"You act shamelessly outside, and even here, you don’t know your place. Ladies, let’s teach her a lesson!"

Seven or eight women of varying shapes and sizes surrounded Corinthia Carter, their eyes gleaming with malice, eager to "educate" her.

Curled up on the cold, grimy floor, Corinthia

wrapped her arms tightly around her head. Her empty eyes stared at

nothing as the relentless blows rained down on her fragile body. Each

impact echoed the hollowness inside her.

"Look at her, covering her face. This witch still hopes to use her looks to seduce men after she gets out!"

"I’d love to ruin that pretty little face," one of the women sneered, picking up a thin, sharp wooden stick from the corner.

The stick hovered menacingly, mere inches from Corinthia’s

face. Panic surged through her veins. In a desperate burst of strength,

she grabbed it and swung wildly, her voice hoarse with despair.

"Don’t come any closer, or I’ll take you down with me!"

Mocking laughter erupted around her.

"Oh, listen to her! Is this shameless woman threatening us?"

"She’s

scared she won’t be able to seduce men anymore if we disfigure her. I

heard she stole Lily Adams’ husband and drove her to suicide. A woman

like her deserves no pity."

A stocky woman scoffed, easily deflecting Corinthia’s feeble resistance. With a cruel smirk, she grabbed Corinthia by the collar and threw her into the damp, filthy toilet stall.

The cold, wet floor seeped into Corinthia’s

tattered clothes, sending chills through her battered body. Pain gnawed

at her limbs, and her vision blurred. The echo of taunts filled the air

like a haunting chorus, each word a fresh wound.

"She’s so vicious. She should be cut into pieces!"

Yes. They were right. She deserved to be hacked to death. A slow, agonizing death.

Why hadn’t they killed her yet?

Death would be a mercy. A release.

Her existence was a sin she could never atone for. A dark stain on her soul.

A sharp voice cut through the haze.

"Corinthia Carter, someone’s here to see you."

A visitor? A flicker of hope ignited in the darkness of her despair.

Her heart clenched. It had to be her father. The only person in the world who still loved her. Or was it?

Summoning

what little strength she had left, she forced a weak smile onto her

lips, hoping against hope to reassure him. But as she looked up, her

expression froze. The fragile hope within her shattered.

"Sister, how are you holding up in here?"

The sickeningly sweet voice of Olivia Carter rang through the air as she placed several shopping bags on the table. Corinthia’s blood ran cold. The chill had nothing to do with the dampness of the stall.

Olivia stood before her, elegant and poised, her flawless makeup accentuating the smug satisfaction in her eyes. In contrast, Corinthia was disheveled, broken, covered in wounds. A grotesque mirror image of her former self.

"Sister, why are your clothes wet?" Olivia asked innocently, feigning concern. "Look, I bought you some new ones during my trip with Mr. Pierce

last week." She reached into a bag and pulled out a pair of pink,

glittering high heels. "Remember how much you love pink? These are

limited edition! Do you want to try them on? If they don’t fit, I can

bring another pair next time."

Next time? The word echoed in Corinthia’s mind, a cruel mockery. Corinthia clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. Was Olivia here to visit her… or to twist the knife deeper?

Her lips trembled with restrained fury. "Are you here to see me or to gloat?"

She was imprisoned, broken, covered in wounds—and Olivia

had the audacity to bring her high heels and accessories? Things she

had no use for? Things that represented a life stolen from her.

And worse, she flaunted Mr. Pierce.

The man who was supposed to be her husband.

What a perfect sister. The thought was laced with bitter irony.

Olivia’s

smile didn’t falter. "Sister, how can you say that? I’m your family. No

one else dared to visit you after what you did. I’m the only one who

came, bringing gifts and kindness. Everyone says you’re heartless—you

stole your best friend’s husband and tried to kill her child. It’s a

miracle the child survived."

"Olivia Carter!" Corinthia’s voice cracked as she erupted with rage. "God is watching everything we do. Aren’t you afraid of retribution?"

Mr. Pierce was her husband. He had nothing to do with Lily Adams. Olivia Carter had orchestrated everything—stolen her marriage, ruined her life, and even pushed Lily Adams toward despair. The truth screamed inside her, trapped behind bars and lies.

But Olivia

only leaned closer, her voice dripping with mock concern. "Retribution?

Didn’t you kill your best friend? If she were still alive, would you be

in prison right now?" Corinthia’s breath hitched. Her body trembled. Olivia’s words were like poison, seeping into her wounds.

That’s right. Lily Adams was dead. And the world believed Corinthia Carter was her killer.

And Corinthia Carter was behind bars. Trapped. Helpless.

Olivia smirked at Corinthia’s

silence, satisfied with the damage she’d inflicted. Then, as if

remembering something, she casually pulled out a document and slid it

across the table.

"Sign this." Corinthia’s dazed eyes landed on the paper, her gaze narrowing as she processed the words. A cold dread washed over her.

It was her father’s signature. Or a cruel imitation of it.

"This is a lie!" she shouted, her hands trembling.

Olivia tilted her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. "You’ve ruined the Carter family. I had to beg Mr. Pierce

to save us from complete destruction. The condition was simple—sever

all ties with you. This document makes it official. You are no longer a

part of the Carter family." Corinthia’s heart shattered. The pieces scattered and turned to dust.

"You’re lying!" But even as she spoke the words, a terrible certainty settled in her stomach.

Olivia

let out a soft chuckle. "Believe what you want. But let me remind

you—I’m pregnant. My child doesn’t need to inherit your bad luck. So

hurry up and sign it. You’ve already destroyed enough lives."

Pregnant.

The word echoed in Corinthia’s mind, each syllable a dagger to her soul. A final, crushing blow.

Her sister had stolen her husband, her life, and now… she carried the future Corinthia

would never have. A future that was rightfully hers. Rage, despair, and

a bone-deep weariness warred within her. What was left to fight for?