I was overwhelmed by the grief of losing my in-laws. Picking up the phone, I called Vince to tell him the devastating news.

"Honey, Mom and Dad are gone. It was painful for them at the end. You should come back to handle their affairs," I said, my voice trembling.

To my shock, his response was a sneer.

"They're dead? So what? Why make such a fuss?" he snapped. "People die every day. Do you think your parents' deaths are somehow a big deal? Don't be ridiculous!"

I opened my mouth to explain that it was his parents who had passed, but he cut me off abruptly.

"Why are you even calling me about such a minor thing? Don't bother me unless it's important!"

From the other end of the line, I heard a soft, delicate voice interject.

"Vince, is it Belle calling to pressure you to go home? Don't worry, I can manage things here with my mom. It's tough, but I'll be okay," Penny said sweetly.

His tone immediately softened, oozing with concern.

"I'm here for you. Don't worry about a thing," he murmured to her.

Then, in an instant, his voice turned cold and venomous again as he addressed me. "Don't call me again! Losing your parents is not some kind of monumental event. Don't bother me anymore!"

With that, he hung up.

It was only then that I realized he didn't even know it was his own parents who had died.

For a long time, Vince had been doting on his junior, Penny. At first, I dismissed it as mere kindness. But later, I learned through whispers from others that their relationship was unusually close, even intimate. They were often seen together, inseparable, and everyone seemed to know about it.

This knowledge had eaten away at me, and I found myself obsessing over their every move. Whenever Vince came home even ten minutes late, I would call to check on him, terrified they were crossing some boundary.

But after today, I felt a strange sense of clarity. It turned out that Vince was nothing more than a heartless beast. To him, the lives of my parents were worth less than the time he spent comforting Penny.

My emotions were a tangled mess—anger, sadness, disbelief—but above all, relief that it wasn't my parents who had died.

After scheduling for the cremation, the doctor offered me a word of consolation.

"Many people go herb-picking in the mountains, but I've never seen such a severe case of an attack by a queen hornet. It's really strange."

There was something in his tone that made me pause. I sensed an underlying implication, a possibility I hadn't considered before: this incident might not have been an accident at all.

The thought chilled me. I dialed an unfamiliar number saved on my phone.

"Hello, thank you for calling me earlier. If you hadn't, I wouldn't have been able to find my in-laws in time. Unfortunately, they didn't make it. Still, I'm grateful to you," I said. "By the way, did you notice anything unusual on the mountain today? I can't shake the feeling that the queen hornet attack wasn't random."

The person on the other end sighed regretfully. "Today seemed no different from usual. There weren't many people around, so the hornets shouldn't have been disturbed. But… something did feel off, though I can't put my finger on it."

Hearing this, my heart sank. Without concrete evidence, there was no way to initiate an investigation.

Sensing my despair, the person on the other line tried to comfort me. "I took a lot of photos today. Your in-laws are in some of them. If you'd like, I can send them to you as a keepsake."

Minutes later, I received the photos.

In the images, my in-laws looked vibrant, their faces lit up with smiles as they held freshly picked herbs. The sun illuminated their joy, utterly oblivious to the shadow of danger that loomed just out of frame.

As I scrolled through the pictures, a dark figure in the corner of one photo caught my eye. My breath hitched.

I zoomed in, my hands trembling.

It was Penny.

I would recognize her anywhere, even if she turned to ash.

Racing against my own pounding heart, I reported the photo to the police, submitting it as evidence.

But after reviewing the case, the officers looked at me with hesitation.

"Your evidence is insufficient," one of them said cautiously. "We can't definitively confirm the shadow in the photo is Penny Madison. Moreover, the direct cause of death might not be the queen hornet stings but other complications. There's no clear link."

My instincts screamed that Penny was involved. This wasn't a coincidence. It couldn't be.

Driven by unshakable conviction, I hired a lawyer. With a single lawsuit, I accused Penny of premeditated murder and took her to court.

That night, Vince unexpectedly came home.

As soon as he stepped through the door and met my tear-swollen eyes, the relaxed expression on his face twisted into a scowl.

"Why do you keep putting on that miserable look? Who's it for?" he snapped. "So your parents died—what's the big deal? It feels like bad luck just looking at you."

His gaze fell on the mourning band pinned to my sleeve. With a swift motion, he tore it off, his fingers quick and unkind.

"Don't wear that stuff in the house. It's disgusting. If you want to grieve so badly, go back to your parents' home. Don't play the filial daughter in front of me!"

He flung the band to the floor and crushed it under his shoe, grinding it in as if to destroy its very existence.

I stood there, unmoving, watching it all with a blank expression. A thought lingered in my mind: what would he say if he knew I was mourning his parents, not mine?

After venting his anger, Vince retreated to the bedroom and promptly fell asleep, as if none of it mattered.

Quietly, I picked up my phone and made a call.

"Hello, is this the entomology research institute? I have some bees I need identified."

The next morning, before the court session began, my lawyer gave me a glimmer of hope, saying we might still have a chance to win.

Sitting in the plaintiff's seat, I was overwhelmed by nervousness, and I kept swallowing to ease the dryness in my throat.

In contrast, Penny sat poised and serene, a faint smile tugging at her lips. It was as though she wasn't the defendant but a mere bystander.

My lawyer presented the photographs as crucial evidence, his arguments sharp and persuasive.

Just when it seemed the case was heading in our favor, the defense lawyer for Penny made an unexpected move.

"We request an expert evaluation of the cause of death. My client maintains that the deaths were unrelated to bee stings. We have an entomology expert to support our case."

All eyes turned to the witness stand as Vince stepped forward, dressed in a tailored suit and polished leather shoes.

"After conducting thorough research, I can confirm that this species of hornet poses no fatal risk," he declared.

The courtroom erupted in murmurs, his words hitting me like a stone sinking into water, spreading ripples of disbelief and despair.

The judge, taking the expert's testimony into account, ruled Penny not guilty on the spot.

I sat there, dazed, as Penny and Vince celebrated openly. My mind replayed scenes of the time I'd spent with my in-laws, their kind faces and gentle care.

Coming from a troubled family myself, I had found solace in their warmth after marrying Vince. They treated me like I was their precious daughter, often taking me shopping and ensuring I enjoyed life.

Now, they were gone. And their son—my husband—had forged false testimony to protect the very woman who had orchestrated their deaths.

Looking at Vince's unfeeling face, I felt an ache of utter disappointment.

"I want a divorce," I said. "I'm leaving the country for good. I can't live with a monster like you anymore."

My words struck a nerve. Vince exploded with rage.

"Your parents' deaths have nothing to do with me!" he bellowed. "Can't a man just come home to rest without this nonsense? And now you're dragging Penny into it? Your own life is miserable, so you're trying to ruin hers. You deserve to lose your parents!"

Each word cut into me like shards of glass, his venomous tirade leaving no room for escape.

But the bitter truth remained: the dead weren't my parents.

Seeing my silence, Vince sneered, leaning closer.

"Belle, I never thought you'd stoop this low. Your parents die, and you try to take Penny down with them? Have some decency for once."

His voice grew colder. "You're evil. No wonder the heavens punished you. Even the gods couldn't stand the sight of you."

Penny, playing her part, spoke in a soft, trembling voice, her face an imitation of pity.

"Belle, I've never wronged you. Why do you treat me this way?"

Her act was too much for me to bear.

"Cut the crap, you two-faced snake!" I shouted, my anger finally breaking free.

The sudden outburst stunned Penny, who froze, her wide eyes betraying her shock.

"What are you saying? Apologize to Penny right now!" Vince barked, his towering frame blocking me like an insurmountable wall.

Once, he had been my rock, my safe haven. Now, he was the fortress that caged me in.

Just as the tension between us reached its peak, Vince's phone rang, cutting through the suffocating atmosphere like an unexpected breeze in a closed room.

"Mr. Sanders," came a voice from the other end. "There's a report I think you should personally review. It concerns—"

Impatience flared in Vince's voice. "If you have something to say, just say it. I don't have time for this!"

"It's regarding the death investigation of your parents. Your wife commissioned—"

Before the sentence could be completed, Vince ended the call with a sharp flick of his thumb, his fury igniting like dry tinder. Turning to me, his face twisted in anger.

"Belle, have you no shame? You're trying to use me to pin this on Penny?" His words lashed out like a whip. "Let me tell you this—so long as I'm here, nothing will happen to her. You can forget your petty schemes!"

Beside him, Penny leaned into his arm, her posture delicate and submissive. Her voice, soft and trembling, carried the practiced innocence of someone adept at manipulation. "Vince, it's so reassuring to have you here. I'm so frightened…"

My fists clenched at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I fought the overwhelming urge to strike them both, the anger surging in me like a wave too powerful to hold back.

Just then, the door burst open, and a man, breathless and wide-eyed, stumbled into the room.

"Mr. Sanders! You have to see this report! It contains the analysis of your parents' cause of death…"

Vince cut him off with a dismissive wave, irritation flashing across his face. "You've got it wrong. The ones who died were my parents-in-law. Their daughter's right here, so whatever you've got to say, just read it aloud!"

The man hesitated, his eyes darting between us like a cornered animal.

Vince's frown deepened, and he waved impatiently. "What are you afraid of? It's just about the dead. Read it—it's all facts, isn't it?"

I met the man's gaze, giving him a slight nod of encouragement. "Go ahead," I said evenly, my tone daring Vince to maintain his composure through what was about to unfold.

The man's voice came out haltingly, his words stumbling over one another. "This is an analysis report concerning a fatal incident involving the Vespa Mandarinia… victims identified as George and Catherine Sanders…"

The color drained from Vince's face in an instant.

He lunged forward, snatching the report from the man's trembling hands.

His eyes widened as he scanned the pages, the red veins in his eyes flaring like cracks in glass about to shatter. His knuckles whitened as his grip tightened, the paper crumpling under his shaking fingers.

And then, it came—a scream so raw it seemed to tear the air apart.

"Nooo!!!"