The day of the grape incident, I had watched her leave the apartment. The temptation was too strong.

I opened the fridge, spotted the Shine Muscat grapes, and took them.

I warmed them in water, desperate for a taste of normalcy.

Two grapes.

That's all I managed before she came back.

She exploded.

I snapped.

Now, standing amidst the ruined fruit, with Spencer siding with his screaming mother, I reached my limit.

Tears stung my eyes.

I was done.

I turned, marched into the bedroom, and scooped up my crying son. No packing. No changing out of my pajamas. Just Little Treasure clutched to my chest as I bolted for the door.

"What are you doing? Put the child down!"

My mother-in-law lunged. Her grip was iron, her nails digging into my arm hard enough to draw blood. I staggered back.

Little Treasure shrieked, his face turning purple. His tiny fist gripped my shirt in terror.

I wrenched my shoulder free. "Let go of me! This is my child! You don't control where I go!"

Spencer blocked the doorway, face twisted in a snarl. He spread his arms wide.

"You aren't going anywhere!"

Cold sweat soaked my back. My body was still weak from the birth and the fever; tremors racked my limbs.

"I gave birth ten days ago, but it feels like ten years in hell!" Tears streamed down my face. "You starve me. You control me. You ignored my fever. You mocked me when I was in pain. I can't stay in this house for another second. Spencer Miranda, I want a divorce!"

I shoved past him.

"Mila Fox is taking the baby! Stop her!" my mother-in-law screeched.

Madeline appeared in the hallway, grabbing my other arm. Against the three of them, I was losing.

But it was New Year's Day. The commotion drew neighbors out of their apartments.

"Hey, Miranda family! It's a holiday, what's going on?" a neighbor called out. "Your daughter-in-law is in confinement. Keep it down!"

An audience.

I abandoned all dignity. I wanted out.

"They won't let me eat! They won't let me care for my own child!" I shouted, pouring out every grievance from the past week.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"Young people do things scientifically now," one woman said, frowning at my mother-in-law. "You can't force the old ways on them."

"Exactly," another added. "The mother's health comes first during confinement."

"And really," a man said, eyeing Madeline, "married daughters shouldn't meddle so much in their brother's household."

The tide turned.

Spencer panicked. He grabbed my arm, trying to drag me back inside. "Mila, stop making a scene! Why are you so ungrateful? Mom is doing this for you!"

Hearing her son's defense, my mother-in-law wailed louder. "My fate is so bitter! I treat her with kindness, and she throws it back in my face!"

Madeline's face flushed red, then white. A shaking finger pointed at my nose.

"You're just delicate! You're a snob! You think our family isn't good enough for you, is that it? You look down on us!"

I took a step back, clutching Little Treasure tight. My gaze turned colder than the winter air.

"Look down on you? I knew exactly what your family was when I married him. If I was a snob, I never would have looked twice at Spencer Miranda." My voice dropped, sharp as a blade. "Right now, I just want to get away from you psychos."

Little Treasure's voice was hoarse from crying. I patted his back, my words softening to a whisper.

"Don't cry, baby. Mommy is taking you away."

I pressed my lips to his forehead.

"Mommy will protect you."

Seeing that I was still determined to leave, Spencer lunged forward to snatch the baby. "If you want to go, fine! Get out! But the child stays. He is a Miranda—he carries our blood, and he isn't going anywhere with you!"

I clutched Little Bao against my chest, twisting my body away from his grasping hands. "In your dreams! I carried him for ten months. I gave birth to him. He has nothing to do with your family!"

My mother-in-law and Madeline swarmed me, their hands clawing at my arms. They shoved and yanked until I stumbled, fighting to keep my footing.

Little Bao's wails pierced the air, growing louder with every jostle.

The commotion drew the neighbors out. Some stepped in to separate us, while others tried to reason with Spencer. "Spencer, calm down! You're scaring the baby!"

"Exactly," another chimed in. "This mess is your family's fault to begin with. If your wife wants to leave, let her go. You can't just hold her prisoner."

Crimson crept up Spencer's neck at the public dressing-down. His jaw locked tight, but he didn't dare make another move with so many witnesses watching.

I wrenched my arm free and bolted for the stairwell, the baby locked securely in my embrace.

Behind me, my mother-in-law's shrill voice echoed down the hall. "Mila Fox, get back here! Leave my grandson!"

Madeline chased me to the landing, deliberately raising her voice for the neighbors to hear. "Let her run! Her family is over a thousand kilometers away. Where can she possibly go? She can't just divorce my brother because she feels like it!"

I didn't look back.

I flew down the stairs, adrenaline fueling my exhausted legs, taking them two at a time until my lungs burned.

Only when I burst out of the building and the biting wind slapped my face did my racing heart begin to slow.

The trembling bundle in my arms demanded my attention. I had nowhere to go. My parents were in another city, too far to reach quickly, and I had no money for a ticket.

But one thing was certain: I would rather die on the streets than step foot back in that house.

I collapsed onto a bench in the residential compound, hugging Little Bao to share what little body heat I had left. A desperate longing for my mother's voice clawed at my throat, but I couldn't make that call.

Not yet.

Heavy footsteps crunched on the pavement behind me.

I spun around. Spencer and Madeline were charging toward me, my mother-in-law hobbling behind them on her cane.

"Let's see how far you can run now!" Spencer panted, chest heaving as he closed the distance, his stride predatory.

I stood up, shielding the child, and met his gaze with a glare that could cut glass. "I'd rather die than go back with you. I am divorcing you, Spencer!"

A crowd had begun to gather in the compound, whispering and pointing.

Spencer's expression shifted rapidly—pale with rage one second, flushed the next. He forced a sneer. "Fine! Divorce! But I'm keeping the boy!"

"Impossible!"

"Mila, stop making a scene." His voice dropped to a threatening growl. "My mom is generous enough to forgive you. Now, get back upstairs."

Despite the words of "forgiveness," his tone was pure command.

My mother-in-law began to wail theatrically, acting as if she were on death's door. Spencer turned to comfort her, his voice low but audible enough for me to hear. "Mom, don't worry. Mila is obsessed with me. She fought her whole family just to marry me back then. She's not going anywhere. She doesn't have the guts to actually divorce me."

He thought I couldn't hear him.

Or perhaps he didn't care.

Hot tears blurred my vision. I had severed ties with my own family for this man. I had drained my savings for him. And this was the face he showed me in return?

Spencer had always carried a sense of unearned superiority in our marriage. We had the same level of education, yet he always acted as if he were a tier above me. I used to think it was just a quirk, something to overlook for the sake of love.

Now, the veil was lifted.

I saw him for what he truly was.

If I compromised now, if I endured this, Spencer wouldn't just treat me poorly—he would cease to view me as a human being altogether. And without him protecting me, his family would devour me alive.

"Spencer Miranda." My voice trembled not from fear, but from the bone-deep cold. "I am divorcing you. And the money I spent on your family? I'm taking back every single cent."

The winter air was biting, sinking its teeth into my bones. I stood there without a coat, shivering uncontrollably.

But my resolve was harder than ice.

"Mila, keep dreaming," Spencer spat. "You're not getting a divorce, and you're certainly not getting any money."

His gaze swept over me—shivering in the freezing wind, clutching our son—and there wasn't a flicker of concern in his eyes. Instead, he lunged again, trying to rip the baby from my arms.

I couldn't match his brute strength, but desperation gave me an edge. Instead of pulling away, I dug my nails hard into the back of his hand.

Spencer hissed and recoiled, loosening his grip.

Seeing their precious son hurt, Madeline and my mother-in-law shrieked and rushed forward.

*This is it.* Panic clawed up my throat. *If they all attack at once, I can't protect Little Bao.*

Just as they were about to grab me, a patrol car rolled slowly into the compound, its lights flashing. It screeched to a halt right in front of us.

A neighbor—bless them—must have called the police.

The moment the officers stepped out, the arrogant sneers on my mother-in-law and Madeline's faces vanished, replaced by nervous twitching. Even Spencer looked rattled.

My knees nearly buckled with relief. I rushed toward the officers, tears finally spilling over. "Officer, please! I want a divorce. They're holding me prisoner and trying to steal my child!"

The officer scanned the scene, frowning at the gathering crowd. "All of you, to the station. If you have a dispute, settle it there. Stop causing a public disturbance."

I nodded frantically and climbed into the patrol car, holding Little Bao close.

Spencer and his family, realizing they had no choice, sullenly followed.

As the car moved and the scenery blurred past the window, I made a silent vow.

*No matter the cost, I will break free from these people. I will start a new life with my son.*

I had sponsored a girl from poverty for three years. When she mentioned wanting a summer job, I pulled a few strings to get her an internship at my husband's company.

I never expected that a few months later, she would barge into my office, cradling a visible baby bump, and interrogate me through her tears.

"I knew it all along! You didn't sponsor me out of kindness!" she wailed. "Now that I'm pregnant with Mr. Sawyer's child, he's suddenly vanished. Did you hide him?"

Her brother looked even more ferocious, jabbing a finger in my face. "If it weren't for your fake charity, my sister never would have met that bastard! He got her pregnant and thinks he can just run away? No chance!"

He slammed his hand on my desk. "Either pay up, or divorce him and let my sister be Mrs. Sawyer. You choose!"

The scandal spread like wildfire. Online, a chorus of insults erupted. Everyone accused me of being a pimp, using my charity work as a front to procure mistresses for my husband.

I almost laughed out loud.

If this girl really was pregnant with my husband's child, I'd need to apply for a scientific patent immediately.

——

Red ink bled across the student essay beneath my pen when my office door crashed open.

"You! Matthews! Where is your husband? Did you hide him?"

Alex Donaldson stormed in, murder written across his face. "He knocked up my sister and wants to bail? Keep dreaming!"

Georgia Donaldson stood behind him, hands cradling her stomach like a shield. Her eyes were swollen, ringed with red. Beside her, another girl held up a phone—the red recording light blinking.

Livestreaming.

I set down my pen. "Georgia? Why are you here?"

Her voice cracked with performative sobs. "Ms. Matthews, I really have no other choice. Mr. Sawyer has cut off all contact. I can't find him anywhere…" She sniffled. "And the doctor said my constitution is too weak—I can't have an abortion…"

I leaned back, studying her. The trembling lip. The downcast eyes that wouldn't quite meet mine.

"So? You came here today demanding what, exactly?"

Alex sneered. "Two options! Either Sawyer marries my sister, or you pay up! My sister is a top student at a prestigious university—she was completely ruined by that beast of a husband of yours!"

The girl with the phone turned it toward me, playing to her audience. "Family, look at this! This is Ms. Matthews, supposed to be a role model! She used her charity program to pimp for her own husband! Georgia is so pitiful—she studied her way out of the countryside only to be pushed from the frying pan into the fire!"

Comments scrolled across the screen in a frenzy:

*"Is this real? That teacher looks so quiet, who knew she was a monster?"*

*"The girl looks barely eighteen. Her whole life is over!"*

A crowd of students had gathered at the door, their whispers rising into a low roar. Phones appeared. More cameras. More witnesses.

I stood up, walked to the water cooler, and poured myself a cup. The water was lukewarm. I took a slow, deliberate sip.

"Are you finished?"

Alex's face reddened. "What kind of attitude is that? That's your husband's seed in her belly!"

"Impossible." The paper cup hit the trash bin with a dull thud. "The child she's carrying is absolutely not my husband's."

Georgia's tears spilled instantly, running mascara tracks down her cheeks. "Ms. Matthews, I know it's hard to accept, but it's the truth! That night… Mr. Sawyer got me drunk. When I woke up…" Her breath hitched. "He said he truly liked me…"

"Oh?" I arched a brow. "Dominic Sawyer told you personally that he likes you?"

She nodded vigorously, pulling a stack of photos from her bag and fanning them across my desk. "Here is the evidence. If I'm lying, may heaven strike me down!"

I picked up the top photo.

The angles were calculated—deliberately tricky. But Dominic's profile was unmistakable. Georgia pressed against his side. The timestamp on the hotel surveillance screenshot was clear: one night, three months ago.

"The photos are real," I admitted.

Alex's grin split wide. "See? I told you—"

"But the child isn't my husband's." My voice dropped to ice. "Georgia, take your people and leave. I can treat today's scene as if it never happened. But if you continue to cause trouble, I will call the police."