I was the definition of the "Unbothered Queen." When I caught my husband and my best friend in bed together, I didn’t cry, and I didn’t scream. I simply dropped a cold, indifferent line: "You can have him. He's trash anyway." My friends praised my dignity. They called me the embodiment of a modern, independent woman—a heroine straight out of a novel. But reality didn’t follow the script of a satisfying revenge story. After a brief storm of public opinion, the two of them simply got married. The following year, my former best friend gave birth to twins—a boy and a girl. My ex-husband’s startup succeeded, and they became the picture-perfect, wealthy family everyone envied. And me? Shortly after the divorce, the facade of strength crumbled. I was consumed by the trauma of betrayal and the humiliation of being discarded. My belief in karma—that good is rewarded and evil punished—shattered. My career tanked, I couldn't trust anyone to love me, and my life spiraled into the abyss. Living in a constant daze, I was crossing the street one day when a car slammed into me. As I lay dying, my ex-best friend came to visit. She looked at me with a mix of pity and satisfaction. "I knew you always prided yourself on being the 'cool girl,' Serena. That’s why I arranged for you to walk in on us that day..." I died swallowing a mouthful of regret and rage. Then, I opened my eyes. I was back at the door of the bedroom. 1 I was lying in the ER, fading fast. Moments ago, the doctor had somberly informed me that my injuries were too severe. There was nothing more they could do. Just as I was thinking, Fine, let it end, the sharp click of high heels echoed on the floor. Lyla walked in. She was dressed in designer silk, her skin glowing with the kind of health that money buys. She looked younger now than she did eight years ago when I caught her in my bed. She looked down at me, shaking her head with feigned sorrow. "Serena, I never thought you’d end up like this." "Fate is funny, isn't it? Round and round it goes, and somehow, I’m the one sending you off... Since we’re here, consider this a confession." I didn't know why she was here. I wanted to turn my head, to ignore her, but I couldn't. I was dying. Lyla sat on the edge of my bed, sighing theatrically. "I fell in love with Ethan the moment I saw him." "But for all those years, I had to watch. I watched you date, watched you marry. I watched your life eclipse mine. You’d buy a bracelet that cost my entire monthly salary without blinking. I couldn’t understand it. We came from similar backgrounds, went to the same schools, had the same looks. Why? Just because you arrived at that coffee shop ten minutes earlier than me, Ethan fell for you instead?" "So, I decided to correct the mistake myself." "I found a way to get Ethan into bed. But when he woke up, he was so full of regret. He actually paid me to keep it a secret from you. And even though he couldn't resist the second time, or the third, he hated himself after every single tryst." She chuckled lightly. "That wouldn't do, would it?" "I knew your personality. You were the 'Independent Woman.' You always said if a man cheated, you wouldn't be like those desperate women who scream and cry. You’d divorce him immediately and never look back. So, I begged Ethan for one last time... and I made sure you walked in right in the middle of it." I stared at her, my vision blurring, unable to process the depth of her malice. After the divorce, I realized that the "Cool Girl" persona was just a dam holding back a tidal wave. When it broke, I drowned. The trauma of betrayal by the two people closest to me destroyed my mental health. Watching them thrive—marriage, kids, IPOs—while I couldn't even design a simple wedding anymore, felt like torture. I thought I was just unlucky. I thought I was weak. I never imagined it was a setup from the start. "Thank you, Serena! You didn't disappoint. Your pride and your 'dignity' gave us dignity. It allowed Ethan and me to bounce back so quickly." "Of course, I should thank myself, too. I worked hard. I mimicked your mannerisms to please him. I paid people to sabotage your jobs so you’d get fired. And..." She smiled, a cruel, beatific expression. "I went to a sperm bank abroad ahead of time. I picked a donor who looked just like Ethan and got pregnant with twins..." My body was failing, but my eyes snapped wide open. After I divorced him so cleanly, Ethan had refused to let go. He had knelt before me, swearing he only loved me, begging for another chance, promising never to see Lyla again. Until Lyla said she was pregnant with his children. "Anyway, after the twins were born, Ethan treated me better and better. He truly fell in love with me, bit by bit." "Serena, I finally lived your life. I changed my own destiny with my own hands. The only regret was that no one knew how clever I’d been. Thank God fate gave me this chance to brag before you die. Don't hold a grudge, okay? Rest in peace." She stood up gracefully, her face glowing with the thrill of victory. "Oh, you must be wondering why I'm here? My driver was rushing to get to my favorite bakery before it closed. I’d hate for him to feel guilty about hitting you; it was an accident, after all. I’ll pay the compensation, of course. Though, honestly? The price of your life is less than one of my handbags." She tilted her head, feigning distress. "But... you have no family left. Who do I even pay?" Laughing softly, she turned and clicked her heels out of the room. I died to the sound of my own soul screaming. ... When I opened my eyes, I was standing at the door of the second-floor bedroom. Downstairs, I could hear the laughter of our friends. Inside the room, two naked bodies were entangled, the sounds of their heavy breathing filling the air. I froze for two seconds. Then, I raised my hand and slapped myself hard across the face. Sting. It hurt. Good. The next second, I gathered every ounce of air in my lungs and shrieked: "You shameless pieces of trash!" "Ethan! Lyla! You filthy animals!" 2 Two flushed faces whipped around in terror. Ethan saw me, and his pupils contracted to pinpoints. He shuddered violently, panic overtaking him. Lyla let out a gasp, then quickly pulled the duvet up to cover them, whispering in a hoarse, desperate voice: "Serena! Wait, don't be impulsive!" "It's all my fault! I seduced Ethan! Don't blame him! If you want to hit someone, hit me!" In my past life, Lyla had said the exact same words. Back then, I was a successful wedding designer. To me, love and marriage were sacred. A flaw meant it was ruined. If a man was dirty, he was garbage. So, despite the anger and nausea, I had looked at them with cold disdain and said, "He's all yours," before walking away. This time, Lyla was watching me, eyes flickering, waiting for me to play the role of the dignified saint. Instead, I charged into the room like a bull. I grabbed the electric kettle from the bedside table—thankfully warm, not boiling—and hurled it at Ethan's face. Clang! Water splashed everywhere. Ethan clutched his face, howling. I didn't stop. I moved with the agility of a jungle cat to Lyla's side. With my left foot, I kicked their pile of clothes under the bed. With my right foot, I braced against the bed frame, reached out with both hands, grabbed a fistful of Lyla's long, luxurious hair, and yanked. That hair she was so proud of. Thick, long, perfect for gripping. She started this game. I was going to finish it. I twisted my wrist to lock her hair in my grip and dragged her halfway off the bed. Then, aiming at her flushed, terrified face, I unleashed hell. Slap! Slap! Slap! I delivered ten backhand slaps in rapid succession. When my right hand stung, I switched to my left. My movements were fluid, driven by a primal rage I had suppressed for a lifetime. Lyla was dangling off the mattress, her earlier seductiveness replaced by sheer terror. She stared up at the ceiling, letting out a continuous, high-pitched wheeze. In the dark nights of my previous life, I had regretted my "dignity" a thousand times. Why didn't I make a scene? Why didn't I ruin them then and there? I had played this scenario out in my head a million times. Nothing—nothing—felt as good as the sting of my palm against her face. When the friends from downstairs rushed up, drawn by my screaming, this is the tableau they found: Me, playing tug-of-war with Lyla's hair. Lyla, naked and desperate, clutching the duvet for dear life. Ethan, one hand covering his bruised face, the other trying to tug the blanket to cover his groin. A perfect, chaotic deadlock. The crowd at the door stood frozen, jaws on the floor. We were at a weekend rental house with a group of friends. I wasn't supposed to arrive until tomorrow, but Lyla had called me, lying that Ethan was drunk and needed me. I had driven through the night to get here. Lyla, hanging off the bed, her face swelling like a balloon, wheezed for help: "Help... somebody help me!" Nobody moved. Everyone wore expressions of utter disgust. It wasn't like this last time. Last time, they didn't see it. They only heard about it. Seeing is believing. The visual impact of two naked traitors is visceral. In my past life, when Ethan became a millionaire and Lyla a trophy wife, these same people had sighed and said, "True love really conquers all obstacles." Not today. 3 "Serena... please... calm down..." Ethan's voice trembled. From the neck up, he was lobster-red. The kettle had done its work; blisters were already forming on his handsome face. That day at the coffee shop, years ago, Lyla was late. I was working on my thesis. Ethan, sitting at the next table, had smiled and asked, "Design student?" By the time Lyla arrived ten minutes later, Ethan and I were already in our own world. I hadn't noticed the jealous glint in her eyes then. Ethan was an exhibition designer. To the world, he was gentle, talented, and sensitive—the kind of man who carried cat food in his car for strays. But his "soft heart" was his greatest weapon. In my past life, he knelt and told me Lyla had threatened suicide because she loved him so much, and he only slept with her to "save" her. I had felt sick then. I just wanted to get away. I divorced him within a month. Now? I only regretted I didn't have more hands to pop the blisters on his face. I knew Lyla's plan. This was her one shot. If she escaped now, she might not get another chance to trap him. And Ethan needed to come home with me... "Calm down?" I glared at him, grinding my teeth. He shivered, shame written all over his features. "Serena, please let her go. Let us put on clothes. Please..." I laughed, a cold, jagged sound. "You want to be the hero? Fine. Lyla and I made a pact years ago. We swore that if either of us ever betrayed the other, the penalty was thirty slaps to the face. I just did twenty. I'm tired." I pointed a shaking finger at him. "You finish the last ten. If you do it, I'll let go." Ethan shook his head frantically. "Serena, I can't hit a woman—" "Do it," Lyla sobbed abruptly. "It's my fault. I seduced him. I drugged his drink! I'm a shameless homewrecker! It has nothing to do with him. Serena, please... my stomach... my waist... I can't hold on..." Her voice was pitiful. She was playing the martyr for Ethan, but she was also telling the truth—she couldn't hold on. She was pregnant with twins, after all. The friends at the door muttered things like "Don't be rash" and "Talk it out," but no one stepped in. They were enjoying the show. I thought Ethan would hesitate. He was the "gentle" one. But before Lyla even finished speaking, he shuffled over, wrapped in the sheet. Slap. Slap. Slap. The sound was crisp. One slap was a little light. I frowned. Ethan immediately hit her harder. Blood trickled from Lyla's nose. She looked shocked, then resigned. She had planned for this, suffered for this. This was the price of admission. When the ten slaps were done, her face was unrecognizable. Yet, she managed to squeeze out a grotesque smile at Ethan. "I don't blame you," she mumbled through swollen lips, looking at him with the eyes of a tragic heroine persecuted by evil forces. Ethan turned his face away. He looked at me, eyes watering. "Serena, is that enough?" My expression remained stone cold. "Of course not. You gave me this disgusting green hat to wear. If I only hit the mistress and not the husband, people will say I'm a pick-me who only targets women." Ethan nodded quickly, closing his eyes and lifting his chin, acting the part of the repentant sinner. "Serena, do it. Take your anger out on me. Just let us talk afterwards." I looked at his blistering face. It looked like touching it would cause an explosion of pus. I changed my mind. I looked down at Lyla. "You do it." She looked horrified. "No... I can't!" Ethan suddenly roared, "Just do it! Hurry up! Anything is better than this!" And so, Lyla, in an awkward, twisted position, began to slap the man she claimed to love. "Are you two flirting?" I asked dryly. "Harder." Ethan gritted his teeth. "Hit me harder!" When Lyla finally pulled her hand back, her palm was covered in sticky fluid from his burst blisters. The farce ended with the two of them crawling on the floor, fishing their clothes out from under the bed, wrapped in sheets like toga-wearing clowns. My rage meter had gone down by about ten percent. 4 Going crazy was satisfying. But it was just venting. Getting reborn required more than just a tantrum. Shame? Who cares about shame? Time washes everything away. Ethan was a talented designer. In the art world, this scandal would eventually become nothing more than an anecdote about his "passionate" nature. I knew Ethan well. The thing he cared about most in the world wasn't women. It was his career. In my past life, shortly after our divorce, he secured angel investment from a major group and launched his own firm. He became a multimillionaire. Lyla became a high-society wife. The irony was that the design concepts he used to win that funding were things we were working on right now. Things we discussed. Designs I helped him refine. Being a "Heroine" doesn't mean being a doormat who walks away leaving the gold behind. A true Heroine uses every resource available. I would use him. I would take his momentum and make it mine. I was going to rewrite fate. His fate. Lyla's fate. And mine. ... Ethan knelt before me for three days. On the third evening, I stared out the window and sighed, looking at him with tear-filled eyes. "Do your knees hurt?" He looked up, disbelief turning into hope. "They hurt. Serena... are you finally willing to talk to me?" That night, he repeated his script: he loved me, he only pitied Lyla, he slipped up because they were too close. I asked with red eyes, "Did she really drug you?" He nodded without hesitation. "Yes." I was silent for a moment. "I'm going to resign. What happened... it makes me doubt love. I can't design weddings anymore. I can't look happy couples in the face." Ethan looked distressed. "It's all my fault. But don't worry, I'll support you. I'm talking to an investment group. I'm confident." I looked at him and said slowly, "But I don't want to give up design. If I can't do weddings, teach me your industry. Let me help you." His eyes lit up. "Of course! Serena, I'll teach you everything. We'll build the business together. It will be beautiful." I lowered my eyes to hide the coldness. "Okay." The next day, he transferred all his files, assets, and notes to me. I wasn't lying—he was talented. By day, he worked and did all the housework to atone. By night, he poured his heart out, teaching me the secrets of exhibition design. We slept in separate rooms. He was understanding. "It's okay, Serena. I'll wait until you trust me again." I didn't forget about Lyla. She was working as a teacher at a public kindergarten. I took the recording from that night—specifically the parts where she screamed, "I seduced him! I drugged him! I'm a shameless homewrecker!"—and hired a composer to turn it into a catchy remix. Then, I hired someone to blast it from a boombox across the street from her school during pickup time. The tune was upbeat. Brainwashing. Parents hummed along before realizing the lyrics. Lyla had to sneak out the back door. She was fired the next day. She moved back to her parents' house, but the boombox followed her there, too. Her parents wanted to call the police, but she stopped them. She was enduring. She was hibernating. Because she held the trump card. Ethan was raised strictly religious. He had told our friends many times that life was sacred and abortion was a moral sin. In my past life, before the car accident, a successful Ethan had visited me in my squalid apartment. "Serena, I still love you," he had said, handing me a bank card like he was bestowing charity. "But Lyla gave me a son and a daughter. I can't let my own flesh and blood grow up without a mother. I can buy you a house. I'll spend weekends with the kids, but I can be with you during the week." I had chased him out with a mop. Looking back, Lyla had played her hand perfectly. She knew she couldn't win Ethan with love alone, so she used his "legacy" against him. One day, I came home to find Lyla sitting on my sofa. Ethan stood beside her, frowning and sighing. When I walked in, Lyla feigned terror. I rushed forward as if to hit her. Ethan blocked me. He looked agonized, gritted his teeth, and dropped the bomb: "She's pregnant with my child!" Lyla sobbed. "Serena, I'm sorry. I had no choice. He's the father. He had a right to know." I looked at Ethan. "You believe her?" Ethan lowered his head. "I believe her." "Why?" His face flushed. "Because... the first time... she was a virgin. I could tell." Lyla suddenly dropped to her knees with a thud, swearing to the heavens. "Serena, we've been friends for years. You know I never dated anyone. If this isn't Ethan's child, may I be struck by lightning!" She looked at me, her tears hiding a gleam of triumphant calculation. She was provoking me. She wanted me to snap, to scream "Divorce!" and kick them out. The fact that I hadn't divorced Ethan yet had confused her. So she played her Ace. She knew the Serena of the past would never tolerate an illegitimate child. Ethan knelt beside her. "Serena, I beg you. I will transfer every cent of my assets, pre-marital and post-marital, to your name. Just please... let these innocent lives be born." I looked at the two of them kneeling on my rug. I covered my face with my hands, acting as though my heart was breaking. "I'm not a monster... If it's come to this..." "Let her have the baby." Lyla's head snapped up, shock written all over her face.
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