Matteo Waycott, the world’s most celebrated ballet dancer, proposed to me with a gift that felt like a curse—

a "Perfect Wife Scorecard."

Too much salt in the soup? Minus ten.

Wearing a bright dress he disliked? Minus twenty.

For ten years, I lived on tiptoe, terrified of slipping below ninety points.

But one night, I discovered another scorecard.

It wasn't mine.

It belonged to Abigail Vawden—his spoiled little protégé.

Every column was a perfect zero. And at the bottom, he had written the words that shattered me:

"She doesn't need to be perfect. She just needs to be herself."

The next day, when he docked a staggering 89 points from my score just because I refused to wash Abigail's underwear, I erased that last point myself.

"Now" I whispered, "it's my turn to be meself."

***

The atmosphere was tense.

The maids on the first floor of the villa shared a look of amusement until Abigail could no longer contain it and burst out laughing.

Matteo pinched her cheek, calm and unbothered. Then he shot me an indifferent look.

"What? You think I docked your points unfairly? Feeling upset about it?

"What's the big deal about washing Abby's underwear? As the mentor's wife, you're supposed to look after her.

"You neglected our guest and made an utter spectacle of yourself. A 40-point deduction is a perfectly fair consequence for your behavior."

His words made me feel sick. I looked away, only to catch my miserable reflection in the mirror.

He hated bright colors and would deduct points for them, so for all those years, my closet contained nothing but a sea of grays and whites.

I worked hard to learn how to cook, yet he complained about the smell of cooking oil on me and docked my points for that, too.

But Matteo wasn't done with me yet. He walked over to the scorecard sitting in the middle of the living room again.

He paused for a second with his pen in hand. Then I watched, my face pale, as he wrote something new in the "Intimate Contributions" column.

"Intimate Contributions: FAILED. Minus 50 points."

Hushed laughter and whispers echoed all around me, and my heart clenched.

"I bet she's got someone else on the side... She's satisfied and doesn't need it anymore!"

"So shameless, ugh!"

My private life was laid bare for everyone in the living room to see. I didn't even dare to think about how the housekeepers, staff, and every guest would be gossiping about this scorecard.

I was bundled up in winter clothes, yet I felt a chill as biting as if I were completely naked.

Humiliation, sarcasm, mockery—my pride was stomped on and shattered into pieces.

Abigail laughed the loudest. Overjoyed, she leapt onto Matteo's back and pressed her cheek to his with a wide grin.

"What about me, Mr. Waycott? Do you have a scorecard for me, too?"

Matteo just smiled without saying anything, but it sent a jolt through my whole body.

He really did have one.

It was hidden in his study—a room I was strictly forbidden from entering.

Every single column on it said zero, and yet I couldn't feel even a bit of happiness.

That was because at the end were the sweet words: "She doesn't need to be a perfect wife. She just needs to be herself."

So he knew what respect and love meant.

"If you fix things up right, you can still get those points back," Matteo said.

A faint ache bubbled up in my chest. I coldly refused and turned to leave.

"Is Mrs. Waycott mad at me?"

Tears welled up in Abigail's eyes. She lowered her head and sobbed.

"The heavy snowfall last night sealed off every road, and I truly had no other place to go.

"It's my fault for making Mrs. Waycott upset. I'll leave right now."

As soon as she finished speaking, she sprang to her feet, only to twist her ankle.

Matteo, who had been watching her closely, panicked. He quickly grabbed her by the waist and shot me a furious look.

"Brielle Karridge, apologize now!

"Abby is a rising star in the ballet world. Don't you realize how important her feet are?" he snapped.

"I'm really sorry, Mr. Waycott. I crossed the line," Abigail said as she pushed Matteo away with tears streaming down her face.

Then she limped to the door and left.

Worried about her, Matteo asked my dad—who worked as a driver for the Waycott family—to take Abigail home through the heavy snow.

But by evening, I still hadn't heard anything about my dad getting back safely.

And, out of nowhere, Matteo slapped me hard across the face.

"Your dad molested Abby on the way home, and she jumped out of the car!"

"My dad would never do something like that," I shot back without thinking.

"Would Abby really joke about her own innocence?"

As soon as Matteo slapped me, he instantly regretted it.

His eyes widened in shock, and it took him a while to get his head straight again. He reached out shakily to touch my swollen cheek.

"I'm so sorry, Elle. I just freaked out.

"Abby is an amazing ballerina, and she can't be messed up here."

I stared at him blankly.

We had been childhood friends for 20 years and married for three. Didn't he know what kind of person my dad was?

Matteo leaned down to kiss me. The sting from the slap felt like fireworks going off on my skin.

"I love you, Elle. You know that," he mumbled.

I thought, "Look, this guy says he loves me with his words, but his eyes are always on someone else."

I remembered Matteo from way back—the one who had tempted me by saying I would get 50 points added to my score for a stolen kiss; the one who would have gently massaged my muscles after a performance to help me relax.

At 25, I became an overnight star with my Swan Lake performance. At the height of my career, I said yes to Matteo's proposal. He was also a ballet dancer.

By 28, I woke up from a dream still stuck in that damp, moldy rental we used to share. But when I opened my eyes, all I saw was this huge empty fancy villa.

He had long moved on from the dream we built together. It was just me who was still painfully holding onto those memories.

I should have realized ages ago that nothing stayed the same forever.

I stood there frozen in the snowy night for what felt like forever, trying not to let the tears spill over.

Three days later, I grabbed the divorce agreement and headed to the address Matteo had sent me.

It turned out to be a theater where he said he had set up a wedding anniversary surprise for me. He even left a fancy dress next to my pillow.

My dad drove us there. My mom tagged along, too, because she was concerned.

I didn't want them to see me in an awkward situation with Matteo, so I asked them to wait in the car. I took a deep breath and walked into the theater by myself.

Following the signs on the floor, I made my way to the empty stage. But just as I got there, someone dumped a huge bucket of ice water over my head.

The fancy dress was quickly soaked through like a marshmallow that fell in water.

Panicked, I crouched down, hugging myself tightly as I glanced around in confusion. That was when everyone started laughing.

The audience was filled with Matteo's students.

Some were clapping and laughing loudly while others snapped photos. The flashes from their cameras were blinding, like artificial moonlight.

I was confused, just like Eve in the Garden of Eden, after she took a bite of the apple and suddenly got all this insight.

My first thought wasn't to question anything, but just to feel really puzzled.

Why?

Why would Matteo have given me a dress that fell apart as soon as it got wet?

Why had he lured me here with such a pathetic excuse?

And why was he sitting in the audience, all dressed up, clapping away with a big smile on his face?

"Your dad bullied Abby. So now his daughter has to pay for it. Doesn't that sound fair to you?"

Dazed, I asked him, "Isn't today our wedding anniversary?"

Confused, he paused for a second, then chuckled like he was trying not to laugh.

"I just made up some random excuse to get you here.

"Abby's been really down about what your dad did. She can't even practice dancing anymore. You're Mrs. Waycott, what's wrong with giving Abby a little comfort?"

So that was it. He just wanted to stand up for Abigail.

The whole thing felt so ridiculous that I almost laughed, but my face was wet with something cold. I couldn't tell if it was water or tears.

Taking a deep breath of the chilly air, I calmly pulled out the divorce agreement that I had stashed away in my bag.

As soon as I stood up straight, gasps erupted from the audience. Countless eyes were suddenly locked onto me.

Matteo's expression turned dark. He marched onto the stage with his long legs, quickly took off his suit jacket, and wrapped it around me.

"Brielle, do you have any shame left?

"Aren't you afraid that I'm going to take points away from you?"

It was he who had embarrassed me just to make Abigail happy, yet he also thought I was a total embarrassment.

There was a time when I would've stressed over this and tiptoed around him just to keep my points safe.

But now? All I wanted was to go home and get some good sleep.

I slipped off my wedding ring and handed it to him without even flinching when Abigail snatched the divorce papers in an instant.

Giggling, she pulled out a pen and wrote "Matteo" in big, flashy letters.

Then she jumped onto Matteo's back like it was no big deal, her voice bubbling with cheer.

"This is amazing! Mr. Waycott, you're single again! Let's celebrate..."

In the next moment, she got caught off guard and fell right off. She grabbed her waist and let out a yelp that sounded pretty painful.

A bunch of students rushed over to check on her. But through the crowd, I caught sight of the nasty look in her eyes.

Matteo slowly picked up the signed divorce agreement. In a flash, he ripped it into shreds.

"Divorce? Elle, don't even think about it.

"Now come home with me."

His face was dark as he grabbed my arm. His grip burned into my arm like searing iron tongs. I let out a sharp cry from the pain.

Someone slammed into him at the next second, pushing him aside and standing protectively in front of me.

It was my mom.

"Get away! Don't touch my daughter!"

My heart swelled with warmth at her words. I was just about to take her and leave when I heard hurried footsteps behind me.

Abigail, with her face twisted with anger, jumped onto the stage and swung a slap at us.

My mom stumbled back from the hit. Before I could react, she lost her balance and fell off the high stage. Her head hit the sharp corner of a chair, and blood poured out in a terrifying rush.

I had no idea how I managed to stumble over to her, shaking all over as I lifted her thin body onto my back.

All I knew was that my dad's taxi was parked right outside the door.

He was just waiting for my mom and me to come out, hoping that I would finally break free from Matteo, and looking forward to us leaving this city behind to get back to those peaceful days we used to have.

But all he got was me rushing out with my mom on my back, covered in blood.

Just as I was about to slam the car door shut, Abigail jumped in front of it and knelt without saying a word.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Waycott! I got really angry when I saw Mr. Waycott get hurt earlier. It's totally on me! Please let me go with you!"

In the heavy snow falling all around us, she looked small but determined. She stood her ground in front of the car, insisting on bowing down to apologize to my mom.

As each minute passed by, more people gathered around watching what was going on, and our car couldn't move an inch.

And my mom's breathing grew weaker by the second.

I had had enough.

I jumped out of the car, ready to go over and drag her away. But Matteo, who rushed out right after us, stopped me.

His dark eyes took in my tear-streaked face. He couldn't help but frown a bit, his tone softening slightly.

"Abby didn't mean it. Just let her come along. She's just a young girl who doesn't know her own strength.

"We're all upset about what happened to your mom. Look, she's even crying from guilt."

I couldn't put my mom's life at risk because of my anger, so I stayed quiet and let Abigail squeeze into the car.

Dad looked really anxious. He drove quickly, yet kept the car steady.

Matteo's Maybach showed up faintly in the rearview mirror.

"Mrs. Waycott, you really have some nerve. Mr. Waycott likes you so much that even though I falsely accused your father, he still didn't fire him."

Abigail suddenly piped up, her voice dripping with attitude—an obvious threat.

"Wouldn't it be great if all of you crashed and died?"

"How dare you!"

I snapped back, hugging my mom tightly as my whole body shook like crazy.

I had just reached out when I saw her—right as we were passing this sketchy stretch of road—pull out a can of pepper spray and, with a grin, spray it at my unsuspecting dad.

Suddenly, there was this deafening roar. The world flipped violently upside down. The heavy snow broke loose and hit me right in the eyes, stinging like crazy.

The sharp pain felt like my soul was about to burst through the car window.

Pale white snowflakes landed on my face, mixing with blood into this hazy pink mess.

It took me forever to finally hear Matteo shouting anxiously.

He held me tight in his arms, shaking as he touched my face gently.

Not too far away, the inside of the car was pitch black. My mom was still lying in my arms. I could barely tell if she was breathing at all.

Abigail only had a bleeding calf, but looked like she was struggling to lean against Matteo's back for support.

"It was so scary! Mrs. Waycott's dad kept giving me these creepy looks in the rearview mirror...

"Mr. Waycott, my leg hurts so much. Am I still gonna be able to dance?"

Not too far away, Matteo's students were all gathered around Abigail. When the ambulance showed up, they rushed over to help her get into the vehicle.

"Brielle is such a bad luck charm! She not only messed things up for her whole family but even dragged Abigail into this!"

"Seriously, none of her family is great—her mom's a total nightmare, and her dad is a pervert. I can't believe Mr. Waycott ever fell for someone like that!"

I have no idea how long I was in a daze before reality hit me.

I broke free from Matteo's grip and stumbled toward the car, which was nothing but a burnt wreck now.

Everything felt like it was spinning out of control.

The world before me blurred into a haze. It took forever for my hands to stop shaking enough so I could call the police.

But then he pressed down on my hand, stopping me from making that call.

My heart skipped a beat as everything suddenly turned this sickly yellow color around me.

"There's no proof. The cops won't be able to pin anything on her," he said. "Elle, if you want revenge, I'll help you."

"I want her to pay with her life."

"Alright."

He held me close; his body was shaking too. His breath hung in the air like white mist.

"I'll help you."

Matteo quickly gave me Abigail's hospital room number.

To show he wasn't going to cover for her, he took care of everything and then flew off abroad to coach the dance troupe on their tour.

One late night, I snuck into Abigail's hospital room.

I gathered all my strength, keeping my mind calm and hands steady.

Sharp, precise slaps landed one after another, echoing through the room like a bunch of firecrackers going off.

Chaos erupted—women screamed and sobbed while countless strong hands pinned me down.

I looked at her trembling on the hospital bed and said slowly, "I won't let you get away with this, Abigail."

The third time... the fourth time.

Abigail couldn't sleep peacefully anymore. Even during the day, she would huddle in a corner in fear, her bloodshot eyes darting around nervously.

The fifth time... the sixth time.

Now covered in fresh wounds, she screamed and hurled objects wildly.

It wasn't until I tried to strike for the tenth time that someone wrapped their warm arms around me from behind.

It was Matteo who came back.

"Alright, alright, it's all good now... I'm really sorry for getting back late."

I finally broke down into loud sobs until I heard his gentle voice from above me.

"Have you calmed down?"

"Of course she has, Mrs. Waycott. Sorry about that. I didn't mean to cause any trouble," another voice chimed in.

Abigail popped her head in from outside the room, looking perfectly fine and wearing a bright yet cheeky smile.

"Mr. Waycott, you really know how to handle this situation.

"You knew Mrs. Waycott would get upset, so you found someone to cover for me ahead of time, letting her blow off some steam.

"I've been touring with you around Europe lately, and Mrs. Waycott has also let out her frustrations here in the country."

I froze for a second, then slowly pulled away from his arms, step by step. My mind was totally blank, like I'd never even known Matteo at all.

"Look, Abby's my student—she's incredibly talented. She can't be dragged into a scandal.

"Have you calmed down these last couple of days? Let's head home. Abby wants to eat those braised prawns you make.

"Are you still angry?"

Matteo's brows were knitted tight, but then relaxed a bit. He smiled and reached out to grab my hand.

"What if I let you drive and run over this fake Abigail to blow off some steam? Don't worry. I'll handle the fallout.

"Or how about I just add a hundred points to your score? Then, you will have a perfect score. You'll be my perfect wife."

Hearing him speak so lightly, as if everything was a joke, made me feel sick.

To him, my pain was nothing—just another snowflake drifting past the window.

But to me, he looked terrifying.

His handsome face had twisted into something darker than any demon from hell.

Every step he took closed in on me, his shadow swallowing me whole, pressing the air from my lungs.

I stumbled back until the icy glass cut into my spine. My body trembled, my mind screamed.

Only then did it hit me what I was doing.

I spun around, shoved the window open, and felt the storm rush against my skin.

Behind me, his voice broke in panic for the first time.

"Elle!"

And then—I jumped.