For a decade, my world had been measured in laundry cycles, grocery lists, and the ever-growing pile of dishes in the sink.

I was elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing the remnants of another family meal, when it happened. A sudden, silent cascade of text flickered at the edge of my vision, like subtitles for a movie only I could see:

[Gosh, the heroine is so tragic. Her husband's entire family has been feeding on her luck like parasites!]

[Her husband stole her graduate school admission and her career!]

[The in-laws are literally siphoning her health away. No wonder she's always sick.]

[And the sister-in-law took her "romance" stat! No wonder her love life is a desert.]

[Heads up! Her husband's about to give her another "gift." Let's see how much more he takes from her this time.]

My hands, clutching a greasy plate, froze.

Right on cue, my husband, Tristan, sauntered into the kitchen. A smug, self-satisfied smile was plastered on his face as he took my wet hand. He slid a flimsy, garishly colored plastic bracelet onto my wrist.

"Look what I got for you, sweetheart," he announced, his voice dripping with pride. "I made a special trip after work. Found it at the dollar store. It's romantic and economical, just like you always say you want. You love it, don't you?"

I had been a housewife for ten years.

Tristan Gaffor touched my wrist. In the window's reflection, I saw the calculation in his eyes. "The company's announcing management promotions tomorrow. Honey, do you think I'll get it?"

I was still dazed by the earlier barrage of on-screen comments.

"What are you spacing out for? Say something."

The comments flashed again.

[If she says "yes," they'll siphon her luck again.]

[Of course, she'll answer. She always obeys in this house.]

I stayed silent. Suddenly, Tristan's grip on my wrist tightened, his fingers a vise grinding the bone.

"Honey. Say something." His voice was strained.

The cheap plastic bracelet on my right wrist began to burn as if it were on fire.

"I… I think my period just started," I stammered.

I bolted for the bathroom. Tristan followed, unrelenting. He stood outside the door, calling over and over, "Honey, tell me, will I get it or not?"

I shouted back through the door, forcing my voice steady. "Yes! You'll definitely get it!"

Hearing this, Tristan brightened like a man who'd won the jackpot. "If you're not feeling well tonight, I won't bother you. I'll go stay at my brother's." He sounded almost delighted.

I watched the plastic bracelet swirl in the toilet bowl. The on-screen comments raced across my vision.

[She actually flushed the bracelet? She always treasured her husband's gifts!]

[Does she finally realize he's been hurting her?]

[Or does she know he's been cheating?]

…

In that moment, the barrage's words felt unbearably true. Reading them, my heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

The people in my living room were my family, or so I'd once believed. Their betrayal cut deeper than any stranger's blade.

[From the start, the whole family was in on it.]

[She should have gone to grad school, then for her doctorate, met an equal, started a company…]

[If only she'd known—they wouldn't have siphoned her luck piece by piece.]

Through the commentary, I learned everything—the truth and the ending they had written for me. I was going to die.

I was an orphan. In university, I'd met Tristan, who seemed honest and dependable. His parents had treated me like their own daughter, doting and proud. But it was all a façade. I had been chosen—selected.

Tristan's father, George, possessed an old family secret, a method for borrowing another's fortune. Over generations, it had faded; now, it only worked on members of their own household.

George had identified my innate good fortune and told Tristan to marry me quickly—making me their kin, and their resource.

I had studied relentlessly for my postgraduate exams, but in the end, it was Tristan—who hadn't cracked a book—who was accepted into my top-choice program.

No matter how ill his parents were, they'd recover by morning; I, meanwhile, was plagued by chronic ailments, the kind you'd expect in someone twice my age.

I exercised; I ate balanced meals; yet my weight climbed toward two hundred pounds. Meanwhile, my sister-in-law, who lived on fried chicken and soda, stayed graceful and started dating a wealthy heir.

According to the story's end, I would lose every last scrap of my siphoned luck, be diagnosed with cancer, and then be hit by a delivery truck while crossing the street.

I splashed my face with cold water again and again, trying to drown the panic smothering me. Thank God I'd seen those comments. I could not let them keep stealing my fate.

If they weren't going to be sincere with me, then they would pay.

I pressed the flush. That worthless piece of plastic—the symbol of Tristan's promotion and his cheap, performative affection—swirled down, destined for the same place as his career advancement.

Let the garbage go to hell, right along with his promotion.

The next evening, Tristan stormed into the house, fury crackling around him. He ripped at his tie, and when he saw my trembling wrist, the anger in his eyes peaked.

He seized my arm. "Where is it? The bracelet I gave you—where is it?"

I feigned ignorance and shrugged. "It fell into the toilet last night by accident."

His face flushed crimson. "It fell in, and you didn't bother to fish it out?"

"It was a cheap trinket from a dollar store," I snapped. "Why are you making such a big deal out of it?"

"You know you cost me my promotion!" he snarled.

Feigning bafflement, I asked, "What are you talking about? You mean if I lose a bracelet, you lose your promotion?"

"You—" Tristan began, but George cut him off with a sharp clearing of his throat.

"Enough. If it's lost, we'll buy another. Don't make a scene," he said. Tristan finally fell silent, though his body was still rigid with anger.

I went to the kitchen to serve dinner, catching Tristan's sullen glare from the corner of my eye.

Losing the promotion was only the beginning. I would make them pay back everything they had stolen from me.

At the table, Tristan was still radiating fury. My mother-in-law, Sophia, smiled, trying to smooth things over. "Sandra, Tristan worked so hard for that position. He's just upset he didn't get it—you mustn't be angry with him."

"Look how good Tristan is to you," she continued, "always bringing you little gifts. It even makes me a little jealous. You have no parents to rely on; I've always treated you as my own daughter."

She picked a piece of broccoli from her plate and placed it on mine. "Sandra, eat more. It's good for your health."

She then took a large bite of meat. "I went to the pharmacy downstairs yesterday to have my blood pressure checked. They said it's quite high. I'll go to the hospital tomorrow. But don't you worry, I'll be fine, right?"

A cold dread twisted in my gut. The broccoli was already in my mouth.

The barrage of comments exploded across my vision.

[Wow, this old woman is vicious—who thinks like that?]

[What can the heroine do? Maybe she should run to the bathroom!]

[Do you think she already knows?]

Sophia kept looking at me with tender, expectant eyes. "Sandra, what do you think?"

Under the table, I pressed my hand hard against my stomach.

"Ugh—!"

I vomited, the contents of my stomach splattering onto the table. Between heaves, I looked at my Sophia, who had gone pale with shock, and forced a weak smile. "Of course, Mom. You'll be fine."

"Ugh—!"

I retched until there was nothing left. The meal was ruined. My stomach still cramped, and I mumbled that I felt unwell before retreating to my room to lie down.

Not long after, Tristan entered with a glass of milk. "My mother made this for you. She feels bad you didn't eat much and is worried your stomach is empty. See? What other mother-in-law would do that for her daughter-in-law?"

I made a small sound of thanks. Tristan snapped, "Sandra, sit up and drink it. Don't be ungrateful."

"Just leave it," I said weakly. "I'll drink it later."

He slammed the glass down on the bedside table. The moment he turned away, I poured the entire contents into the plant by the window.

The barrage popped up again.

[How did she know the milk was spiked?]

[I can't wait to see what she does next.]

Soon, voices drifted from the next room—this old house had paper-thin walls. I cracked the bedroom door, leaving it open just a sliver.

"Is Sandra asleep?" Sophia asked.

"Out cold," Tristan replied. "I crushed seven or eight sleeping pills into that milk. She's dead to the world."

Sophia clucked her tongue. "You should be nicer to her. Look how harsh you were today. If Sandra ever leaves you, what would we do? And your sister is counting on that trust-fund heir."

Tristan smirked. "Mom, Sandra is useless without me. Look at that fat pig—who else would want her? Even being kind to her makes my skin crawl. Tell Tina to eat less; just looking at Sandra turns my stomach."

His words made something click into place. I'd been married into this family for ten years, yet Tina Gaffor had never given me a thing. How had she "borrowed" my luck, leaving me fat and sick?

The barrage was thinking the same thing.

[They never said Tina gave the heroine anything.]

[Maybe the 'gifts' were passed through Tristan.]

Sophia fretted, "Sandra vomited… Could she be pregnant?"

Tristan was quick to dismiss it. "With that fatty? I feel sick every time I touch her. Why would I do that?"

The words triggered an old, deep ache; my hand flew instinctively to my belly. I had once been pregnant, but my frail body couldn't hold on—I lost the baby.

Tristan sneered, "Dad, your method worked perfectly back then. We made that fatty miscarry, and Kylie gave me a son. When can I bring Kylie and Nathan home? I can't stand the sight of that Sandra."

So that was it. My child, too, had been taken from me, sacrificed to feed them.

The usually silent George spoke. "In one month, Sandra's luck will be fully transferred. She must die for the transfer to be complete; otherwise, the backlash will destroy us."

Tristan sounded thrilled. "Perfect! My son and my real wife can finally come home."

George stopped him. "Kylie can't come join the family yet. You must find another woman with a strong destiny to marry, so our family's prosperity can continue."

"Fine. Kylie does what she's told, anyway. But I want Nathan here—he's my son," Tristan insisted.

Sophia then whimpered, "Oh, my leg is aching again. Tomorrow, I must give Sandra something else. And you, Tristan! Be smarter about it. Don't keep giving her that cheap junk from the dollar store."

Tristan boasted, "There's nothing to worry about! She's loved that crap for ten years."

Their conversation wound down. I closed the door, lay on the bed, and pretended to sleep.

Tristan opened the door, glared, muttered "stupid fatty," and left.

In the dark, I opened my eyes. My face was wet with tears. Hatred burned so fiercely that I wanted them to pay in blood.

For my child, I would have vengeance.

For the ten years stolen from me, I would make them answer.

Tristan didn't come home that night.

He used to make excuses, but now, knowing I had only a month to live, he couldn't even be bothered to pretend.

The next morning, Sophia brought me a bowl of stew. "Sandra, you should eat. Your stomach was so upset yesterday. You need to rest."

I didn't take them. Instead, I guided her to sit on the sofa beside me.

"Mom, there's something I need to talk to you about.

"You know I grew up in the orphanage. Yesterday, the director called me. She's getting on in years, and she fell and broke her leg. She's spent her whole life caring for other people's children, and with no family of her own, she's completely alone. I feel I should go and take care of her for a while."

A flicker of irritation crossed Sophia's face. "Sandra, you're my daughter-in-law. Tristan is out working all day—your place is here, taking care of this household."

I took her hand, my expression open and sincere. "Mom, let me be honest with you. The director told me she has no heirs. I'm the only one who's visited and looked after her all these years. Now… she wants to sign her two apartments over to me.

"You and Dad have always treated me like your own, and Tristan has been so good to me. Once the properties are in my name, I plan to transfer them to Tristan."

Her eyes lit up. She clutched my hands, excitement spilling over. "Sandra, I always knew you were a good, filial girl! Don't you worry about a thing—go today. I'll handle Tristan!"

I smiled and nodded.

That very evening, she summoned Tristan home.

I had hired an actor to play the part of a lawyer, complete with stacks of forged documents. Drunk on greed, Tristan signed every page without reading a single one—never noticing the divorce papers cleverly mixed into the stack.

The moment his pen hit the final page, I felt invisible chains shatter inside me. A surge of power, warm and potent, flooded my veins, strengthening my body and sharpening my mind.

The barrage erupted in a wild celebration across my vision.

[She did it! She's free of the Gaffor family! Their connection is broken—they can't siphon her luck anymore!]

[She's no longer a Gaffor. Since the ritual wasn't completed, the backlash is coming for them. I can't wait to watch!]

The "lawyer" excused himself to "process the property transfer," and the Gaffor family practically shoved him out the door, their faces split with greedy grins.

Immediately, Tristan started planning the spoils with his parents. "We'll sell one apartment, and Kylie and Nathan can move into the other."

In his glee, he accidentally revealed the truth about his mistress and illegitimate son.

Sophia quickly tried to hush him, but Tristan shot me a dismissive look. "You just focus on taking care of the orphanage director. Don't bother coming back here."

He practically hurled my luggage out himself.

I walked away, the divorce decree clutched tightly in my hand, tears of relief and liberation streaming down my face.

Ten years. Finally, my life was my own again.

And I was going to enjoy watching their family crumble, paying in ruin and blood for the decade they had stolen from me and the child they had taken.

The orphanage director had, in fact, broken her leg. I told her a simplified version of the truth—that Tristan had been unfaithful. She understood completely and welcomed me to stay. It was the perfect cover to care for her and to lay my plans.

That night, as I was settling in, my phone rang. It was Tristan.

I answered, and his panicked voice screeched through the receiver, "Sandra! Get down to the Corealis Grand Hotel, now!"

Before I could even form a response, the barrage provided the context.

[Tristan was trying to meet his side piece, but he walked into the wrong suite and stumbled right into the lover of a privileged heir in Holleas City!]