My mother's hand found the small of my back where no one could see, and she twisted the skin—hard.

"Sweetheart, go on and tell your aunt yourself. Otherwise she'll think I'm forcing you."

The pain shot up my spine. I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted copper, forcing the words through clenched teeth. "Yes. I'm willing."

As if unwillingness would have changed anything.

The first time I went out to collect recyclables, I came home filthy from head to toe. Aunt Grace looked at me with heartbreak in her eyes and turned on my mother. "Vivian, how could you send a child that young out to pick through garbage?"

"What? She wanted to toughen herself up. I'm her mother—you think I'd force her?"

It would have been better if Aunt Grace never asked at all. Every time she intervened, even with a single question, my mother took it as a challenge. And the price was always paid by me, doubled.

So I could only stand in front of my aunt and say I was willing.

Grace sank onto the sofa like a balloon with all the air punched out of it. She didn't say another word for a long time.

Even Stella and Rhys stayed silent. The living room felt like a sealed room with the oxygen slowly draining out.

I drew several deep breaths, repeating the same warning to myself over and over.

Don't lose it. Don't let Rhys see you fall apart again.

Before long, Joel emerged from the kitchen with a full spread—ten dishes and a soup.

Nobody had any appetite. Forks moved, food shifted around plates, but no one really ate.

No one except my mother, who was practically vibrating with enthusiasm, heaping praise on every dish Joel set down.

"Joel is such a catch! A man who can cook—now that's a real man."

I felt like a hollow shell, a body with nothing left inside.

I shoveled food into my mouth mechanically, bite after tasteless bite, until my stomach refused to accept one more mouthful.

Then I bolted to the bathroom and threw it all up.

When I walked Aunt Grace's family to the door, she leaned in close and kept her voice low. "Irene, if you ever find yourself in real trouble, you come to me. Promise me."

I nodded. I did need her help. Just not yet.

The moment everyone was gone, my mother's face curdled. "Was your aunt talking behind my back again?"

"No," I said quickly. "She was just making small talk."

"Don't think I can't see right through her. The second Stella lands herself some trust-fund boyfriend, Grace drags the whole family over here to rub it in my face."

"Well, I showed her. A pretty-boy son-in-law who can't do a damn thing around the house? Give me a man who can cook any day."

"And let me make one thing clear—stay away from your aunt from now on. That woman has never had your best interests at heart."

I murmured a few vague agreements, enough to keep her temper from flaring again.

That was when Rhys's message popped up on my screen.

You broke up with me just so you could marry some old man?

Wait—was it the cooking? Irene, your taste gets more "unique" by the day. Congratulations on finding yourself a live-in father figure.

The softest, most guarded place inside me—the part I never let anyone near—was shredded to ribbons.

Rhys was everything. Too good. So good I never felt worthy of standing beside him.

I had clung to every smile he gave me, hoarded every moment of warmth like a beggar counting coins.

But the longer we were together, the more terrified I became.

Between us lay a chasm I could never cross, and it left me no choice but to tear myself away.

Now I couldn't even bring myself to explain. Not a single word.

I deleted his contact immediately.

Because if I replied—even once—I knew I'd never be able to let go.

I don't remember how I made it back to my room.

All I could do was wrap my arms around myself, bury my face between my knees, and cry until there was nothing left.

That afternoon, Stella posted photos in the family group chat—snapshots of her and Rhys out together, sightseeing.

Every image dripped with easy, tender closeness.

My mother enlarged them one by one, studying each photo, then going back to study it again.

A faint smile curled at the corner of her mouth—so small it was almost invisible.

When she caught me watching, she let out a sharp scoff.

"Showing off. All smiles today—tomorrow she'll be crying somewhere, just you wait."

"These rich boys love stringing girls along. If you left it up to him to register the marriage, he'd drag his feet forever."

As she spoke, my mother fired off a message in the family group chat.

[Stella and Rhys are so in love—when are they going to make it official?]

Aunt Grace's reply popped up almost immediately.

[No rush. Young people should focus on their education first. I fully support them establishing their careers before settling down.]

My mother curled her lip. "See that? They haven't even gotten started, and your aunt's already scrambling for excuses to stall us."

Her fingers flew across the keyboard as she talked.

[Irene is registering her marriage with Joel Lambert tomorrow. You two better pick up the pace.]

My head exploded.

Every ounce of reason I had was swallowed whole by the fury rising from my gut.

"Mom, what the hell are you talking about?"

"When did I ever say I was registering a marriage with Joel Lambert?"

She shot to her feet.

"I already accepted his betrothal gift. You ate the dinner tonight, you met the relatives—what, you're going to back out now?"

"You're going to register that marriage tomorrow. If you don't, I'll die right here in front of you. You might not care about your reputation, but I care about mine."

Before I could even react, she snatched the fruit knife off the table and drove it toward her own body.

I lunged for it—

In the scramble, the blade plunged into my lower abdomen.

A dull, tearing pain ripped through me. I couldn't breathe.

I pressed both hands against the wound. Blood seeped between my fingers, soaking through my dress in seconds.

My mother dropped the knife, her face white. "Irene—I'm sorry, I—"

Everything went black.

When I opened my eyes, Joel Lambert's eager, ingratiating face was the first thing I saw.

"Irene, you're awake?"

I turned to my mother. "Why is he here?"

"I was afraid I couldn't take care of you alone, so I called him over. You two are getting married sooner or later—it's only right that he looks after you."

Every patient in the shared ward had their ears pricked up, exchanging looks I didn't need to decode.

For the first time, I truly looked at my mother.

And what I saw on her face was unmistakable.

Satisfaction. Gloating.

She'd done this on purpose.

She wanted to push me into the fire. She wanted everyone to witness my humiliation.

Why?

Was I even her real daughter?

My voice came out flat. Dead still, like stagnant water.

"You really want me to marry Joel Lambert?"

My mother nodded. "Of course. It's all I've been hoping for."

The words tumbled out of her mouth like she couldn't say them fast enough.

A chill sank through me—bone-deep, marrow-deep—until I was shaking with it.

All these years, she'd backed me into corner after corner, and I'd endured every single one. Because she was my mother. The only family I had left in this world.

But the things she'd done to me were not the things a mother does.

"Fine. You'll get your wish. The day I'm discharged, I'll register the marriage with Joel. Just give me some peace until then."

A week later, I was released from the hospital.

The next day, my mother posted the marriage certificate in the group chat like a trophy.

[Congratulations to Irene and Joel Lambert on their union!]

[Their wedding banquet is in three days. Everyone must come and celebrate!]

The group went silent. Not a single reply.

But my private messages blew up.

Aunt Grace: [Irene, is someone forcing your hand? Please don't throw your future away!]

Stella: [Are you out of your mind? You're really marrying that old man?]

[I already know about you and Rhys. Please tell me you're not marrying that guy just to spite him.]

[Don't do something you'll regret. I can give him back to you.]

I'm telling you the truth. I've realized I don't even like him that much.

But I can tell—he really does like you. He can't let you go.

The messages came one after another, but I stayed calm, like none of it mattered.

I wasn't losing my mind. I knew exactly what I was doing.

If this was the ending my mother wanted to see, I'd make sure she got a front-row seat.

The day of the wedding arrived.

I wore a wedding dress that didn't fit, a stiff smile plastered across my face from start to finish.

The guests whispered among themselves.

"Has Irene lost her mind? She's marrying a man older than her own mother."

"Right? And this is his fourth marriage. I heard all four of his ex-wives died of cancer. What could she possibly see in him?"

"She's probably no prize herself. That's the only way you end up in a match like this."

Rhys watched me, his expression unreadable—confusion, bewilderment, heartache, and beneath it all, a thread of something sharper. Something close to resentment.

My gaze drifted past him, unfocused, floating somewhere above his head.

Even if we'd never broken up, we wouldn't have ended up together. There was no point adding more regret to the pile.

Throughout the entire reception, my mother laughed—loud, shameless, triumphant. She dragged me along, raising her glass to toast every table, not caring about the stares, the murmurs, the judgment rippling through the room.

She looked like a woman who had finally, after all these years, won.

A wave of dizziness hit me. I nearly lost my footing.

My mother caught my arm, her voice laced with concern. "Sweetie, is your blood sugar low? Let Joel take you to lie down for a bit."

She shot Joel a look. He immediately wrapped an arm around me and steered me toward the back room.

Behind us, my mother's voice rang out cheerfully. "Everyone, please—eat, drink! Irene hasn't been sleeping well these past few days. I'm just going to help her rest."

My vision blurred. Everything swam. Shapes melted into shadows.

My legs buckled. I stumbled, nearly hitting the floor.

Joel seized the opportunity, scooping me up into his arms. His hands didn't stay still—they wandered, roaming where they had no right to be.

I looked to my mother, helpless. "Mom, tell him to put me down."

She leaned in close. Her lips brushed my ear.

"Sweetie," she whispered, "I'm not your mother."

The words landed like a blade.

"Grace is your real mother. I've been making you suffer so she could watch her own daughter destroyed. Once you and Joel have spent the night together—once it's done and can't be undone—I'll tell her the truth."

"I've been waiting years for this chance. Years. And I finally have it."

Her smile twisted into something grotesque, her eyes blazing with a hatred so deep it seemed bottomless.

"Blame your real mother. If it weren't for her, I wouldn't spend every single day drowning in regret. She stole my happiness. She's the reason the man I loved is dead."

"Now it's her turn to know what it feels like to have her heart ripped out."

So this was the real reason my mother hated me.

All the venom she had for Grace—every ounce of it—she'd poured onto me.

The question that had haunted me for years finally had an answer.

When I was little, I'd wondered. Was it because I was Grace's daughter that she treated me this way?

I'd saved up money in secret and gone for a paternity test. The results confirmed I was her biological child.

I'd naively believed she simply despised me—that the cruelty was just who she was.

Now I finally understood. It had all been a misunderstanding.

I grabbed her sleeve with every scrap of strength I had left, desperate to make her see.

"No—I'm your—"

She slapped my hand away.

"What are you standing around for?" she snapped at Joel. "Get her inside!"

Joel clamped his hand over my mouth. "Get me a rope. She's going to fight."

My mother shoved him forward. "Forget the rope. That soup she drank this morning—I drugged it. She's got nothing left. Just hurry up." Her voice dropped, cold and final. "And don't come out until I tell you to."

I grabbed my mother's wrist, tears streaming down my face, shaking my head in desperate, wordless pleading.

She peeled my fingers off one by one.

"Irene, if you want to blame someone, blame your real mother. She's the one who brought this on you."

I watched, helpless, as my mother shut the door with a smile plastered across her face.

A hollow ache carved through my chest, winding around my organs like it meant to split them apart. I couldn't even form a single word of protest.

She threaded a long iron chain through the door handles and locked it. Every last shred of hope drained out of me.

Then Aunt Grace burst in with my cousin. "Vivian! What have you done with Irene?"

My mother's smile barely concealed her glee. "What could I possibly have done? The girl couldn't wait to consummate her marriage with Joel."

"Grace, since you're here, there's something I should tell you. We got our babies mixed up all those years ago. Irene is actually your biological daughter."

Grace pulled out a sheet of paper, her voice urgent. "Vivian, look at this paternity test. Irene is your daughter!"