The man was still on the call with Vincent.

A cold, detached voice came through the speaker:

【Forty minutes. Once time’s up, the reporters arrive. They’re broadcasting live. You’ll tell them you were performing a standard examination on Violet when she suddenly snapped.】

【You can touch her—but keep your hands to yourself. Don’t go anywhere you shouldn’t. If I find out you overstepped, I’ll cut your hands off.】

“Understood, Mr. Vincent. Absolutely understood.”

The call ended. The man’s subservient tone vanished, replaced by a contemptuous sneer.

“What an idiot. Capable of a scheme this vicious, yet still pretending to care. Tsk. A real beast.”

“But with all the cameras disabled… who’s to stop me from having a little fun?”

Violet cracked her eyelids open—just a slit.

Vincent’s man was leaning over her.

The smell of antiseptic mixed with stale tobacco washed over her senses.

“Heh. Vincent really has all the luck. Both his wives are such lookers…”

His voice dropped to a whisper, a disgusting chuckle grating in his throat.

Violet fought back nausea. Through blurred vision, she spotted it: a small stun gun tucked in his shirt pocket.

Her heart hammered. She forced her breathing to stay even.

His fingers were already undoing the first button of her hospital gown.

Her stomach churned.

Memories of that rainy night in middle school flooded back. The dark alley. Hands tearing at her uniform. That suffocating despair.

A psychological wound she’d never fully overcome.

Once, she believed she’d never recover.

Now, she was forcing herself to endure it.

Sophie was waiting.

If she was declared mentally incompetent, nothing she said would ever be trusted again.

For Sophie, she had to overcome this. No matter what.

Violet’s eyes snapped open. Her right hand shot toward his pocket.

He hadn’t expected her to wake up—froze for a full second before reacting.

But a second was all she needed. She yanked the stun gun free and jammed it hard against his neck.

*Zzzt.*

A flash of electricity. His eyes rolled back. His body convulsed, then collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud.

Violet scrambled off the bed, ignoring the pain screaming through her body. A quick pat-down—and she pulled a phone from his pocket.

“Please still work.”

Biting her lip, she punched in a number she hadn’t dialed in seven years. One she’d never forgotten.

The call connected almost instantly.

A deep, authoritative voice answered. 【Yes?】

Violet’s throat tightened. “I don’t know if you remember me—”

【Ms. Violet.】

He said her name. Just like that.

Tears welled up. No time to wonder how he knew. She hurried through an explanation, words tumbling out in the fastest way she could manage.

From the other end: the scrape of a chair, followed by rapid commands issued in another language.

A few seconds later, his voice returned to her. 【Protect yourself. Wait for me.】

After hanging up, Violet felt a sliver of calm—even as her headache intensified.

But there was no time to rest.

She stripped the man of his clothes, used the phone to take several compromising photos of his naked, unconscious form.

Then, she pressed the stun gun to his neck and shocked him awake.

“You fucking—”

“Shh.” Violet held the phone screen in front of his face. “Make one sound, and these photos go viral tomorrow.”

“And don’t think about grabbing this phone to destroy the evidence. It’s all uploaded to a cloud drive with a timed release. If I don’t cancel it… Dr. Lowe, was it? Are you sure you can handle the fallout?”

The man’s face went sheet-white. “What do you want?”

Violet looked utterly composed. “First, get me a phone. My own phone. Second, you’re going to help me put on a show.”

Right then, hurried footsteps echoed from the hallway, followed by the rapid *click-click-click* of camera shutters.

The reporters had arrived.

The hospital room door swung open, and a crowd poured inside.

Violet stared blankly, her eyes wide. “Who are you?”

Standing at the center of the group, Vincent stiffened. His voice caught—an uncharacteristic stumble. “…Violet?”

Her gaze drifted past his face, empty and lost, before she shrank further into herself.

“I don’t know you. Where am I?”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the reporters, the shutter clicks growing frantic.

Someone spoke up. “Mr. Vincent, it appears your ex-wife has lost her memory.”

Vincent’s brow furrowed, his scrutinizing stare fixed on Violet.

With an air of innocent curiosity, Nancy tilted her head. “What are the odds? Not that I’m doubting Violet, of course. It just feels so… theatrical.” She clung to Vincent’s arm, her smile gentle and sweet.

Vincent had always said he was drawn to innocent, uncomplicated girls.

Violet had thought he meant her.

Now, looking back, she realized his eyes hadn’t been on her at all when he said it.

He’d fallen for someone else as early as their first year of marriage.

No.

Maybe even earlier.

The Vincents had taken Nancy in as their ward during her high school years.

Vincent had complained to Violet about it countless times, suspecting his father of some shady business—why else take in a girl so suddenly?

Violet had told him not to overthink it. *It’s for charity. A kind thing to do.*

He’d pulled her into his arms, indignant. “Aren’t you even a little worried this ‘foster sister’ might steal me away?”

Violet had laughed. “If you’re that easy to steal, I promise I’ll leave faster than you can blink.”

A joke from years ago, now turned prophecy.

Violet pulled herself from the memory just as Vincent turned to Dr. Arthur. “What’s going on?”

With his secret in someone else’s hands, Dr. Arthur—however reluctant—quickly supplied an explanation.

“It’s a manifestation of post-traumatic stress disorder. The patient is actively erasing painful memories—a self-preservation mechanism.”

“When she woke, Ms. Violet was remarkably calm. She didn’t cry or make a scene. She just kept asking who I was and where she was.”

“All signs indicate she is currently experiencing genuine amnesia.”

Dr. Arthur was greedy for fame and fortune, but he did have skill. He’d happily built himself a minor social media following, becoming something of a medical influencer. His word carried weight.

Most of the room accepted it.

Even Vincent’s skeptical expression began to fade.

Violet looked at him, her fingers curling into a tight fist inside her sleeve. “You’re my ex-husband? Why did we divorce?”

Vincent met her gaze, his dark eyes cold and hollow.

“Violet, even without your memory, the mistakes you made aren’t erased. I won’t hide your crimes for you.”

“If you hadn’t maliciously bullied others, the victim wouldn’t have held a grudge, and this kidnapping wouldn’t have happened. You brought all of this on yourself.”

“You ask why I divorced you? Because you never learned. You still use your status to bully the vulnerable.”

Vincent’s torrent of accusations left Violet stunned.

Her mind reeled. A memory surfaced—before she learned the truth about her daughter’s death, a bullying video from over a decade ago had appeared online. The poster claimed the girl using a curling iron to burn someone was the current Mrs. Vincent.

Though only the perpetrator’s back was visible, the rumor mill was merciless. Nancy had taken plenty of heat.

Now Violet understood.

The bullying was real. So he was desperate to find a scapegoat for Nancy.

Violet, the former Mrs. Vincent, now had only one value left: to take the fall.

She meant to laugh, but tears spilled down her cheeks instead.

Vincent faltered, his brow knitting again.

“Why are you crying?”

“Or… have you remembered something?”