The seventh time Arthur Vance locked me in the estate's freezing attic to "reflect on my sins," the long-delayed System finally spoke to me: As long as you die, you can return to your original world. And so, I became the perfect, emotionless high-society wife. I stopped caring that Arthur frequently spent his nights in his widowed sister-in-law’s bedroom. I stopped fighting for his broken promise of monogamy, and I stopped fighting for control over the estate's finances. When my own son knocked over the meal I had spent hours cooking for him in absolute disgust, I didn't scold him. I simply had the maid wipe his hands and calmly told him I would never cook for him again. Even when the head butler brought me that cup of abortifacient tea—even knowing I was already pregnant—I drank it down without a single second of hesitation. By the time Arthur rushed into the room, all he saw was a blinding pool of crimson on the floor. He drew his tactical blade, pointing it directly at my throat. His usually calm, authoritative voice was trembling with a total mental breakdown. "Claire Bennett, do you really hate me this much?!" "You grew up studying medicine! You knew how lethal that drug was, yet you're so vicious you couldn't even tolerate our own flesh and blood?!" Looking at the gleaming edge of the blade, I let out a relieved smile. And then, I thrust my body directly onto the knife. …… The exact second the blade pierced my flesh, Arthur's pupils violently shrank. He desperately yanked the knife back. But he was a fraction of a second too late. The razor-sharp edge sliced across my neck. Beads of crimson blood rolled down, staining the pure white collar of my dress. With a loud clatter, the blade dropped to the floor. Arthur fell to one knee, frantically pressing his hands against my neck to stop the bleeding. "Claire! Have you completely lost your mind?!" I sighed internally. What a shame. Seeing that I hadn't managed to kill myself, I finally answered his first question. "Mr. Vance, you told me yourself that having one son was more than enough." "If I were to give birth to another child, wouldn't that make your widowed sister-in-law—who only managed to give you a daughter—look bad?" Arthur's breath hitched violently in his throat. "What did you just call me?" I fell silent. It was only then that I realized just how incredibly estranged Arthur and I had become. After we got married, I always loved calling him by his first name. Because of that, his elitist mother constantly ridiculed me for being a low-class commoner with no respect for authority. But I had always stubbornly refused to change. Now, I had finally learned my place. The fingers pressing against my neck suddenly tightened. I let out a gasp of pain, and only then did he loosen his grip slightly. Arthur's voice, grinding through clenched teeth, echoed in my ear. "I told you. My older brother dying in that accident was a tragedy. Me stepping in as a surrogate to provide his widow with an heir was an absolute, desperate necessity to secure her portion of the family trust." "As soon as my brother's line has a male heir, I swear I will never touch Serena again." "I am begging you, just wait a little longer. Please?" That single word—wait—kept me sleeping in an empty, freezing bed for three entire years. From visiting her once a month, it escalated to him spending almost every single night in her room. My only companions were burnt-out candles and endless, exhausted tears. When Serena finally got pregnant, I thought the nightmare was over. But Arthur used the excuse of "taking care of his fragile sister-in-law" to permanently move his belongings into the West Wing. I waited through another agonizing year of seasons changing. But the child Serena gave birth to was a daughter, Mia. Seeing that Arthur was preparing to continue sleeping in her room to try again, I couldn't wait anymore. I started throwing tantrums. I forbade him from stepping foot in the West Wing. I acted like a hysterical, screaming lunatic, sobbing and threatening to end my own life. I did all of those things because I just wanted a husband who belonged solely to me. But in Arthur's eyes, my desperation morphed into the unforgivable, toxic actions of a jealous, petty woman. Yet, when he proposed to me years ago, he swore that what he loved most about me was my fiery, unapologetic personality. He promised me that after we married, I would be his only woman. He swore he would never take a mistress, and that he would never lock me away in a gilded cage. But in our seventh year of marriage, in order to establish absolute authority for the widowed Serena, Arthur locked me in the freezing attic in front of the entire household staff. Over and over again. He told me I needed to learn to be as gentle and magnanimous as Serena. He told me I needed to learn how a true high-society matriarch behaved. My knees were bruised black and blue from kneeling on the hardwood. My hands shook in agony from being forced to transcribe hundreds of pages of etiquette manuscripts and apologies. And all I got in return was his disappointed sigh: "Claire, when are you finally going to grow up and be reasonable?" Even the child currently bleeding out of my womb was an accident. It happened after Mia's one-month milestone party, when a blackout-drunk Arthur stumbled into the wrong bedroom. At the time, I foolishly thought he had come to make peace, and I allowed him to have his way with me. But right as he reached his climax, he slurred the name of his sister-in-law. The suffocating agony of the past surged up my throat. I swallowed it down along with the metallic taste of blood. I looked up at him, enunciating every single word: "Mr. Vance, you no longer need to feed me these fake promises to placate me." "From this day forward, wherever you want to go, go. Whoever you want to sleep with, sleep with them. I will not utter a single word of complaint." "And if you are still dissatisfied, I am perfectly willing to sign the divorce papers and step aside so you two lovers can finally be together." Arthur's chest heaved violently, the veins in his neck bulging. "Claire Bennett, how much longer are you going to torture me?!" "Serena and I are strictly family! There is absolutely zero romantic affection between us!" Listening to those words, one might actually believe he loved me to death. Yet he addressed me, his legal, lawfully wedded wife, by my full, cold name—Claire Bennett. But he affectionately called his sister-in-law "Serena." I shook my head. "You're overthinking it, Mr. Vance. I am being entirely sincere." I don't know which of my words triggered his fury again. Arthur violently let go of me. The back of my head slammed hard against the sharp edge of a wooden stool. I gasped as a blinding spike of pain shot through my skull. Panic flashed across his face, and he reached out to help me up. A freezing, mechanical voice echoed in my brain. [Host's vital signs dropping rapidly. Estimated time until death countdown: 24 hours.] It turned out that the abortifacient tea, combined with the blood loss from the blade, had struck a fatal blow to my core. I shoved Arthur's hand away, bracing myself against the floor as I shakily stood up. "Please leave, Mr. Vance. I am tired." I walked right past him, heading toward the inner bedroom to rest. With every step I took, the blood dripping from beneath my skirt left a winding, horrific trail on the floorboards. Right at that moment, seven-year-old Noah burst through the doorway. He violently hurled his wooden toy sword directly at me. The jagged wood slashed across my cheek, leaving a stinging, bleeding scratch. Arthur was completely paralyzed by the sudden chaos for a second. Then, he aggressively snatched Noah up by the collar and delivered a harsh smack to his backside. "You little brat! What the hell are you doing?!" Noah wailed at the top of his lungs, but he stubbornly refused to admit he was wrong. "Dad, I don't want this evil woman as my mom!" "Why can't she just stay locked in the attic and never come out for the rest of her life?!" Arthur's face turned livid. He barked coldly: "Who taught you to say such disrespectful things?!" Noah struggled out of Arthur's grip, puffing out his cheeks in fury. "Dad, you told me yourself that you hate her!" "If she hadn't saved your life at the bottom of that mountain, you never would have married a cheap, common doctor!" "Plus, she's a petty, jealous witch who's always bullying Aunt Serena! She doesn't deserve to be the mother of this family at all!" Noah grew more energized the more he spoke. He pointed a tiny finger directly at my nose, his young, childish face contorted with absolute disgust. "You evil witch! Dad and I both hate you! Just disappear already!" They say children speak the unvarnished truth. His words acted like a meat grinder, taking the very last, microscopic shred of hope in my heart and shredding it to dust. Years ago, Arthur's private military convoy was ambushed and pinned down in a lethal cartel zone in the valley. Ignoring the fact that I was seven months pregnant, I led a heavily armed extraction team to rescue him. We barely survived the bloodbath. I took dozens of knife wounds during the extraction. The trauma triggered premature labor. As I bled out on the delivery table, Arthur gripped my hand, his eyes burning red as he begged me: "Claire, please don't leave me." "If you die and leave me alone in this world, I'll put a bullet in my own head and follow you." Just to honor those words, I bit down on my lip and fought through the agony. Basin after basin of bloody water was carried out of the room. I miraculously survived the gates of hell. But because Noah was born so severely premature, the estate's top pediatricians declared he wouldn't live past three days. They told me to prepare a tiny coffin. I refused to believe them. Dragging my broken, unhealed body out of bed, I took care of him day and night. During that time, I read until the bindings of my medical textbooks fell apart, searching the world for the rarest, most potent medicines. Yet Noah's cries only grew weaker and weaker. Driven to absolute desperation, I placed my final hope in a higher power. I did a grueling, agonizing pilgrimage to the St. Jude Mountain Sanctuary. Three steps, one bow. Five steps, one prostration. To this day, the five thousand stone steps leading up to the sanctuary still bear the faded stains of the blood from my knees and forehead. Perhaps the heavens were moved by my sincerity. After that day, Noah's health miraculously began to stabilize. However, his immune system would always be significantly weaker than a full-term child's. Whenever the temperature dropped, I would strictly confine him to his heated room to read and study. Serena, on the other hand, constantly indulged his every whim. Even in the dead of a freezing winter, she allowed him to gorge himself on bowls of ice cream. Within three days, Noah spiked a terrifyingly high fever, coughing so hard it sounded like his lungs were tearing. Arthur was busy with corporate warfare. Serena avoided the boy like the plague, terrified of catching whatever virus he had. I was the one who sat by his bedside for days without sleeping a wink. I sponge-bathed him over and over to lower his temperature, constantly inventing new, creative ways to brew foul-tasting medicines so he could keep them down. When he finally recovered, Noah blamed the entire miserable experience entirely on me. He threw tantrums, violently knocking over the bowls of medicine I had stayed up all night brewing for him. The boiling hot liquid splashed onto the back of my hand, leaving a massive, blistering burn scar. He grew to passionately hate me—the woman who forced him to drink bitter medicine. Yet he absolutely adored Serena, the woman who only ever gave him sweet treats and was the literal reason he got sick in the first place. Arthur's face instantly darkened, and he aggressively shouted Noah down. "Noah, shut your mouth! Stop speaking nonsense!" Then, he looked at me with frantic panic, desperately trying to explain. "Noah is just a kid, he definitely heard the maids gossiping..." In the past, hearing those words would have shattered my heart. I would have put on a stern face and tried to teach Noah right from wrong. And every single time, all I got in return was a glare filled with pure, unadulterated hatred. Now, I was just so incredibly tired. I didn't care to parent him anymore. Arthur also sensed that something was fundamentally wrong with my reaction. He frowned, studying my face, before stubbornly concluding that I was just playing hard to get. "Claire, what exactly are you trying to pull now?" "Putting on this 'dead inside,' indifferent act is just a pathetic, cheap imitation. You're making a fool of yourself." "Since the baby is already gone, you will stay confined to your quarters and rest your body. Stop constantly plotting against Serena and her daughter!" He grabbed Noah's hand and stormed out of the room, violently flicking his coat. The exact second they crossed the threshold, the father and son began cheerfully discussing the widow and her daughter. Arthur mentioned he was going to buy Serena a breathtaking vintage diamond necklace at an exclusive auction. Noah said he was going to use his allowance to buy a solid gold locket for his new little sister. Meanwhile, pinned in my own hair, was the simple, cheap silver clip Arthur had given me when we first got engaged. Back then, he had looked at me nervously, telling me he crafted it with his own hands and begging me not to despise it. He swore that one day, he would buy me the most expensive, beautiful jewelry in the world. Back then, my heart was overflowing with sweet joy. I genuinely believed I had married the perfect man. But ten years had passed. The delicate plum blossoms carved into the silver clip had long since been worn completely smooth. And I had yet to see a single piece of the "new jewelry" Arthur had promised me. At the elite high-society galas, I was always the most poorly dressed, pathetic-looking wife in the room. Whenever I finally gathered the courage to ask for a budget to buy some jewelry, Arthur would instantly reject it, citing the estate's massive overhead costs and the need for me to be frugal and responsible. Yet he would turn around and drop hundreds of thousands of dollars on imported, ultra-rare skincare serums just to make Serena smile. Looking back on it now, all my blind, desperate devotion had been thrown into a black hole. The freezing, mechanical voice echoed in my mind once again. [Detecting Host's severe emotional depression. Countdown to world detachment: 10 hours.] I sat at my vanity, staring at the woman in the antique bronze mirror. Her face was haggard, her eyes swimming in a deep, lifeless exhaustion. I pulled the worn-out silver hair clip from my hair. My fingertips gently traced the faded, smooth lines where the plum blossoms used to be. Then, with a sharp twist of my wrist. SNAP. The silver clip broke into two pieces. I casually tossed them into the burning fireplace in the corner of the room. After dealing with that, I forced my failing body up and began cleaning the bedroom. I dug out all the custom ties, the hand-knitted scarves I had made for Arthur over the years, and all the tiny, handmade clothes I had sewn for Noah. Two massive, overflowing trunks. Every single stitch was woven with my desperate hopes for this family. But right now, I just wanted to watch it all burn. The roaring flames illuminated my body, bringing a profound, comforting warmth that I hadn't felt in a very long time. I waited until the very last ember disintegrated into ash. Then, I laid down on my bed, quietly waiting for the System's countdown to reach zero. Suddenly, the bedroom door was violently kicked open. Arthur had returned. He stormed into the room, his face a mask of pure fury, and violently dragged me off the mattress. "Claire Bennett, I knew you couldn't just sit quietly and behave!" A Voodoo doll, completely covered in long, silver sewing needles, was hurled directly at my feet. Serena was standing in the doorway, clutching her infant daughter to her chest, looking as if she were about to pass out from crying into Arthur's shoulder. "Arthur, I refuse to believe Claire would do something this evil." "But this doll has so many needles shoved into it, and Mia's exact birth date and time are written on the back... I can't help but be terrified..." Before she could even finish her sentence, Arthur's face had darkened to the color of a thundercloud. He raised his heavy boot and delivered a brutal, full-force kick directly to my chest. "Claire, I tolerated your petty jealousy and your tantrums!" "But I never imagined you were malicious enough to use disgusting, dark magic curses on an innocent baby!" A massive mouthful of blood exploded from my lips, splattering across the floor. The wound on my neck violently ripped open again. Arthur looked down at me with absolute, towering superiority, his eyes filled with overwhelming disappointment. "What? Too terrified to even try and explain yourself now?" I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth. My gaze swept over the supposed "evidence," and I let out a low, dark chuckle. "The fabric used to make this doll is exclusive Parisian haute couture silk. Even the A-list celebrities in Hollywood are waitlisted for months just to get a single yard of it." "Mr. Vance, your heart bled so deeply for your sister-in-law that you took every single roll of that silk in the estate's vault and had it delivered directly to the West Wing." "So please, enlighten me: how did it magically turn into evidence of me cursing your niece?" Hearing this, Arthur's face drastically changed. His eyes remained glued to the Voodoo doll on the floor for a very long time. Serena's face, which had just been a masterpiece of tragic, weeping beauty, instantly turned as white as a sheet of paper. "What are you implying? Are you accusing me of framing you?!" "I did use that fabric to make dresses, but I lost the scraps a few days ago..." "ENOUGH!" Arthur barked, violently cutting her off. It was glaringly obvious he had absolutely no desire to investigate the gaping plot holes in this setup. In his heart, Serena was a fragile, gentle angel who would never lie or harm another living soul. Therefore, I had to be the one who was wrong. "Claire, how much longer are you going to twist the truth and argue?!" "Mia was just born, and Serena's health is incredibly fragile. How could she possibly withstand your toxic, psychotic scheming?!" "Since you cannot tolerate the people in this house, this house will no longer tolerate you." He waved his hand with absolute, dictatorial finality. "Guards! Drag her to the cellar and force her to her knees!" "Without my explicit permission, do not give her a single drop of water or a single grain of rice!" "When she finally admits she's wrong, you can let her out!" I didn't bother defending myself again. I had pointed out the massive, glaring holes in the evidence, and Arthur had deliberately chosen to play blind. Honestly, the cellar was quiet. It was the perfect place to sit and wait for death. But as the rough, brutish guards began aggressively dragging me across the floor, Arthur's heart inexplicably skipped a beat. "Wait!" I paused my steps, but I didn't turn around. "Does Mr. Vance have any further instructions? Are you going to divorce this evil, toxic woman, or are you going to demand I pay with my life?" Arthur opened his mouth, but he had absolutely no idea what to say. Finally, he waved his hand in deep, agitated frustration, barking an order to the butler standing nearby. "Make sure the private trauma surgeon takes a look at her wounds. I don't want any ugly rumors spreading to the press." I let out a mocking, cynical laugh. A brutal beating, followed by a piece of candy? It was a tragic shame. Even if God Himself descended from heaven, He wouldn't be able to save my life now. That brutal kick from Arthur had completely shattered the remaining fragile arteries around my heart. The System whispered: I had exactly three hours left to live. The cellar was pitch black. The agonizing physical pain in my body was slowly mutating into a heavy numbness. For some reason, I started thinking about all those days and nights I had spent locked in the attic. In the beginning, I knelt and prayed with absolute devotion, begging for nothing but Noah's safety and health. Later, when I was locked up as a punishment, my heart was filled with nothing but suffocating injustice. Back then, I always prayed for the time to pass quickly. I wanted to get out so I could see Arthur, so I could desperately explain myself and clear my name. I wanted time with Noah, terrified that if we were apart too long, my son would become estranged from me. Right now, I was still praying for the time to pass quickly. So I could die faster, and finally return to the modern, equitable era where I truly belonged. I don't know how much time passed, but a blistering fever consumed my body. In my hazy, delirious state, I heard a massive, chaotic commotion exploding outside the cellar. I fought with everything I had to force my eyes open. Through the cracks in the rotting wooden door, I saw my father. He looked exhausted, having clearly rushed straight here. He was clutching his medical bag, but he was being physically blocked in the courtyard by a wall of estate guards. Serena was standing safely under the covered walkway, her eyes dripping with pure, unadulterated malice. "Mr. Vance has given absolute orders. No one is permitted to visit." Arthur rushed to the scene upon hearing the noise, his brow furrowing deeply as he took in the standoff. Before my father could even open his mouth to explain, Serena threw herself dramatically into Arthur's arms, violently shaking in fake terror. "This man just trespassed into the private family quarters! He tried to sexually assault me!" "Arthur, you have to get justice for me!" My father trembled with apocalyptic rage. "You lying, venomous snake!" "I am an old man! Why on earth would I do something so repulsive?!" Arthur's face turned to absolute ice. "Claire is locked in solitary confinement because she committed a severe crime." "And you come bursting in here with absolutely zero respect for the law. If the press gets ahold of this, her reputation will be completely destroyed." "Guards! Give him thirty strikes with the cane! Let this be a warning to anyone else who tries to break my rules!" Thirty strikes with a heavy cane. That was more than enough to literally beat an elderly man to death. "DAD—!" I desperately, frantically pounded my bleeding fists against the wooden window frame. Arthur shot a glare toward the cellar, but then coldly, indifferently looked away. The old man who had protected me from every storm my entire life was brutally shoved face-down into the freezing snow. The heavy, sickening THWACK of the wooden cane hitting flesh and bone slammed into my heart over and over again. Arthur Vance. You are a heartless, psychopathic monster. [Host's vital signs are in catastrophic failure. You have exactly three minutes remaining.] A thin, fragile silhouette came stumbling frantically toward the cellar. It was Sarah. The loyal maid who had accompanied me into the Vance estate on the day I married. She had waited until the guards were distracted, stolen the heavy iron key to the cellar, and sprinted here. But just as she managed to unlock the heavy door, a guard noticed her and brought a tactical machete down in a brutal arc, completely severing her right hand. That was the exact hand that had embroidered handkerchiefs for me. The hand that had held my medicine bowls when I was sick. Sarah's face went ghastly white from the sheer, incomprehensible agony, but she used her remaining left hand to fiercely grip the doorframe. "Ms. Claire, run! Go to the back gate, I already have a car waiting for you..." Before she could finish her sentence, the guard drove the blade brutally through Sarah's chest. Sarah's entire body collapsed backward onto the snow. By the time I dragged my broken body out of the cellar and collapsed beside her, Sarah... wasn't breathing anymore. An apocalyptic, towering inferno of hatred exploded in my chest. I ripped the bloody blade from the guard's hands and stumbled wildly into the courtyard. In the center of the estate, Arthur was standing with his arms crossed, watching my father being beaten half to death with cold, dead eyes. Hearing the commotion, he whipped his head around and barked aggressively: "Claire Bennett! Who the hell let you out?!" I threw my body over my father's fading, bloodied form, shielding him from the blows. "ALL OF YOU, STOP IT RIGHT NOW!" A dark, dangerous fury began to pool in Arthur's eyes. "Claire. Are you genuinely so arrogant that you think I won't severely punish you?" Right in front of his eyes, I pulled the heavy, blood-soaked blade from the folds of my ruined dress. Arthur let out a cold, mocking laugh. "What? Threatening suicide again?" "You've used this pathetic trick a million times. I'm completely sick of looking at it." "If you actually have the guts, then go ahead and..." [Detachment from current world countdown: 10 seconds.] [9, 8, 7...] Before he could finish his sentence, I drove the heavy steel blade brutally and flawlessly directly into my own heart. "Thirty strikes with the cane. I am paying you back, with interest, using my own life!" Crimson blood erupted like a geyser from my chest, violently splattering directly across Arthur's face. The arrogant, mocking superiority in his eyes instantly shattered, replaced by a massive, apocalyptic tidal wave of absolute terror.
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