Chapter 3
Celeste's POV
"Please forgive me! I really didn't mean to!"
I knelt on the marble floor of the Hartwell estate, my knees numb from kneeling. Mr. Hartwell looked down at me from above.
"Forgiveness? You hurt my son! Nothing you say matters now!"
Ten hours ago, Tommy's severe injuries had enraged the Hartwell family. They threatened commercial retaliation against our family. Facing this threat, my parents decided to hand me over to them.
I had tried to defend myself: "I didn't push Tommy! It was Vivienne! I can testify!"
"SHUT UP!" Dad snapped harshly. "Still trying to shift blame at a time like this!"
"We can check the surveillance! There are cameras in the second-floor game room!"
This made Vivienne's face instantly pale, and she instinctively grabbed Allen's arm.
But Dad looked at me coldly: "The surveillance system broke yesterday. It didn't capture anything."
I was stunned. It had been working fine during the maintenance check the day before.
Mom also sided with Dad: "Celeste, you must take responsibility! Do you know how important the Hartwell family is to our company?"
"ENOUGH!" Dad's face was livid. "So what if Vivienne really did push him? She's so sick right now—can she handle this kind of stress?"
I was completely desperate. Even though they knew the truth in their hearts, they still wanted me as their scapegoat.
I turned to Allen, my eyes pleading: "Allen, you believe me, don't you?"
He avoided my gaze, turned to the crying Vivienne, and finally spoke through gritted teeth: "Celeste, maybe you just need to apologize. After all, Tommy really was hurt. We need to give the Hartwells some kind of answer."
Looking at this man who had once promised to protect me for life, my heart died completely.
"Fine. I'll go."
Now, kneeling on this cold marble floor, I finally understood what real hell was like.
The Hartwell family's punishment was cruelly beyond imagination. They forced me to kneel on a platform covered with thorns all night, the spikes piercing my knees. The cold wind cut like knives, and they poured ice water on me. Then the butler continuously whipped my back with a leather whip. I could only grit my teeth and endure, not daring to show any weakness.
During this time, not a single family member came to see me.
On the third day, the elderly patriarch of the Hartwell family hobbled in.
"This is the woman who hurt my precious great-grandson?" The old man pointed his cane at me.
"She's been punished for three days already..." the butler whispered beside him.
"NOT ENOUGH!" The old man suddenly struck my shoulder hard with his cane. "My Tommy is still unconscious in the hospital! Why is she still alive?"
I was knocked off balance and fell to the ground. The old man wasn't satisfied and kicked me in the abdomen.
"I want her DEAD! Anyone who dares hurt a Hartwell child doesn't deserve to live!"
The cane fell on me again and again. I curled up on the ground, experiencing unprecedented agony. Suddenly, I felt a tearing pain in my lower abdomen.
Warm liquid flowed down my legs. I reached down and touched it—all blood.
More and more blood came. My consciousness began to blur. I knew something precious was leaving me.
When I woke up again, I finally realized what had happened—I had miscarried. I lost a child I didn't even know existed.
When Allen came to take me home, his face changed drastically seeing my dying condition.
"My God, Celeste! How did you get hurt this badly?" He was shocked as he helped me up.
I looked at him weakly: "This is the result you wanted."
"I had a miscarriage," I said calmly. "Our child is gone."
Allen froze: "What? Child? What child?"
"I was six weeks pregnant, but not anymore. I lost it when they were beating and kicking me."
Allen's face went pale: "Celeste... I didn't know... I really didn't know you were pregnant..."
"Now you know." I walked past him. "Let's go home."
When we got home, my parents showed superficial concern seeing my condition.
"My God, Celeste, how did you get hurt this badly!" Mom exclaimed.
"The Hartwells went too far!" Dad said indignantly, but then immediately added: "But this is good—at least they've cooled down and our partnership is saved."
When Allen told them about my miscarriage, their first reaction wasn't sympathy—it was worry.
"Will... will this affect the surgery for Vivienne?" Mom asked nervously.
"The doctor said your physical condition is still okay, right?" Dad was also worried. "The surgery can't be delayed any longer."
Looking at them, my heart died completely. Even at a time like this, all they cared about was whether my kidney could still be used normally.
Vivienne weakly approached: "Sister, you've suffered so much... it's all my fault. If it weren't for saving me..."
Her words were touching, with tears in her eyes, but I caught a flash of triumph in her gaze.
"It's fine," I said flatly. "I didn't want that child anyway."
This statement stunned everyone. Vivienne pretended to be sad: "Sister, don't say that. Every child is an angel..."
I had no energy left to play games with her and dragged my battered body toward my room.
A few days later, when my body had recovered slightly, Vivienne took us to a "professional medical facility."
"Sacred Heart Medical Center," she said weakly. "Dr. Martinez is an authority in organ transplantation."
On departure day, our car drove for a long time, and the surroundings became increasingly desolate.
"Why is it so remote?" Allen frowned.
"A quiet environment is conducive to recovery," Vivienne explained softly.
Finally, the car stopped in front of an ordinary-looking building. It looked more like a converted warehouse than a hospital.
Dr. Martinez was a middle-aged man with thick glasses and an accent. He looked at me strangely, as if evaluating merchandise.
"Need comprehensive examination. Blood type, tissue matching, all organ function indicators need detailed testing. Hospital observation for several days required."
"Does it need to be this complicated?" Allen was puzzled.
"Professional surgery must be absolutely cautious," Dr. Martinez waved impatiently.
After completing admission procedures, I lay in the crude hospital room, watching my family excitedly discuss post-surgery arrangements.
No one asked how I felt. No one cared about my fear and pain.
Just then, I received a call from my lawyer.
"Is this Ms. Celeste Cooper?"
"Yes."
"Regarding the will you commissioned us to prepare, confirming that all assets will be left to your parents and husband?"
This was a will I had secretly drawn up a few days ago. I left everything to these people, including a substantial insurance payout they didn't know about.
Looking at the dark night outside, seeing their excited discussion reflected in the glass window, I said calmly:
"Yes, leave everything to them."
What would their expressions be when they found out what I'd leave them after my death?
I thought numbly—soon, everything would be over.
