exactly what this means for her!"

"I didn't do it!"

Phoebe screamed with every ounce of strength left in her body. Blood and tears mingled on her face, making her look utterly wretched.

"It was her. She set me up!"

"Set you up?" Noah's laugh was devoid of humor.

He approached step by step, the pool cue in his hand dragging across the floor with an ominous sound.

"Why would she set you up? Because you're pretty? Or because you're the Foster heiress?" His gaze was filled with contempt. "Phoebe, you disgust me."

No one in Port Linden had more influence than the White family, and as their only heir, Noah held all the cards.

And Phoebe, heiress to the renowned Foster family, was a graduate of a prestigious university and the principal dancer for Port Linden's premier dance company.

She had loved Noah since childhood, following him like a shadow for years, using all her passion and courage to finally win his agreement to their engagement.

She loved him so much—why would she be stupid enough to ruin her hard-won happiness by running over Vivian Bell?

But no matter how she explained, how she pleaded, Noah wouldn't believe a single word. He only believed what he had seen, what Vivian had told him.

She stared at the pool cue in his hand, and a terrifying thought crossed her mind.

"No, Noah, please don't."

She struggled to move backward, the glass cutting deeper wounds into her skin, but she seemed beyond feeling the pain now.

"Please believe me."

Noah stopped in front of her and slowly raised the pool cue.

"You destroyed Vivian's leg," he said emotionlessly. "Now you'll pay with yours."

"No!"

The pool cue came down hard on Phoebe's left leg.

Her scream echoed through the room, cold sweat soaking through her clothes.

The agony made her vision blur, her body convulsing uncontrollably.

Noah tossed the pool cue aside and crouched down, looking at Phoebe's face contorted in pain.

"Remember this pain," he said coldly. "This leg is your payment to Vivian. As for what's between us—we'll settle that slowly."

He took out his phone and, right in front of her, dialed a number and put it on speaker.

A man's voice came through. "Hello?"

It was her father, William Foster.

"Mr. Foster," Noah said, "this is Noah White. Your daughter Phoebe is in my custody for attempted murder. The police will be here shortly."

"What? That's impossible!" William's voice rose sharply. "Noah, there must be some misunderstanding!"

"Misunderstanding?" Noah scoffed. "I witnessed it myself. The evidence is overwhelming. Mr. Foster, do you think the police will believe this is a misunderstanding?"

He paused, his tone growing colder.

"You have two choices. One, cut all ties with this would-be murderer daughter of yours, and I'll ensure Foster Enterprises remains intact. Two, stand by her, and I'll make Foster Enterprises disappear from Port Linden tomorrow. Your choice."

There was a long silence on the other end.

William's heavy, suppressed breathing filled the void. Through the phone, he could faintly hear his daughter's agonized moans.

After a while, William's hoarse voice finally returned. "She's no daughter of mine."

Phoebe suddenly laughed—a desolate, hollow sound.

So she was just another disposable pawn for the family's interests.

Three years later, at the Wellington Women's Correctional Facility.

"Inmate 0721, you're released! Get your things and move it!"

The iron door opened. Phoebe emerged carrying a plastic bag containing a few old clothes and some dollars in change. She limped forward, her gait uneven.

Three years in prison had changed her. Her long hair was cut short, her face gaunt, her eyes sunken, with several faint scars marking her once-flawless skin.

Her left leg was obviously impaired, each step slow and deliberate.

The winter wind was harsh. Phoebe wrapped her thin jacket tighter around herself and boarded a public bus.

The bus was nearly empty. She found a window seat and sank into it.

She leaned her head against the cold window, her eyes vacant as she watched the scenery blur past.

Suddenly, the bus screeched to a halt. Phoebe's head slammed against the window, making her dizzy.

"Damn it! Learn to drive!" the bus driver shouted, leaning out his window.

A black Maybach had stopped in the middle of the road. The bus had nearly rear-ended it.

The driver got out angrily to confront the other vehicle, but returned quickly, his face pale.

He rushed to Phoebe, his voice trembling. "Ma'am, please get off the bus now! That man out there seems to be looking for you, and I can't afford trouble with him!"

Confused but having no choice, Phoebe stood up. As she stepped off the bus, her foot slipped, and she fell awkwardly into the snow by the door.

She struggled to get up but froze when she saw a pair of polished black leather shoes appear before her.

Then a black umbrella opened, shielding her from the falling snow.

Phoebe looked up and felt her body go rigid when she saw the handsome, aloof Noah.

He looked the same as ever—dressed in an expensive black coat, exuding an air of privilege and detachment.

Those eyes looking down at her were colder than they had been three years ago, filled with undisguised disgust.

"Phoebe," he spoke, his voice devoid of warmth, "seeing me again, and you don't even have the courtesy to say hello?"

Phoebe bit her lip, her hands pressing into the snow as she tried to stand, but her left leg wouldn't cooperate.

She dug her fingers into the snow, lowered her head to hide her tears, and spoke with a trembling voice.

"Mr. White... it's been a while."

Noah looked down at her, taking in her transformation. She was certainly unrecognizable from the vivacious Foster heiress she had once been.

But he wasn't surprised. After all, what could one expect after three years in prison?

"You've really changed," he said with a mocking smile.

Phoebe bit her lip harder, summoning all her strength to finally stand up from the snow. Not wanting to endure any more humiliation, she turned silently to leave.

"Prison was just a waiting room, Phoebe," He whispered, grabbing her wrist. "Welcome back to the real torture."