Yara returned to her room, took a shower, and didn’t go back downstairs.

The noise from below gradually faded—it seemed the banquet had come to an end.

Just as she was getting ready to sleep, her phone buzzed with a message from Elena.

“Yara, come to my room. I have a gift for you.”

Yara left her room and approached Elena’s door, but before she could knock, she heard hushed voices from inside.

"Elena, don’t do this. Your sister is right next door."

"She’s asleep. What are you afraid of? Ever since she came back, you haven’t touched me. Westley, I’ve missed you."

"Elena, it wouldn’t be good if your sister overheard."

"Westley, are you really that scared of her?"

It sounded like Elena was crying now, her voice thick with emotion.

"Westley, tell me the truth. Since she came back, have you been sleeping with her again? You promised me I was the only one..."

"I haven’t touched her," Westley said, his voice a mix of helplessness and tenderness.

"Elena, don’t cry. You’ve seen the scar on her forehead. Do you really think I could feel anything for her now?"

Elena let out a soft laugh.

"I knew it. You always treat me the best. You’re so good to me, I have to repay you. Westley, stay still. Let me take care of you."

"Elena, you’re willing to do this? I don’t want you to feel wronged..."

"I don’t mind. Westley, you’re a man, and men have needs. I’m happy to do this for you."

Inside the room, the sound of whispered, intimate voices continued.

"Westley, tell me—who’s prettier? Me or my sister?"

"You."

"Who makes you feel better? Me or her?"

"You."

"Then who do you love more? Me or her?"

"Of course, it’s you, Elena. Faster..."

Yara felt a loud buzzing in her ears, drowning out everything else.

Her entire body stiffened, as though even her blood had stopped flowing.

Stumbling, Yara made her way back to her room. She sat by the window, staring blankly into the pitch-black night for what felt like an eternity.

She thought that no matter how despicable Westley might be, he would at least hold onto some semblance of decency.

But she overestimated him.

In the early hours of the morning, just as Yara had finally closed her eyes, the buzzing of her phone jolted her awake.

The messages were from Elena:

"Yara, you heard it all, didn’t you? Your mattress and your husband—they’re both mine now."

"Let me tell you the truth. While you were rotting in prison, Westley and I spent almost every night together."

"Oh, my dear sister, it seems you couldn’t satisfy your husband. Otherwise, why would he act like a starving wolf in my bed?"

"Your career, your father, your husband—they’re all mine now, Yara. I’ll make sure everyone knows that the only thing separating us was that you had a rich mother. You’ve never been better than me!"

Yara’s hands trembled uncontrollably, and she almost lost it, ready to throw her phone across the room.

It took her a long while to steady her breathing, and her thoughts gradually became clearer.

Elena wasn’t wrong—Yara had a wealthy mother.

But what Elena failed to understand was that the comfortable life she now enjoyed wasn’t thanks to their idle father.

It was entirely due to the inheritance Yara’s mother left behind.

Her mother had been forward-thinking, foreseeing the possibility of her daughter being wronged. She included a special clause in her will, ensuring Yara’s protection.

And now, that clause had been activated.

Yara opened her contacts and called Michael Baker, the family lawyer.

The phone rang only twice before Michael answered, his tone exceptionally respectful.

"Miss Cullen, how can I assist you?"

"Mr. Baker, it’s time to enforce the supplementary clause in my mother’s will.”

"Are you certain, Miss Cullen?"

"I’m certain."

With those two words, Yara ended the call.

In the pitch-black room, Yara lay staring blankly at the ceiling.

Scenes from the past few years flashed before her eyes like a movie reel.

She had long since lost the concept of having a father.

And now, she had no intention of keeping her husband either.

…

That night, Yara slept exceptionally well.

The next morning, sunlight was streaming through the windows by the time she finally got up. After taking her time washing up, she headed downstairs.

The first thing she heard was Elena wailing hysterically:

"Who told you to come here? Why are you digging up my chamomile plants? I still need them for my tea!"

At the villa’s front gate, a group of workers was busily digging up the lush chamomile plants, pulling them out by the roots with practiced efficiency.

Elena screamed, but the workers didn’t so much as glance her way, acting as though they couldn’t hear her.

Yara strolled into the living room, crossed her legs, and settled onto the sofa. Taking a sip of the freshly brewed tea that the housekeeper had just brought her, she said calmly, "I told them to."

Elena froze, then stormed over, her fury barely contained. "Yara! What gives you the right? That’s my chamomile plants!"

Leaning comfortably against the sofa, Yara glanced up at her and smiled faintly. "What gives me the right? Nothing, really. I just find your chamomile plants an eyesore."

Elena stood there, stunned for a good half minute before bursting into louder sobs. "Yara, you’re doing this on purpose! You’re just trying to make my life miserable!"

Yara nodded, her tone light and mocking. "You’re absolutely right, Elena. I am trying to make your life miserable."

Elena froze again, her face twisting with rage. "Yara! You’re just a criminal. How dare you act so arrogant? Did prison teach you nothing? Do you want to end up back there?"

The faint smile on Yara’s face vanished. She stood up, her expression cold and unreadable as she stared Elena down.

"Elena, prison isn’t exactly a pleasant experience. So, unless you want to find yourself in one for defamation, you’d better watch your mouth."

Elena’s sobs caught in her throat. She stared at Yara, wide-eyed, as though looking at a stranger.

For the first time, Elena felt like Yara was a completely different person—someone she never knew.

The Yara standing before them now was nothing like the woman who used to swallow her pride and endure everything in silence.

Her entire demeanor exuded sharpness, a quiet intensity that was almost intimidating.

Yara saw the confusion and fear in Elena’s eyes and responded with a faint smile.

Starting today, she would never compromise herself again.

Her past concessions had stemmed from care—caring about her father, caring about Westley, and avoiding conflict with Elena.

But now, she cared about none of it.

And they could forget about controlling her ever again.

As the two of them stood locked in silence, a deep voice came from behind. “Elena, why are you crying?”

There was no need to turn around; Yara knew it was Robert.

Elena immediately threw herself into their father’s arms. “Dad, Yara had my chamomile plants torn out! Those were the ones you worked so hard to grow for me!”

Robert’s heart ached for his younger daughter. “Don’t cry, Elena. The chamomile plants can be replanted. Don’t worry, I will make sure justice is served for you!”

He lifted his head and turned to Yara, launching into a tirade.

"Yara, you’ve been picking on your sister again while I wasn’t here! You’ll apologize to her right now! Then go outside and replant every single chamomile plant, or don’t blame me for taking harsher measures!"

Yara watched as the two put on their little “father-daughter” show in front of her.

Then she watched her father’s expression turn cold toward her with a speed that could rival flipping a page in a book.

The irony of it all was almost laughable.

Her voice was lazy and unhurried as she said, “Dad, I’m not apologizing. As for replanting the chamomile…”

She deliberately paused, letting the suspense linger.

Both Robert and Elena perked up their ears, waiting for her answer.

Yara suddenly laughed, her tone returning to its usual nonchalance. "It’s not impossible. As long as you replant my mother’s peach tree, I’ll replant Elena’s chamomile."

Robert’s frown deepened. "What kind of joke is this? That peach tree was thrown out ages ago. How am I supposed to get it back?"

The smile on Yara’s lips froze.

That tree was planted by her mother when Yara was five years old.

Yara had always been frail as a child, constantly plagued by minor illnesses.

Her mother, believing peach trees warded off evil spirits, planted it with care and devotion, praying for her daughter’s lifelong safety.

A wife’s heartfelt gesture and a mother’s love for her child—yet to Robert, it was nothing more than trash to be carelessly discarded.

Yara’s hand, hanging at her side, slowly curled into a fist.

Yara turned to face her father, her expression cold and unreadable.

"Then there’s nothing I can do. The chamomile plants have been thrown out like trash. How do you expect me to replant it?"

Robert clutched his chest in anger. "You ungrateful daughter! You’re doing this on purpose to defy me!"

Elena rushed to his side, tears streaming down her face as she supported him. "Dad, Yara’s gone too far this time! She’s trying to push you to the brink!"

Robert coughed heavily, his trembling hand pointing accusingly at Yara.

"I’ll pretend I never had a daughter like you. Get out! Get out of this house right now!"

Yara shrugged nonchalantly. "If you don’t want me as your daughter, that’s fine. Honestly, I don’t want you as my father either. But as for leaving this house? Sorry, that’s not happening."

She took a step closer, her gaze sharp as a blade. "Dad, you must be getting old and forgetful. Have you forgotten? This house is in my name. It’s part of the inheritance my mother left me."

Her voice was calm, yet merciless. "Someone does need to leave this house, but it’s not me. It’s you two."

She raised her hand and pointed directly at Robert and Elena.

Both of them froze, stunned into silence.

Elena’s voice trembled with unease. "Dad, Yara must be out of her mind. What is she even talking about?"

As an illegitimate daughter, Elena knew little about the Cullen family’s affairs.

When Robert brought her to this grand estate for the first time, her eyes lit up with wonder.

She instinctively assumed that all this luxury belonged to her father.

But in truth, everything—every business, every piece of property—belonged to Yara’s mother.

Yara’s maternal grandfather was a renowned entrepreneur, and her mother grew up as the cherished only child of a wealthy family.

Robert, on the other hand, was nothing more than a husband who married into the family.

Yara’s mother, kind and considerate, allowed the children to take their father’s surname to protect his pride.

But aside from that, every asset belonged to her.

Robert let out a dismissive snort. "So what if this house is in your name? If needed, I’ll just buy a new one."

Turning to Elena, his expression softened with fatherly affection.

"Elena, we’ve lived in this house for so many years, it’s getting boring. Let’s go buy a new one right now—something even better."

Elena glanced around at the opulence surrounding them, her reluctance evident. "Dad, is this house really Yara’s?"

Robert fell silent.

Elena’s heart sank. She hadn’t expected it to be true.

Regaining her composure, she lifted her chin and sneered at Yara.

"Fine, then! We’ll leave right now and get an even bigger, better house. You can stay here alone like the lonely spinster you are!"

Yara didn’t react to Elena’s taunts. Instead, she smiled, a calm, knowing smile that seemed to pierce right through Elena, as if she already knew Elena’s triumph would be short-lived.

For reasons she couldn’t explain, Elena felt a wave of unease. She clung tightly to Robert’s arm like a lifeline. "Dad, promise me, okay?"

Robert patted her head affectionately. "Of course, sweetheart. Whatever you want, I’ll make it happen."

The two turned to leave, only to run into Michael as he entered the house.

Michael stopped Robert in his tracks. "Mr. Cullen, the supplementary clause of your late wife’s will requires your presence to proceed."

Robert froze. "Supplementary clause? What clause? The will was settled years ago!"

He wasn’t wrong—Yara’s mother’s will was executed shortly after her passing.

Eighty percent of her assets had been left to her only daughter, Yara, while the remaining twenty percent went to her husband.

Even that twenty percent was an astronomical sum, more than enough to ensure Robert lived in luxury for the rest of his life.

And live luxuriously he did. Over the years, he squandered his wealth with reckless abandon, indulging in extravagance and racking up massive gambling debts.

What he hadn’t anticipated was that such a lifestyle could be taken away at any moment.

The power to decide now lay in the hands of the daughter he had long ignored.