When I returned from a business trip, I found out my autistic younger sister, Freya Pennington, was three months pregnant.

I rushed her to the hospital for a termination operation, but was stopped by my husband, Daniel Whitmore, whom I'd been secretly married to for years.

"Jillian, the baby's innocent," he said gently. "Let her keep it. I'll raise the child."

He had everything arranged, putting my sister into a VIP suite at a private hospital.

Overwhelmed and dazed, I went up to the rooftop for some air.

That's when I saw him—leaning against the railing, laughing and smoking with his assistants like it was just another day.

"Mr. Whitmore, isn't your wife mad?" one of them asked.

Daniel scoffed, "Mad? She should thank me. I let her sister feel what it's like to be a real woman."

"But I gotta say, she's got an amazing body."

Another assistant chimed in, laughing, "Think the baby's gonna be on the spectrum, too?"

Daniel flicked his cigarette. "Wanna bet? Five million says yes."

My body froze. My ears rang.

That night, I messaged the one man Daniel hated most.

"I'll help you win the deal. I want him ruined."

***

"Mr. Whitmore, are you really going to raise that child?" one assistant asked.

Daniel blew out a puff of smoke and replied nonchalantly, "It's just a bastard. If I felt like it, I'd make it disappear."

The assistant hesitated before asking, "But what if... your wife digs into what really happened to her sister?"

Daniel's expression turned cold. He pulled a few photos from his inner suit pocket and handed them over.

"She wouldn't dare. She's just a low-level project director. Without me, she wouldn't last a week at the company.

"And with how much she values her sister's reputation? She'll swallow it."

Pain tore through me as if I were being ripped apart.

So the one who hurt my sister was the man I'd been secretly married to for five years.

I worked like hell to become the company's youngest star project director in just two years.

But to him, I was just some useless woman who owed her entire career to his support.

"Edith and I were together for two years. But she threw Edith in jail," he said, voice low and full of hatred.

"Now it's her turn to feel what it's like to have the one she loves get hurt."

The moment I heard that name—Edith—my heart clenched.

Edith Vladmir was a secretary who used to be obsessed with Daniel. She'd been banned from the company three years ago.

Five months ago, I returned early from a trip and found Daniel tied to a chair, blindfolded. Edith stood in front of him wearing black stockings and holding a whip.

I was furious and called the police immediately.

That night, he locked himself in the study without saying a word. I thought he was traumatized, so I even took a week off work to care for him.

It wasn't until later that I realized it was just one of their "kinky games."

And to avenge that woman, he ruined the life of my sister—the very girl who had known and trusted him since childhood.

Back on the rooftop, the conversation continued.

"Is the care package for the mother and baby all taken care of?" Daniel asked gently.

The assistant nodded.

"Yes, I got the most premium package for Ms. Vladmir. It cost about 450 thousand. The pink diamond's been delivered, too."

Daniel's voice softened to a near whisper.

"Good. She's pregnant and went through detention. Make sure she's well cared for. She's been through enough."

My hands trembled. I was shaking all over.

I used to dream about having a child with him. But every time, he said it wasn't the right time—that his burgeoning career came first.

It turned out he just didn't want a child with me.

He was willing to give another woman and her baby the most luxurious postpartum care money could buy.

One of the assistants joked, "Mr. Whitmore, could you bring that girl over sometime? I've never been with a pregnant woman."

"In a while," Daniel said with a smirk, his eyes cold and vicious. "You'll get to enjoy both sisters then."

I stumbled away from the rooftop and ran back to Freya's hospital room.

Looking at her peaceful, sleeping face, I broke down in tears.

With trembling fingers, I opened the chat with the one person I'd once wanted to block.

"I'll be leaving the Horace Group in seven days."

"I'll help you win the deal against Daniel."

A few months ago, Daniel publicly lashed out at Kenneth Kingsley, CEO of the Kingsley Group, during a finance forum after Kenneth called him "mediocre" in a televised interview.

He boasted that he'd earn a 16 million in profit within a year just to prove Kenneth wrong—and even signed a high-stakes bet to back it up.

The terms were simple.

If he won, Kenneth had to issue a public apology across every major platform, admitting he was wrong, and pay $16 million in compensation.

If he lost, he'd have to admit on national media that he was arrogant—and cough up 16 million as a penalty to the Kingsley Group.

I tightened my grip on the phone.

It was time to bring him down from the pedestal he built for himself.

Less than five seconds after I hit send, my phone buzzed violently.

Before I could even check, I heard a familiar voice behind me—gentle, yet now so foreign.

"Jillian, where are you heading in seven days?"

I froze.

Quickly, I slipped my phone into my pocket and wiped away the tears.

"Why are you crying?" he asked softly, brushing the corner of my eye.

"Don't worry. Seven days from now is your birthday. We'll celebrate properly. Everything's going to be okay."

I kept my head down, my fingernails digging into my palms, the pain in my throat sharp and burning.

"Freya's okay. I'm taking her abroad for a while. I'm picking her up from the hospital tonight."

He paused.

"So soon? Don't you think she should stay for a few more days of observation?"

I shook my head firmly. I had to get Freya out of there.

That night, after he fell asleep, I quietly got up and grabbed my phone.

He must've forgotten—I'd always been logged into his cloud drive.

I opened it, and like something straight from hell, image after image exploded onto the screen.

Hundreds of naked photos of Freya. Over 20 gigabytes of video files.

I ran into the bathroom and threw up until my whole body felt like it was breaking.

Daniel and I had known each other since we were teenagers.

Because of my sister's autism, I was always treated like an outsider. He was the one who stood up for me back then.

And after I lost both my parents in an accident, he stayed by my side. He encouraged me to keep going and helped me care for Freya.

The year I got into a top university, he dropped out to work full-time, so he could pay my tuition.

After I graduated, we got married.

He joined the Horace Group, starting from the bottom, and with my planning and support, he worked his way up to become Vice President of Project Operations.

I had an offer from a top investment firm. Still, I turned it down to take a lower-paying job at the Horace Group, where I became his personal assistant and project partner.

We stayed up late drafting proposals together, and visited clients side by side.

I once downed twenty shots of whiskey just to win favor from a key investor.

I also took the risk of being cornered by executives with ulterior motives, just to secure top-level funding for his project.

My most intense effort?

Staying up for 48 hours straight to turn a doomed project around—designing a full-scale profit model that catapulted him into the spotlight at the next board meeting.

After that, he became the rising star of the Horace Group—the young genius everyone admired.

But the higher he climbed, the smaller I became in his eyes.

My advice turned into "criticism." He stopped involving me in work decisions.

Instead, he began pressuring me to resign—wanted me to quit and be the woman quietly supporting him from behind the scenes.

The more I gave, the more he pulled away.

I could only endure the pain that felt like my heart was being torn apart, quietly saving every piece of evidence that held the truth.

That night, alone in the study, my hands trembling, I wrote the divorce agreement myself.

The next morning, I rushed to the office and slipped the divorce agreement into a stack of contracts on his desk.

Just as I exhaled in relief, the general manager called me in.

The moment I opened the door, my whole body went cold.

Standing by the coffee table was Edith.

And Daniel had the nerve to transfer her in as the "Deputy Executive Officer" of my department.

The general manager smiled meaningfully.

"Ms. Pennington, this is Ms. Vladmir. She and Mr. Vladmir—the investor, you know—have a very special relationship."

I could hardly believe it.

To place Edith in the company, Daniel actually claimed she was the daughter of one of our main investors.

He'd manipulated the HR process so flawlessly that no one could question it.

I returned to my desk pale-faced, my heart pounding with rage. I couldn't concentrate for hours.

Then someone knocked on my door. Before I could say a word, a cup of hot coffee was handed over.

Edith strolled in with a smile and sat down like she belonged there.

"Ms. Pennington, looks like we're colleagues now. I hope you'll show me the ropes."

I clenched my jaw, my voice cold as steel.

"Get out. I'm not working with you."

She kept smiling, unfazed, until I stood up and walked over.

Then—out of nowhere—she screamed. Hot coffee spilled all over her clothes.

In the same breath, she slapped herself across the face.

I froze. Before I could even process what just happened, the door burst open.

Daniel stormed in, eyes sharp and cold. Without a word, he shoved me aside and rushed to cradle Edith.

I staggered, slamming into the corner of the desk. Pain shot through my ribs, and my vision went black for a second.

Less than ten minutes later, he returned alone. His face was twisted with fury. Without asking a thing, he slapped me.

I cupped my face in shock, lips trembling.

"You hit me for her?"

His voice was low, every word grinding through his teeth.

"You hit her first."

Tears burned down my cheeks.

"I've stood by you for over a decade. She-she's just some lunatic you had arrested three years ago for harassing the company!

"Why would you bring her back? Why would you hit me because of her?!"

His face turned even darker.

He growled, "You're not even in her league.

"It was she who used her father's connections to help me land the Kingsley Group contract!

"If not for her, I'd lose the bet with Kenneth. I'd be exposed as a total joke—everyone would laugh me off the stage."

I stood frozen.

That contract was mine.

That night, in the middle of a storm, I camped outside Kenneth's office building for three days straight, soaking wet and burning with fever, just to earn a chance to speak with him.

I ended up in the ICU with a high fever. I never told Daniel—I didn't want him to feel guilty. And now, the credit for that deal had been handed to Edith like a gift.

He heard one word from her and erased everything I'd done.

"Jillian, if you can't even secure a simple contract, what good are you? Just focus on being a wife—it's better for everyone."

I wiped my tears away.

There was no point in explaining anymore.

He casually flipped through the stack of documents. His expression softened slightly.

As he signed, he muttered under his breath, "Jillian, Edith's helped me a lot. Just go easy on her, okay?"

He looked up at me with what seemed like guilt in his eyes.

Reaching out, he touched my cheek. "Does it still hurt?"

I turned my face away, cold and silent.

Seeing that I ignored him, Daniel gripped his pen tightly, let out a cold snort, and quickly scribbled his name.

He tossed the contracts at me like garbage.

"Jillian, remember this—I'm the one who made you the top project manager. You didn't make me."

I quietly picked up the papers and showed him to the door.

Then, I pulled out the divorce agreement from the stack. Tears blurred my vision.

Six more days. And all of this would finally be over.

That afternoon, I took time off to bring Freya to the hospital.

Watching her pale and fragile face filled me with crushing guilt and heartache. She shouldn't have to bear any of this.

That night, I stayed by her bedside.

Then Edith posted a photo on social media. Just a man's chest—but right above the collarbone were a bright red kiss mark and a small, unmistakable mole.

I stared at it in silence, then gave it a like.

The next morning, I submitted my official resignation.

The general manager went through the motions of pretending to talk me out of it, but barely glanced at the paperwork before signing it and sending it off to HR.

As soon as I got home, Daniel called.

"Why'd you quit?" he asked.

I kept my voice flat.

"I want to take care of Freya."

"You didn't need to go that far. I could've arranged for a department transfer—"

"No need." I cut him off without hesitation.

He went quiet for a few seconds, then hissed through gritted teeth, "Jillian, without me, you're nothing."

I was done listening to his nonsense, so I hung up without another word.

That afternoon, I packed my things, sorting through what to keep and what to ship out.

But as I walked through the building, I kept noticing people whispering and watching me.

Something felt off. I quickened my pace.

Once I got home, I checked my phone and froze. My name was the number one trending topic.

The tag? "Stalker."

A wave of cold swept over me as I tapped on the link.

Photo comparisons between my clothes, phone case, and bracelet with Daniel's. Screenshots from work showing me looking at him during meetings. Even security footage of me entering his house at a late hour.

He had never made our marriage public.

Now he painted me as a delusional woman obsessed with him.

The company immediately issued a statement denying any personal relationship between us.

They claimed I was just "a regular employee with inappropriate fantasies about Mr. Whitmore"—and that they had decided to terminate me.

Soon after, a few new employees jumped in, claiming I had pressured them to "get close to Mr. Whitmore" in exchange for work opportunities.

Then came the final blow—a public announcement from Daniel himself, accusing me of workplace harassment.

Just like that, he branded me as unstable, inappropriate, and professionally negligent—all in one go.

I went from being the company's star project director to a national disgrace.

I turned off my phone and sank into the couch, unable to breathe through the pain. My chest felt like it was caving in.

Not long after, he called again.

"Did you see the trending post?"

My voice was hoarse.

"Yeah. I saw it."

"The paparazzi must've dug this stuff up from somewhere. I'm at a crucial point in my career, Jillian. I had to protect myself—"

"You don't have to explain. I get it."

He let out a relieved sigh.

"Don't worry. Internet drama doesn't last long. It'll blow over in a few days. I've already booked your and Freya's flights for treatment abroad. Everything's covered—company expense.

"From now on, just focus on the family. Leave the money to me."

He rambled a few more lines before hanging up.

I wiped away my tears, leaned back into the couch, and silently counted down the days.

The next day, Daniel left town for a major industry forum in New York.

Before heading out, he even reminded me, "I'll be back in two days to spend your birthday with you. Don't overthink."

I didn't respond. Just turned away and went to the hospital to check on my sister.

Three hours later, a headline exploded on a financial news platform.

"Whitmore Team's Project Lead Removed On-Site for Refusing to Speak Due to Tardiness; Criticized for Arrogance and PR Meltdown"

At the same time, he was boasting in the company group chat.

"If they can't afford me, they can't say they lost me."

His loyal employees and fans immediately rallied online, flooding the forum organizer's social media with angry comments.

I stared at the headline for a long time.

Then I opened my contract list to find Kenneth.

"Hey, three days from now, I've got a little surprise to deliver."

On my birthday, I had just returned from the bakery.

I was standing outside my apartment complex when a white Porsche Cayenne sped straight toward me.

The impact knocked me off my feet. My knees scraped the pavement. A sharp, cramping pain bloomed in my lower stomach.

"Jillian!"

Daniel came running from who-knows-where, about to lift me into his arms, when a piercing scream rang out behind him.

"Ah!"

Edith stumbled out of the car, face pale as a sheet, lips trembling.

She collapsed to the ground, shaking, "I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to."

Daniel immediately let go of me and ran to her instead.

"Don't be scared. I'll take you to the hospital," he said urgently, holding her tightly.

Just before carrying her off, he glanced back at me, gritting his teeth.

"I called an ambulance. Just hang on, okay?"

I hunched over, arms around my stomach, cold sweat pouring down as the pain twisted deeper inside me.

I looked up. Edith was smirking at me with smug satisfaction, lips curled in contempt.

Ten minutes later, the ambulance arrived.

As they lifted me onto the stretcher, I felt a warm trickle spread slowly from deep within. I knew then I had lost my child.

On my birthday, I lost the only child I ever had.

Lying in the hospital bed, eyes shut, silent tears rolled down my cheeks.

Once my emotions settled enough to move, I picked up my phone.

I contacted the private investigator I'd hired months ago. I gave him a new assignment.

Then I created a fake account on a finance forum, using a fan logo from Daniel's company as my profile picture.

Once it was set up, I drifted off into a restless sleep.

Sometime later, I felt someone gently brushing the corner of my eye.

I jolted up wide awake. Standing by my bed, wearing a surgical mask, was Daniel.

His expression showed rare traces of guilt.

"Jillian, I didn't mean to leave you like that. Edith is pregnant. The baby's father won't take responsibility."

I shut my eyes again. I didn't want to hear another word.

He thought I was sulking and sat down, taking my icy hand in his.

"I'll stay with you tonight. Are you in pain? What did the doctor say?

"It's your birthday. I'll be here, I promise. Just don't keep hurting each other, okay? You and Edith, it's not worth it."

Clenching my teeth against the ache in my stomach, I furrowed my brow and rasped, "Be quiet. I need to rest."

He finally stopped talking.

But the phone in his pocket kept lighting up with one notification after another.

After a while, when he saw that my breathing had calmed, he got up quietly and left the room.

The moment the door clicked shut, I opened my eyes.

From under my pillow, I pulled out my phone and tapped open the surveillance footage the detective had just sent.

The video was clear. I was standing calmly at the entrance to the complex when the white SUV came barreling toward me.

I logged into the fake account and uploaded the video, along with a single caption.

"Jillian, payback couldn't come fast enough."

As soon as the video was released, the comment section below became lively.

"That woman finally got what she deserved!"

"Too bad it didn't kill her."

I didn't care. I stayed in the hospital and rested calmly.

During that time, Daniel came by once, but barely stayed five minutes before rushing off again, summoned by yet another call from Edith.

A few hours later, her social media blew up with posts.

Limited-edition sports car. Ocean-view penthouse. A necklace strung with blue diamonds. A velvet ring box.

I liked every single post.

The next day, I was leaving this city.

The morning I left, I received a message from Edith, accompanied by a flood of explicit photos of her with Daniel.

"So what if you got the marriage certificate? The bride will always be me."

Below the message was a video. In a small white chapel, she wore a wedding dress as Daniel led her to the altar.

Surrounded by a dozen close friends and family, they gazed into each other's eyes, tears welling up, and said, "I do."

Then came the ring exchange, followed by a deep, passionate kiss.

Even though I already knew about their affair, watching it all still made my chest ache.

The dream wedding he once described to me a thousand times—he gave it to her.

Right before my flight, I bundled up the divorce agreement, the photos, and the wedding video.

I sent them all to the reporter I had spoken to earlier.

Then I powered off my phone, snapped the SIM card in half, and tore up the plane ticket Daniel had bought me.

"Daniel, I never want to see you again."