People often said Ninette Simpson was just a pretty face with nothing going on behind it.

She had the face of a doll, but it was overshadowed by dowdy gray suits, clunky black-rimmed glasses, and a vacant stare, leaving her colorless and invisible to everyone.

At gatherings where socialites vied for the spotlight, she always lingered at the edge of the room, quietly drinking water and waiting for the night to end.

No one knew it was a deliberate disguise.

Everything began with her adoptive mother, Denise Peters.

Denise was once a brilliant woman whose talent outshone everyone. Her radiance sparked the envy of the family's powerful matriarch. Before long, a staged "accident" left Denise disfigured and crippled; she ultimately died in despair.

As she lay dying, Denise gripped Ninette's hand with desperate strength, her nails digging into Ninette's skin. "Nina... listen to me. Stay unremarkable until you have the power to fight. Hide what makes you shine. Don't give them a reason to destroy you."

Ninette heeded her warning.

From then on, she pretended to be slow, harmless, and forgettable, becoming the family's most disappointing illegitimate daughter, someone her stepmother, Gretchen Simpson, felt most comfortable keeping around.

In her desperate climb up the social ladder, Gretchen used her as a pawn, subjecting her to a series of degrading blind dates.

At yet another blind date, Ninette found herself seated in a private room at an exclusive club.

Sitting across from her was a bald businessman in his fifties, his lecherous gaze roaming over her as his bloated face twisted in contempt.

"Ms. Simpson," he said, his breath reeking of alcohol. "Your stepmother sang your praises. But now that I see you... You're a total turn-off."

Ninette lowered her gaze, tracing the pattern on the tablecloth, and stayed silent.

"What, can't talk?" His irritation flared. "With the way you look, you should be grateful someone like me even showed up. Take a good look at yourself!"

Ninette's fingers clenched against her knees.

Mistaking her silence for submission, he grew bolder. He lifted his glass and splashed the red wine onto her gray blouse.

"Wake up. You're pathetic!"

The cold liquid soaked through her collar. Ninette snapped her head up. Just as she was about to lash out, a deep, cold voice came from the doorway.

"Chop off that hand."

Ninette turned and met a pair of unreadable eyes.

The man stood half in shadow, dressed in a perfectly-tailored black suit. His features were sharp and striking, and he exuded a chilling, forbidding air that kept the world at bay.

He was none other than Jermaine Fullerton—the head of his family, notorious for his ruthlessness and feared by Los Angeles's elite.

"M-Mr. Fullerton!" The businessman sobered instantly, collapsing to his knees.

Jermaine didn't even look at him. He simply lifted a hand toward his bodyguards.

Moments later, screams echoed down the hall as the man was dragged away.

Jermaine stepped inside, removed his jacket, faintly smelling of smoke, and draped it over Ninette's shoulders.

"Put it on."

Ninette sat there, stunned, clutching the still-warm coat.

"You're a Simpson?" He looked down at her, his gaze as indifferent as if he were inspecting a soulless object. "If you don't want people treating you like trash, learn to use the power around you."

Then, he turned and left.

As Ninette watched him leave, her heart, long ago rendered numb, felt a sudden, sharp flutter.

He was now seared into her mind.

Before Ninette could figure out how to repay him, Jermaine and his assistant showed up at the Simpson's residence.

"Ms. Simpson." He sat in the run-down living room of the Simpson's residence, posture relaxed, expression detached, as if he were finalizing a contract rather than discussing a marriage. "Your reputation isn't great, and you're not particularly sharp socially. But your background is decent. I need a wife who will do as she's told."

Ninette froze.

"Why me?" she asked. "I'm... boring."

Jermaine looked at her, his gaze calm and unreadable. "Boring is safe. And you seem... low maintenance."

That was his conclusion about her—low maintenance. And yet, at that moment, it sparked a hope she had never dared to embrace.

Denise had warned her that standing out only brought disaster.

She had hidden herself so well, yet he still chose her.

She believed this was her chance for a normal, happy life.

Two years into the marriage, Jermaine had indeed given Ninette a stable life she'd never known before.

He never forced her into the role of a wife. He didn't touch her unless she wanted it. Still, when she was on her period, the staff would bring her hot chocolate without being asked. When Gretchen tried to give her trouble, a single phone call from him was enough to send the Simpson Group's stock price into freefall.

There was even a time the two of them were inspecting a construction site when the scaffolding suddenly collapsed.

In that split second, Jermaine didn't hesitate. He threw himself over her, shielding her with his body.

A steel pipe struck his back and arm, letting out a dull cracking sound.

Ninette woke up in the hospital. Ignoring the dizziness from her concussion, she ran barefoot toward the emergency room.

She had just reached the door when she heard Gerard Fullerton shouting in fury, "Jerry! You were willing to risk your life for that dull woman? What about her is worth it?"

Ninette's hand froze in midair.

Then, Jermaine's voice echoed—weak, but calm.

"Grandpa, you know what I'm setting up."

"Of course, I do. It's for Amelia Wilson!" Gerard snapped, slamming his cane down. "You're using Ninette, that invisible nobody, as a shield so those old geezers let their guard down, and then you'll sneak Amelia back. But I'm telling you now—Amelia is the daughter of a criminal. She'll never be allowed into our family."

Ninette stood outside the door, her blood turning cold.

"What are they talking about?" she thought. "Amelia Wilson? Who's that?"

A wave of disbelief and fear swept over her.

Like a puppet with its strings cut, she backed away and returned to her ward.

With trembling fingers, she called a hacker friend.

"Help me investigate Jermaine Fullerton and a woman named Amelia Wilson. I want the whole picture."

The wait felt unbearably long.

Gerard's words and Jermaine's calm response echoed in her mind.

Only then did she understand that the warmth he'd given her was to clear the way for someone else.

A notification sounded.

The email arrived.

She opened it. Dense files and photos filled the screen, stinging her eyes.

Amelia was a well-known ballet dancer and Jermaine's childhood sweetheart.

Three years earlier, the Wilson family collapsed due to financial crimes. Amelia was forced to go abroad, and the Fullerton family set a strict rule—daughters from disgraced families would never be allowed in.

To protect Amelia, Jermaine pretended to comply with the family's arrangements. Through data screening, he chose Ninette—the softest, most insignificant, and easiest to control.

He married her to reassure the family, to present the image of an obedient puppet, while secretly transferring assets and preparing to bring Amelia back.

Everything now made sense.

He didn't marry her because she was low maintenance. He married her because she was useless enough.

Among all the candidates, she blended into the background best—perfect for hiding the woman he truly cared about.

Even shielding her that day wasn't love. She couldn't be discarded yet, and his plan couldn't afford disruption.

Ninette stared at the screen. The smile tugging at her lips turned bitter.

Then, her tears fell, blurring her vision.

Denise had warned her not to trust men. She hadn't listened, and now the consequences had arrived.

For two years, she had carefully offered up her sincerity, only for Jermaine to use it to pave the way for Amelia's return.

She sat on the hospital bed until dawn.

Then, she wiped her tears and called Gerard's private number.

Her voice was frighteningly calm. "I want a divorce."

There was a brief silence, followed by Gerard's cold snort.

"So you've thought it through? Or are you trying to extort money?" he said disdainfully. "A woman like you occupying a spot in our family is an eyesore. Since you've got a bit of self-awareness left, name your price."

"I don't want a single penny," Ninette said. "I just want this relationship to end immediately. If you can help me, I'll be grateful."

Gerard clearly hadn't expected that. His tone carried a trace of satisfaction.

"Fine. As long as you're willing to leave, I'll have the divorce agreement sent over. I'll handle Jerry."

After hanging up, Ninette pulled the IV needle from the back of her hand and left the hospital.

When she returned to the mansion she once called home, she did only one thing.

She cleaned.

Everything Jermaine had given her over the past two years—the scarves, the jewelry, even the emerald bracelet meant to symbolize his commitment—was swept into trash bags.

It was as if she were sweeping away her wishful thinking.

Three days later, Jermaine was discharged from the hospital and returned home.

His right arm was in a cast. His face was pale, yet he was still striking enough that it was hard to look away.

"Why didn't you turn on the lights?" he asked. His tone was as cool as ever, though there was a faint, almost imperceptible softness mixed in. "Janet said you haven't had much of an appetite these past few days."

Ninette sat in the corner of the couch, quietly watching him.

Once, this face had been her salvation. Now, it felt like the cruelest disguise.

Jermaine didn't notice anything unusual about her, or perhaps he never truly paid attention to her in the first place.

He glanced at his watch, then took her hand with his left. "Today's your birthday. It's also our wedding anniversary. I reserved an emerald at a jewelry store in South LA. It can be made into a necklace for good luck. Let's go pick a design."

In the past, Ninette would have been flattered and quietly overjoyed.

Now, all she felt was a bone-deep chill.

Still, she didn't refuse.

"Okay," she said softly.

Jermaine took her to a jewelry store that catered exclusively to top-tier VIP clients.

They had barely entered the private room when his phone vibrated.

"I need to take this," he said, releasing her hand and walking over to the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Ninette stood at the counter, her expression unreadable.

She pointed at a high-quality emerald piece. "I'll take this one. Please wrap it up."

"I want that one."

A clear, pleasant female voice sounded behind her, carrying a hint of willfulness.

Ninette turned around, and her blood froze.

It was Amelia.

The woman who had looked so aloof and proud in the photos was now standing right in front of her.

She wore a white custom dress, her presence refined and distant. Every glance and smile carried the ease of someone who had always been indulged. She looked at the emerald Ninette had chosen with a half-smile.

"Sorry," Amelia said as she stepped forward, graceful in movement but sharp in tone. "I had my eye on this piece, too. I know it's first come, first served, but..."

Her gaze swept over Ninette's cheap gray cardigan and stiff, black-framed glasses. A mocking smile curved at her lips. "Emeralds choose their wearers. A piece like this is wasted on someone who doesn't understand it. Miss, why don't you give it up?"

Ninette's fingers tightened slightly, her nails scraping against the cold glass counter.

"I'm not giving it up." She turned to the manager. "Run the card."

Amelia's smile stiffened. She reached out and pressed her hand down on the box.

"Miss, you should know your place. Does your outfit really match a piece like this? Why don't you name the price? I'll pay you double. Don't be ungrateful."

They stood locked in place, the air tense.

"What's going on?"

Jermaine's low voice cut in. He had ended the call and walked over, a slight frown between his brows as he took in the scene.

When Amelia saw him, the sharpness in her eyes instantly softened, though her hand remained firmly on the box.

"Jerry? What a coincidence. You're here, too?"

Her gaze flicked between him and Ninette, then she put on a look of sudden realization. "This is... your wife, isn't it? Oh, if I'd known she was your wife, I wouldn't have argued. She can have the emerald."

As she spoke, she released the box, generous enough to make her earlier behavior seem like a misunderstanding.

But in the next second, Jermaine reached out, picked up the box, and handed it directly to Amelia.

"No need." He looked at her with a softness Ninette had never seen. "This emerald is of high quality. It suits your complexion. Take it."

A flash of satisfaction crossed Amelia's eyes. She accepted the box, shot Ninette a provocative glance, and turned to try it on.

Ninette's hand remained frozen in midair.

She slowly pulled it back. Her palm bore marks where her nails had broken the skin, but the pain didn't compare to what she felt in her chest.

Only then did Jermaine turn to her. His tone was casual, as though he was dealing with a minor inconvenience.

"Ninette, Amelia is an old family friend. She just got back and can be a little willful. It's only an emerald. Pick something else."

Ninette lifted her head and looked straight into his eyes through the thick lenses.

"Why don't you just be honest? You said it suits her better. Isn't that just another way of saying someone like me doesn't deserve something this good and that I should be grateful for leftovers?"

Jermaine froze for a moment.

He seemed caught off guard that the always-quiet, compliant Ninette would speak so sharply—or that she would tear away the pretense so directly.

"I didn't mean that," he said, quickly returning to his usual coolness, impatience slipping into his voice. "If I looked down on you, why would I have married you?"

"Why marry me?" she thought.

The words hit like a slap.

"Yes, why bother?" Ninette mused.

It was because her mediocrity was just right, so she was the perfect shield and the perfect smokescreen to lower the Fullerton family's guard.

For more than 20 years, Ninette had learned to survive by enduring ridicule.

Jermaine was different.

Over the past two years, the occasional warmth he showed, how he had shielded her beneath the wreckage, had given her a fragile illusion of something called home.

And now, he was the one shattering it, calmly and cruelly.

This quiet torture cut deeper than any outright blow.

She bit down hard on her lower lip, swallowing the metallic taste rising in her throat. Without another word, she walked to the opposite counter and pointed at an old-fashioned emerald brooch.

At that moment, Amelia came back out.

The emerald rested against her slender neck, clear and radiant. It suited her perfectly.

"Ms. Wilson, you look stunning!" the staff said sincerely. "It looks like it was made for you."

Jermaine's gaze landed on her.

His eyes were dark, reflecting Amelia's figure. The longing and relief hidden there, though tightly restrained, still burned Ninette's eyes like sparks.

That was a look he had never given her.

Her heart felt as though it was being crushed, the pain nearly suffocating.

"Jerry, does it look good on me?" Amelia asked with a bright smile, glancing sideways at Ninette.

"Yes, it does." Jermaine nodded, his tone confident.

Amelia's smile deepened.

She walked over and naturally looped her arm through his. "By the way, I heard you're celebrating Ninette's birthday tonight. At the top floor of The Perch?"

"Yes," Jermaine replied, not pulling his arm away.

"I haven't eaten yet either," Amelia said, looking at Ninette with an innocent smile. "Ninette, you don't mind adding one more place setting, right? I'd like to celebrate with you, too."

Before Ninette could respond, Jermaine answered for her, "Of course not. Let's go together."

The top-floor banquet hall of The Perch was extravagant and dazzling.

The birthday party Jermaine hosted for Ninette was lavish beyond expectation. Nearly half of Los Angeles' elite were in attendance.

Ninette stood beside him in a plain gray dress and thick, black-framed glasses that hid half her face. Next to the radiant Jermaine, she looked like someone who didn't belong—out of place, like an unnecessary backdrop.

The looks directed at her were sharp and undisguised, needling her with open mockery.

"Mr. Fullerton really has unusual tastes. How does he put up with someone that dull?"

"Look at how timid she is. There's no way she carries herself like a high-society lady. It's honestly pathetic."

"Keep it down. I heard she's just for show."

The whispers buzzed around her nonstop. Ninette stood rigid, her expression blank, as if she couldn't hear them at all.

Midway through the party, Jermaine presented her with a gift in front of everyone—a rare set of pink diamond jewelry.

The moment the box was opened, the room erupted in murmurs of envy.

"Thank you." Ninette took the box, her tone as flat as if she were accepting a delivery.

Amelia arrived last.

The moment she appeared, the room seemed to fall silent. Her shimmering custom gown and flawless makeup instantly made her the center of attention.

"Sorry I'm late, Jerry," Amelia said as she strode over, smiling graciously. "I didn't prepare a gift for Ninette. I hope you don't mind. Why don't I dance instead, to liven things up?"

She turned to Jermaine, her eyes bright. "Jerry, I remember you were very good at ballroom dancing. How about a dance? It'll be a dedication dance to Ninette."

The crowd immediately stirred.

"Mr. Fullerton, do it!"

"They're such a perfect pair! They absolutely have to dance!"

"Come on, let us see!"

Jermaine looked at Amelia's outstretched hand, then glanced at Ninette beside him, head lowered and silent. His gaze darkened slightly. In the end, he took Amelia's hand and led her onto the dance floor.

A waltz began.

At the center of the floor, the man was upright and composed, the woman elegant and poised. Every turn and every glance matched seamlessly, as if they belonged together.

The surrounding chatter grew louder, no longer restrained.

"That's what a real lady of the Fullerton family should look like."

"Look at Ninette standing there. She looks like staff."

"What a waste for Mr. Fullerton. He's shackled to that embarrassment."

Each word cut into Ninette's dignity like a poisoned blade.

She felt like she couldn't breathe.

She turned away and fled to the terrace.

The night wind was sharp, clearing away the cloying perfume from the hall. Ninette gripped the railing tightly, her knuckles whitening.

Steady footsteps sounded behind her.

A warm suit jacket was draped over her shoulders, and the familiar scent of pine surrounded her.

Jermaine wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on the top of her head.

"Why are you hiding out here?" he asked quietly. "Don't take those women's gossip to heart. You're my wife. No one would really dare do anything to you."

Ninette's body stiffened. She didn't turn around.

Jermaine took her silence for sulking. He tightened his arms slightly and softened his tone, coaxing her in a way he rarely did. "Nina, I've said it before—you're low maintenance. That's enough. Don't worry about what others think. I'll protect you."

"Protect me?" she thought.

Her eyes burned, and she almost laughed.

"You call this protection?" Ninette mused. "Leaving your wife in front of everyone to dance with your first love? This is humiliation, not protection."

Seeing her still silent, Jermaine assumed his reassurance had worked. He tilted his head, and his warm lips landed unexpectedly against her neck in a tentative, intimate gesture.

Ninette shuddered and instinctively tried to push him away.

Just then, the glass door to the terrace was flung open.

Amelia stood there, her smile frozen as she stared at Jermaine holding Ninette, his face buried at her neck. Her eyes reddened instantly, tears welling up.

"I-I'm sorry... I didn't know..."

Her voice trembled. Before she could finish, she covered her mouth, turned, and ran, her retreating figure frantic and pitiful.

Jermaine released Ninette almost reflexively. His expression changed at once as his gaze locked onto the direction Amelia disappeared, the panic and urgency in his eyes impossible to hide.

Jermaine pulled his gaze away quickly. Irritation crept into his voice as he said to Ninette, almost as an afterthought, "Don't read too much into what just happened. You're my wife—no one can take that away. I've got something urgent. I need to make a call."

With that, he turned and strode off in the direction Amelia had gone.

Ninette stood there in the cold night air, staring at the empty doorway. A faint, mocking smile touched her lips.

Staying even one more second at this so-called birthday party felt unbearable.

She dropped the suit jacket that still carried his body heat and walked out of the restaurant alone.

She had barely reached the driveway when someone stepped directly into her path.

It was Amelia.

The tear stains at the corners of her eyes hadn't fully dried, yet her expression was already hard. Arms crossed, she looked Ninette over with arrogance.

"Can't take it anymore, Ninette?" Amelia let out a soft laugh, sweet but cutting. "The show isn't even over yet. Why are you running away? Did it sting, watching Jerry chase after me?"

Ninette didn't want to engage. She tried to walk past her.

"Stop!" Amelia grabbed her wrist. "Let's talk about Jerry and this ridiculous marriage. There are things you deserve to know."

"Let go." Ninette's voice was flat and cold.

"What, are you scared?" Amelia tightened her grip, her nails digging into Ninette's skin. "You know you're just a placeholder, right? Jerry's never touched you, has he? He thinks you're disgusting."

"Let go!" Ninette wrenched her arm free.

They struggled near the edge of the driveway.

Amelia was wearing stilettos. Her foot slipped, and she cried out as she fell backward, instinctively clutching Ninette's sleeve.

Ninette lost her balance.

"Beep!"

The piercing sound of horns and screeching brakes cut through the night.

In the chaos, Ninette felt a violent impact. The world spun as her body hit the pavement hard. Pain exploded at her forehead, and a warm liquid streamed down her face, blurring her vision.

Amelia's scream rang in her ears—sharp, distorted.

As Ninette's consciousness began to fade, everything around her dissolved into noise. She heard running footsteps, panicked shouts, and the wail of sirens.

Through the haze, she saw Jermaine running toward her. For the first time, the man who never seemed shaken wore a look of pure, uncontrolled fear.

Then, she heard the paramedics speaking urgently.

"Mr. Fullerton! Both women are in critical condition. We don't have enough stretchers—we have to prioritize one. Ms. Wilson has a leg fracture that could affect her ballet career. Ms. Simpson has a serious head wound, with possible brain injury."

Ninette forced her eyes open, desperate to see what choice he would make.

Then, Jermaine spoke, his voice decisive, cold, and without hesitation.

"Save Amelia first. She's a dancer. Her legs can't be injured."

"What about Mrs. Fullerton—"

"She doesn't matter. As long as she survives, that's enough. If her face is ruined, so be it."

"Doesn't matter, huh?" Ninette mused.

Those words cut through her like a rusted blade, severing the last fragile hope she had clung to.

The truth was, she was dull and disposable. She was a tool that didn't matter, even if she was disfigured or if her brain was damaged.

On the other hand, Amelia was noble and elegant. She simply couldn't be harmed.

Ninette closed her eyes and let the darkness take her.

When she woke again, she was in a ward heavy with the smell of disinfectant.

The ward was empty. The only sound was the steady drip of the IV.

She lifted a hand to her forehead. Thick gauze was wrapped tightly around it.

The door opened. Amelia rolled in, surrounded by a group of friends.

She was in a wheelchair, her leg in a cast. Her face, however, glowed with satisfaction.

"Ninette," Amelia said, stopping beside the bed and clicking her tongue. "I heard you needed over a dozen stitches. I thought you'd end up brain-damaged, but it turns out you're hard to kill.

"Still, a scar won't make much difference. You're invisible anyway. Jerry doesn't care. Honestly, the bandages help—at least they hide that cheap look of yours."

The people behind her burst into cruel laughter.

Ninette closed her eyes, unwilling to waste even a glance on them.

"Get out."

Before Amelia could respond, a young man beside her—wearing a studded leather jacket, hair dyed blond—snapped. "Don't push your luck! Amelia came out of her way to see you, and you told her to get out? Is that how the Simpson family raised you?"

Ninette opened her eyes and looked at him coldly, then back at Amelia. "Take your minion and leave. This is a hospital."

"What did you just call me?!" the blond man roared, lunging forward.

Ninette was too weak to dodge.

Just as his hand was about to come down, another man stepped in front of him. He was dressed in a floral shirt and had leering eyes.

"Come on, hitting a woman is tacky." His name was Kenneth Tate, a well-known creep in their social circle. His gaze roamed over Ninette's pale face as she lay there. Licking his lips, he said, "She's not much to look at, but that stubborn streak is kind of interesting. I hear women who act proper are the wildest in bed."

He took a step closer, looming over the hospital bed. "Ms. Simpson, since Jerry doesn't care about you, why don't you be with me instead? I'll make you forget the pain. I'll make you behave. How does that sound?"

As he spoke, his hand reached straight for the collar of her hospital gown.

"Get your hands off me!" Ninette yelled. Dizziness washed over her as she tried to dodge.

Kenneth wasn't the type to back down. He slammed one hand down on her shoulder and, with the other, roughly yanked open a button at her collar. A strip of skin was exposed.

"Well, you're pretty supple," he said, eyes lighting up. "Why pretend you're some virtuous saint? Once the lights are off, it's all the same."

"Let go! Help!" Ninette struggled with everything she had. The humiliation churned her stomach.

Nearby, Amelia's group reacted exactly as expected—some whistled, some pulled out their phones to record. Amelia herself watched with a faint, cold smile, as if she were enjoying a show.

At that moment, despair and fury snapped whatever restraint Ninette had left.

Her eyes landed on a stainless steel thermos on the bedside table. She grabbed it with all her strength and swung it at Kenneth's head.

The blow landed with a dull thud, followed immediately by Kenneth's scream.

Blood spilled down his forehead in an instant.

At that moment, the door was shoved open as a nurse entered.

Kenneth's face was smeared with blood. Ninette stood there disheveled, gripping the thermos in her hand, its metal slick with red. The nurse screamed, "Oh my God! It's a murder! Security, call the police!"

***

At the police station, Ninette and Amelia's group were separated and questioned.

On Amelia's side, everyone spoke in unison. They insisted Ninette had lost her mind and attacked someone without cause.

Ninette held to one statement only—it was self-defense. She had been resisting sexual harassment.

No one believed her.

After all, who would believe that a quiet, unremarkable, and ugly woman would be sexually harassed by a rich guy?

Half an hour later, Jermaine arrived with the Fullerton Group's chief attorney.

The police chief greeted him, sweat beading on his forehead. "Mr. Fullerton, this case is... difficult. The Tate family is pressuring us. They claim Mr. Tate suffered a mild concussion. Ms. Simpson insists it was self-defense, but there's no surveillance footage, and all witnesses are on Mr. Tate's side. What's your view on this?"

Jermaine looked at Ninette through the one-way glass.

Inside the interrogation room, Ninette sat curled into herself, arms wrapped around her knees. One button was missing from her collar. Blood seeped through the gauze on her forehead. She looked like a wounded animal.

Jermaine's brow tightened briefly. His gaze settled instead on Amelia, sitting nearby in a wheelchair.

She looked pale and fragile, eyes rimmed red, gently shaking her head as if she was still shaken but trying to hold it together.

Jermaine said nothing. Those few seconds of silence stretched unbearably long for Ninette—longer than all the humiliation she'd suffered earlier.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was calm and held a hint of cruelty. "Kenneth is a jerk, but sexual assault? Ninette, aren't you being overly sensitive? Kenneth has seen every kind of woman there is."

He turned to the chief, his tone professional. "The fact is, Kenneth was injured. Send him to the hospital first. As for Ninette, she's emotionally unstable and has shown violent tendencies. Since the Tate family wants an explanation, handle it according to the law. Detain her for a few days. Let her calm down."

On the other side of the glass, Ninette jerked her head up, staring at him in disbelief.

So, this was how he saw it. Because Kenneth had been with countless women, and because she herself was unremarkable, it meant she couldn't possibly have been violated.

It felt as though her heart had been torn out of her chest and ground underfoot.

The chief nodded immediately. "Understood, Mr. Fullerton. Take Ms. Wilson and Mr. Tate to the hospital."

Then, he turned to Ninette and read coldly, "Ninette Simpson, you're being detained on suspicion of assault and disorderly conduct."

Soon after, Jermaine personally pushed Amelia's wheelchair out of the station.

As they passed the interrogation room, Amelia tilted her head slightly. Through the narrow crack in the door, she shot Ninette a victorious look. Her lips moved soundlessly. "You had it coming."

Ninette was taken to a cold detention cell.

She knew that if Amelia could bring people into a hospital to cause trouble, she would never let Ninette have peace in the detention cell either.

The next seven days were hell.

The cell was dark and damp, the food left behind already sour, and the women housed with her—clearly acting on someone's instructions—made sure she suffered. There were blows that came without warning, cold water dumped over her head, and her wounds that had barely begun to close were torn open again and again.

Ninette clenched her teeth and never made a sound. The anger in her eyes slowly drained away, bit by bit, until it turned into a dead, ashen emptiness.

On the seventh day, she was released.

Jermaine's car was parked at the entrance. He leaned against the door with a cigarette between his fingers, smoke drifting around him, his expression unreadable.

When he saw Ninette walk out, he stubbed out the cigarette and approached her.

"You're out. Get in the car. We're going to the Fullerton's manor."

She didn't move. Standing on the steps, she looked straight at him, her voice hoarse and rough. "Why?"

He paused, clearly not understanding. "Why what?"

"Why did you have me detained, and why did you let them go?" she asked quietly, every word heavy. "Is it because, in your eyes, a woman like me doesn't deserve basic rights? So, no matter what happened to me, as long as it involved Amelia's friends, it had to mean I was lying, and that I was the one who'd lost her mind?"

Jermaine looked at the shattered light in her eyes, and an inexplicable irritation swept through his heart.

He stubbed out his cigarette, his tone softening, carrying the rationality and condescension of someone in power: "Nina, Kenneth is a bastard, but with his net worth, what kind of woman couldn't he have if he wanted? Rape... the probability is too low. Things were chaotic at the time, you were probably just frightened and misunderstood the situation. Keeping you locked up for a few days is both to appease the Tate family's anger and to teach you a lesson, so you won't be so impulsive in the future."

"I already spoke to the people inside, I made sure they didn't give you too much trouble."

Not too much trouble?

Ninette bit down hard on her bloodless lips, tasting the metallic tang of iron.

His so-called 'spoke to the people inside' was probably overshadowed by Amelia's 'special attention.' He had no idea, nor did he care to find out, what kind of inhuman torment she had endured during those seven days.

Because in his eyes, she was not worthy of being coveted, so her fear was a 'misunderstanding,' her resistance was 'impulsiveness.'

In the days that followed, Jermaine, perhaps to placate this obedient 'tool,' uncharacteristically showed a gesture of compensation.

He took her to an exclusive private yacht auction, spending lavishly to buy expensive antique brooches and famous paintings, all registered under her name.

Ninette looked at those dazzling treasures, but only felt as if a pile of cold stones were pressing down on her chest.

After the banquet, Ninette walked alone to the yacht's deck to feel the wind.

The sharp sound of high heels striking the deck echoed behind her.

It was Amelia again.

"Ninette, Jerry spent so much money on you, do you feel more balanced now?" Amelia walked up beside her, the sea breeze tangling her long hair, but unable to blow away the malice in her eyes. "Too bad, no matter how expensive these things are, it doesn't change the fact that you're just a 'shield.' Once the storm passes and the Wilson family rises again, you'll be packing your bags and leaving. When that time comes, I'll send you a wedding invitation myself."

Ninette's stomach cramped, and she turned to leave.

But Amelia grabbed her wrist tightly: "Trying to leave already? Feeling guilty? I told you the truth last time—Jerry has always loved me, you're nothing but a..."

"Let go!" Ninette struggled free with all her strength.

The two of them tussled at the edge of the deck. Just then, the yacht was hit by a wave and lurched violently. Amelia slipped, screamed, and fell backward, instinctively grabbing onto Ninette's collar for dear life!

"Ah—!"

A sensation of weightlessness overwhelmed them as both women tumbled over the railing, plunging straight into the pitch-black, icy sea!

The bone-chilling seawater instantly flooded her nose, suffocating fear gripping her throat like a giant hand. Ninette couldn't swim, and she struggled helplessly in the darkness, her body sinking deeper and deeper.

In a daze, she saw a dark figure break through the water, swimming powerfully toward them.

It was Jermaine.

He didn't hesitate for a second, not even a moment's pause, swimming straight toward the flailing, screaming Amelia. He lifted her from behind and quickly swam toward the lowered lifeboat.

From beginning to end, he didn't spare Ninette a single glance.

The seawater was icy, but not as cold as a dead heart.

Just as Ninette's consciousness was about to fade, a passing patrol boat spotted her. The crew hurriedly hauled her aboard.

She collapsed on the deck, coughing violently, spitting out the bitter seawater, her whole body soaked and shivering like a leaf in the wind.

On the other side, Jermaine had already placed Amelia on the lifeboat, wrapping her tightly in his coat and murmuring words of comfort.

Only then did he seem to remember something, suddenly looking up in this direction.

The moment his gaze landed on Ninette, his pupils contracted sharply.

"Your face..." he blurted out, his brows furrowing tightly.

Ninette's heart jolted, and she instinctively raised her hand to cover her face.

The dull foundation she had worn for years had been washed away and smeared by the seawater and her struggles, revealing skin as fair as jade. Her stiff black-rimmed glasses had long since sunk to the bottom of the sea, and her damp bangs clung to her forehead, unable to hide those frightened yet still clear and captivating eyes.

"Jerry... my leg hurts so much... I'm so cold..." Amelia let out a weak moan at just the right moment, curling up in Jermaine's arms and cutting off his probing gaze.

Jermaine immediately looked away: "Hang in there, the ship's doctor will be here soon."

He didn't look at Ninette again, but scooped Amelia up in his arms and strode toward the cabin.

Ninette watched his resolute back, clutching the hem of her soaked dress so tightly her fingertips turned white.

In the end, with the help of a kind crew member, she found an empty room and changed out of her wet clothes.

In the mirror, the 'plain and unremarkable' Ninette was gone, replaced by a breathtakingly beautiful yet pale face.

This was the curse Denise had left her, and also the secret she had hidden for more than twenty years.

As she disembarked from the yacht, her phone vibrated.

It was a text message from Gerard.

"The divorce certificate is ready. From now on, you and Jerry, and the Fullerton family, have nothing to do with each other. The compensation has been transferred to your account. Disappear immediately, or don't blame me for taking action."

Ninette gripped her phone, standing in the biting wind at the pier.

Everything was over.

She hailed a taxi, but instead of returning to the villa, she went straight to the cemetery on the outskirts.

In the photo on the tombstone, the woman smiled gently, but there was an unshakable sorrow hidden in her eyes.

"Mom," Ninette knelt before the grave, her voice drifting in the wind, "you were right. Showing too much talent brings trouble, but even when I hid my light, played ugly, and tried to be invisible, I was still trampled into the mud."

"Constantly retreating and hiding doesn't earn respect; it only makes those who hurt me even more brazen. So from now on, I won't hide anymore."

"Even if the road ahead is full of thorns, I will live as myself, no matter what it takes."

She kowtowed three times with a loud thud, then stood up and turned to leave.

Back at the villa, while Jermaine was still at the hospital with Amelia, she quickly packed a simple suitcase.

She shed all her disguises and put on a fitted trench coat she had never worn before.

Then, she booked the earliest flight to the southwest of America.

On the way to the airport, changing her boarding pass, going through security, and waiting to board, she kept her head slightly lowered the whole time. Yet her bare, stunning face still drew countless glances from passersby, and more than a few people secretly raised their phones to take pictures.

She no longer cared.

The plane roared into the clouds, leaving behind the city that had held two years of her humiliation and delusions.

Not long after she left, a set of candid photos taken by airport passersby spread like wildfire online, quickly dominating the trending topics.

"A stunning bare-faced beauty spotted at the airport"

This cold, fragile vibe is incredible. Is she some undiscovered celebrity?

Three minutes—I want all the information on this beauty!

With looks like this, even Amelia, known as the number one beauty in Los Angeles, is nothing but ordinary in comparison!

Public opinion snowballed, and the entire internet began searching for her.

Soon, someone timidly revealed a clue in the comments section—