My romance with Austin was once Cambridge University’s most sensational story.

I was eighteen that year—a freshman newly admitted to that top-tier institution. With my standout grades and striking looks, I became a campus celebrity overnight.

He was twenty-six, returning as a distinguished alumnus and rising entrepreneur to donate an entire laboratory building.

Standing at the podium as the freshman representative, reading my own speech, my palms grew damp with nerves.

I looked up—and met a pair of smiling eyes.

That was Austin.

Seated front and center in a flawlessly tailored suit, he radiated a polish and maturity that felt utterly foreign to campus life.

His gaze remained fixed on me, so intense it seemed as if, in that crowded hall, I was the only person he saw.

From that day on, his pursuit felt overwhelming.

Soon, all of Cambridge knew that Austin, heir to the family empire, was chasing a freshman named Barbara.

He’d wait in a limited-edition sports car outside my dorm just to hand me roses, flown in fresh that morning.

He’d book entire high-end restaurants just to share a meal.

He remembered every offhand remark I made, quietly fulfilling each passing wish.

Coming from a small town, my parents ordinary workers, I’d never seen anything like it.

Dazzled by the depth and tenderness in his eyes, I fell hard.

My roommate warned me, “Barbara, the waters of high society run deep. A man like Austin… how could he be serious about you?”

My academic advisor called me in. “Barbara, you’re a talented student. Don’t let a passing romance derail your future.”

But love had blinded me. I wouldn’t listen.

I believed Austin loved me. That look in his eyes couldn’t lie.

In my sophomore year, defying his entire family, he proposed in a grand, public spectacle.

The first time Deborah met me, she threw a scalding cup of tea on my hand. “The Austin family doesn’t welcome strays,” she said. “Barbara, is it? Here’s five million. Leave my son.”

Tears stung my eyes, but I stood my ground, refusing the check.

It was Austin who rushed in, shielding me behind him, and spoke harshly to his mother for the first time: “Mom, Barbara is the woman I’m marrying. You will respect her.”

In that moment, he was my hero.

For him, I took a leave of absence, abandoned my promising future, and married him without hesitation.

The wedding was lavish, grand—the talk of the city.

In the world’s most beautiful wedding dress, on his arm, bathed in everyone’s blessings, I felt like the happiest woman alive.

Looking back now, perhaps it was all just an act—Austin’ grand, romantic rebellion against his family.

And I was merely the beautiful prop he used to prove his defiance and his so-called depth of feeling.

Once the performance ended, the prop lost its value.

The early days of marriage were sweet.

Austin took me traveling the world, indulging my every whim.

That time was the only truly sunlit period in our nine years together.

But that happiness ended the moment I became pregnant.

Deborah moved into our villa, claiming she’d care for me.

From then on, the house became my prison.

She issued a long list of rules: no noise while eating, walk softly, smile at everyone, even what colors I could wear.

The slightest hesitation earned a cold rebuke: “An Austin wife must behave accordingly. Your common little habits must be corrected.”

When I complained to Austin, he’d just say, “Mom means well. She’s getting older. Just humor her.”

Slowly, I understood: in this house, I would always be an outsider.

Ten months later, I gave birth to our son, Walter.

Before I could even hold him properly, Deborah declared, “You don’t know how to care for a child,” and had the nanny take him to her room.

I was denied even the right to breastfeed my own son.

Through tears, I begged Austin to give my child back.

He held me, whispering, “Barbara, Mom has more experience. We can all rest easy with her looking after Walter. You’ve just given birth—focus on recovering. Your health is what matters.”

Looking at him then, I felt a sudden, deep chill.

Why wouldn’t the man who once defied the world for me now speak a single word in my defense?

My postpartum depression began that night.

I lay awake night after night, sneaking to Deborah’s door just to hear my son cry.

But all I heard was Deborah scolding the nanny: “Crying again? Is that woman lurking outside? Don’t let her near the young master! That poverty mentality will rub off on Walter!”

My heart shattered then.

And my husband, Austin, knew nothing about it. Or maybe, he simply didn’t care.

He started coming home late, his clothes often carrying the scent of unfamiliar perfume.

Once, I accidentally saw his phone—a flirtatious text from a young starlet glowing on the screen.

I confronted him with it. He barely glanced. “Business networking. Don’t overthink it.”

I looked at his unapologetic face and suddenly laughed.

So the fairy tale, from start to finish, had only ever lived in my imagination.

When Walter turned one, I was finally allowed—under Deborah’s watchful eye—one hour a day with him.

But the child stared back with strange, distant eyes.

He would mumble “Grandma,” but never once called me Mom.

Needles seemed to pierce my heart.

To see my son more, I began trying to win over Deborah.

I gave up every shred of dignity and pride, serving her like a maid—all for a smile, for permission to hold him a little longer.

Yet my humility only earned her growing contempt.

And Austin? He turned a blind eye to it all.

His career expanded; his time at home dwindled.

Our conversations shrank to a few hollow pleasantries.

When I discovered I was pregnant, he was overseas, entangled in a scandal with a young model.

I sent him the pregnancy test. His reply was just two words: *Keep it.*

I don’t know what state I was in when I gave birth to Audrey.

Just like with Walter, Deborah took her away as soon as she was born.

This time, I didn’t even have the strength to resist.

Back-to-back pregnancies and the torment within pushed my body and mind to the brink.

Clumps of hair fell out; my frame grew gaunt, almost unrecognizable.

The mirror showed a sallow face, hollow eyes—a flower withered overnight.

On the rare occasions Austin came home and saw me, his brow would furrow.

Once, tracing the stubborn stretch marks across my stomach, his voice held a hint of disgust. “Why are they so ugly?”

That night, I locked myself in the bathroom and cried until dawn.

Not long after, I did the most foolish thing: I slit my wrists.

Being saved changed nothing.

Deborah despised me even more. She called me unlucky, a madwoman.

To protect the family’s reputation, Austin told everyone I’d only cut my hand by accident.

He hired the finest psychiatrist—not to heal me, but to hush the talk.

Then he began to restrict me. No going out. No seeing friends.

“Barbara,” he said, “you’re unstable right now. Just stay home. If you need anything, tell me.”

I became a canary in his cage—no longer beautiful, feathers tattered and dull.

My life had sunk into utter darkness.

The only thread keeping me going was my mother.

Already frail, she was struck by a hit-and-run driver on her way to visit me.

The surgery she needed was costly, and the driver was never found.

I didn’t dare tell Austin; I knew he wouldn’t help.

So I began secretly selling the jewelry he’d given me, scraping the money together bit by bit.

I told myself: endure a little longer. Once I had enough for the surgery, once Mother recovered, I would find the strength to leave.

But I never made it to that day.

Just when the darkness felt deepest, a woman named Violet appeared.

A rising starlet, pure and lovely—the spitting image of me at eighteen.

Austin became almost obsessed, spending lavishly to lift her to the top.

Soon the whole city knew Mrs. Austin was out of favor, and Violet was the one on his mind.

I became high society’s laughingstock.

I didn’t care.

By then, my heart was already numb. All I cared about was my mother’s health.

When I’d finally saved three hundred thousand and was about to wire it, the hospital called. Her condition had suddenly worsened; she needed bypass surgery now—at least a million.

A million. An astronomical sum.

Everything I had came to less than half that.

I had no choice but to beg Austin.

For the first time, I went to his company.

His secretary stopped me with a professional smile. “Mrs. Austin, Mr. Austin is with a guest. Would you mind waiting?”

I waited three full hours, from afternoon into evening.

At last, Austin stepped out of his office with Violet tucked under his arm.

When Violet spotted me, a smug smile flickered. She leaned her head against his shoulder and cooed, “Austin, is this your wife? She looks so… worn out.”

Austin frowned, his voice icy. “What are you doing here?”

I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms. *For Mother,* I told myself, *endure.*

I lowered my head, my voice barely a plea. “Austin, my mother is critically ill. She needs a million for surgery. Can you… lend it to me?”

Before he could speak, Violet gasped dramatically. “A million? Darling, money doesn’t grow on trees. And who knows if she’s even telling the truth? What if this is just a scam?”

I looked up, staring straight at Austin.

Hoping for just a sliver of trust—a shred of pity.

But there was none.

His eyes held only suspicion and impatience.

“Barbara, have you really sunk so low you’d lie for money now?”

My world shattered in that instant.

So, in his heart, I was just a scheming liar, willing to do anything for cash.

I laughed, laughed until tears streamed down my face.

I don’t know how I made it back to the villa. I only knew it was over—for me, and for my mother.

That night, I found out I was pregnant again.

Staring at the two bright red lines, I felt nothing but hollow irony.

Before I could decide what to do, Violet came to me.

With a slight swell in her belly, she looked down her nose and announced, “Barbara, I’m carrying Austin’s child. A boy. If you know what’s good for you, get out of the Austin family and give up your title.”

Studying that face, so reminiscent of my younger self, I felt only disgust.

Coldly, I replied, “As long as I don’t divorce him, what’s in your belly will remain a bastard—unfit to be seen.”

Furious, she lunged and shoved me.

I stumbled back, lost my footing, and tumbled down the stairs from the second floor.

Warm blood pooled beneath me.

I lost my third child—an eight-month-old, fully formed baby boy.

When Austin rushed to the hospital, I had just come out of surgery.

He looked at my pale face, his expression unreadable.

I thought, surely he must feel some shred of guilt.

But his first words were, “Violet says you pushed her first. She almost lost the baby, too.”

Looking at him then, the world seemed absurd, laughably cruel.

I closed my eyes. I couldn’t bear to see him anymore.

A few days later, the hospital called. My mother had passed away, having missed the last window for surgery.

When I hung up the phone, something inside me shattered completely.

A strange calm settled over me.

I called Austin. “Let’s get a divorce.”

He thought I was still throwing a tantrum. “Barbara, that’s enough,” he answered, impatient.

I didn’t waste another word on him.

My mother had been my only weakness in this world—the final chain that kept me bound to him. Now, it was broken.

I was free.

I sold the Westwood Villa. The day the money came through, I paid off all my mother’s medical bills and bought her a burial plot.

On the headstone, I inscribed just six words: Beloved Mother Christine, Rest in Peace.

Kneeling before the grave, I bowed my head three times.

“Mom, I’m sorry. I failed you.”

“Mom, don’t worry. From now on, I live only for myself.”

The wind swept past, whispering through the white chrysanthemums beside the stone.

I pulled my suitcase behind me and left the city that had held my love, my pain, and my despair.

I told no one where I was going—not even Andrea.

I changed my number, severing every tie to the past.

In time, I found a quiet coastal town, rented a house with a view of the sea, and began again.

At first, Austin didn’t take my leaving seriously. Believing I was just throwing another fit, he was sure that once the money ran out, I’d come crawling back to him, tail between my legs.

He even put out word that I was unwell and had gone abroad to convalesce.

Only a month later, when he discovered the Westwood Villa had new owners, did he realize I was truly gone.

Then he began searching for me—frantically.

He mobilized all the connections and resources of the Austin family, combing the country, but found no trace of me.

Panic set in.

According to what Andrea later told me in secret, during that time, Austin became a different person altogether.

He stopped going to the company. Day after day, he shut himself away in the Westwood Villa that no longer belonged to him, staring at our old photos, drinking himself into a stupor.