Alfred Harrett's mistress accused our three-year-old daughter of stealing her necklace.

That same night, Alfred Harrett signed the papers and had Beatrice dragged away—sent to a behavioral institute like she was trash.

With a smug look on her face, the woman stood beside him as Alfred lashed out at me.

"Teaching your kid to steal? Just how low can you sink? A brat like her needs discipline. That place will fix her."

He walked away with Fiona—leaving me screaming behind him.

The next time I saw Beatrice, she was curled up on a cold floor like a broken doll, soaked in blood.

Barely conscious, she was whispering,

"Daddy... I didn't steal anything."

Something inside me snapped.

I grabbed her in my arms and ran for the door like a madwoman.

Security tackled me to the ground. I clawed and kicked and screamed.

"Help! Somebody, help her!"

In desperation, I called Alfred.

He didn't ask what happened.

His voice was cold, disgusted.

"Don't use her to ruin my wedding. Fiona is carrying my heir. That little bastard of yours? So what if she dies?"

I couldn't breathe.

"Alfred—please. If we act now, there's still time—she can be saved!"

"Quit the drama," he snapped. "That place is safe. It's not death row."

My knuckles turned white around the phone.

"She's your daughter! How can you just let her die?!"

A low, mocking laugh came through the phone.

"You drugged me and forced her into this world. If you want someone to blame—blame yourself."

I froze, those horrific memories flashing through my mind like blades.

"Babe, who is it?" Fiona Jarvis's cheery voice chirped through the line.

"The designer finished the final fitting. I'm going to try the dress today!"

Alfred's tone shifted instantly—warm, gentle, unbelievably sweet.

"Just a spam call, darling."

Then the line went dead.

I collapsed onto the floor, numb, the weight of Beatrice's dying breath crushing my chest.

Tears streamed down my face, and I couldn't feel a thing.

No one helped. The staff just sneered.

"She's just a bastard kid. If Mr. Harrett doesn't care, why should we?"

That was the moment I truly lost it.

Beatrice's breathing was growing weaker, pink froth bubbling at the corners of her lips.

I spotted a fire axe in the corner and snatched it up, swinging wildly at anything near me.

"Whoever lays a hand on me today better be ready to die! If my daughter dies, I swear I'll take you all with her!"

The people in white coats backed off, panic flashing in their eyes. They hadn't expected me to snap.

I kicked the door open and stumbled inside, cradling Beatrice's bloody, fragile body.

"Mommy..." she whispered, "I didn't steal... I'm a good girl."

I carried her on my back, running toward the nearest hospital.

On the way, I tripped and dislocated my right arm—pain shot through me like lightning with every step. But I didn't stop.

I bit down hard enough to draw blood, that metallic taste flooding my mouth—but it couldn't drown the terror rising in my chest.

By the time I burst into the ER, I was covered in blood, my knees slamming against the floor as I threw myself forward, still shielding Beatrice.

"Please... help her..."

My voice cracked, tears mixing with sweat and blood.

The doctor peeled back her clothes, and I screamed.

Her tiny body was covered in bruises. Her ribs were sunken. Her stomach was swollen and deep purple, bleeding beneath the skin like something out of a nightmare.

A short while later, the doctor emerged from the emergency room, his expression dark and conflicted.

"Her liver's ruptured. There's massive internal bleeding. It doesn't look good."

The room started spinning.

I shook my head, reaching out to grab the only lifeline I had.

I collapsed back to my knees, numb.

"I'll pay anything! Take my liver, take my blood! Just save her—she's only three years old!"

"Oh, God," a woman nearby gasped.

"Look at her—so small. The liver's crushed. What kind of monster could do that to a child?"

"Ugh, both of them are covered in blood, and the dad's nowhere in sight. Don't tell me he did this. Bastard!"

I didn't speak.

The truth?

Her father had ignored her suffering just to please his fiancée. Left her for dead, like it meant nothing.

Yes, it was a mistake. A ridiculous accident led to my pregnancy.

But at one point, Alfred actually seemed excited to be a dad.

Ten months of pregnancy—when I was throwing up every day and couldn't sleep—he'd hold me and rub cream on my belly.

On the day I gave birth, when I almost died, he gripped my hand and promised to build a family with me and the baby.

I never dreamed of marriage. I just wanted Beatrice to have a father who cared.

But what did I get?

When she had a fever and was admitted to the hospital, he kissed Fiona right in front of her.

When Fiona got pregnant, he called Beatrice a shameful bastard. But she didn't understand any of it. She still loved her daddy.

So I put up with everything. Swallowed every insult.

But Fiona? She wanted Beatrice dead.

The doctor hesitated, torn. Finally, he sighed, unable to watch anymore.

He turned and whispered something to the nurse, then looked at me.

"Dr. Jarvis is doing consultations today. She's the top expert in this area. Go find her in the lounge."

My whole body was shaking, but I forced myself to grab the doctor's sleeve and thank him over and over again.

The lounge door was cracked open. I heard a soft laugh from inside.

My blood turned to ice.

Fiona was dressed in a white coat, and the diamond on her ring finger was dazzling under the light.

The moment she looked up and saw me, her red lips curled into a fake smile as she hurried over, pretending to care.

"Oh my gosh! Isn't this Pamela? What happened to you? You're covered in blood!"

I was so shaken, I forgot she worked at this hospital.

The same woman who'd orchestrated my daughter's torture was now my only hope of saving her.

The irony was sickening.

But I didn't care anymore. I grabbed her coat and begged, "Please, save my daughter."

Fiona's smile twisted cruelly.

Slowly, she raised one foot. "My shoe's dirty. Lick it clean, and maybe I'll think about it."

Nausea churned in my stomach, but Beatrice's life was in her hands.

I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt, and lowered myself. The stench of leather hit my nose.

I held my breath and shut off my mind, terrified that if I thought too much, I'd vomit right there.

When I finished, I shot up and grabbed her arm.

"Now save her!"

Instead, she slammed her foot into my chest. I crashed to the floor.

"Disgusting!" Fiona finally dropped the act, her voice brimming with malice.

"You think I'd save her after I went to all that trouble bribing people at the institute to break her?"

I must've been insane to ever believe she'd help.

My hands shook with fury. I stood and slapped her across the face.

Smack!

She clutched her cheek and instantly started crying, switching from venom to victim in a heartbeat.

Before I could react, a heavy kick slammed into my back.

"Pamela! Are you insane?!"

The blow landed right on my dislocated shoulder. I hadn't even gotten it wrapped yet, and the pain ripped through me like fire.

I tried to move—it felt broken. My face went ghostly white.

Alfred's furious voice thundered in my ear as he yanked my hair.

"All this for a pity act? You even injured yourself?!"

I could barely see through the pain, but I clung to his pants like it was my last lifeline.

"Alfred... Beatrice's dying. Please, save her."

"You think I'm lying?" I sobbed. "Then come see for yourself—go check the ER!"

He hesitated, brow furrowed, maybe for a second, actually wondering if I was telling the truth.

Fiona leaned in, all softness and concern.

"Alfred, something's off. What kind of mother curses her own child like that?"

Sure enough, Alfred's face turned cold.

"You're unbelievable, Pamela. You'd really go this far just to guilt me?!"

I started laughing like I'd completely lost it, tears streaming down my face.

He sneered. "The behavioral institute was just trying to educate her. What could possibly go wrong? Stop acting crazy!"

I slumped to the ground, ears ringing, my whole body ice cold.

"Alfred. You're really not going to save your own daughter?"

His voice was poison-tipped. The words cut straight through me.

"She's just a bastard with a messed-up mother. So what if she dies?"

He paused, then leaned down and whispered darkly, "Your mom's gambling debt? I can have her locked up for ten years anytime I want. But if you behave. I might still treat you two nicely."

Then he turned, slipped his arm around Fiona's waist, and spoke so sweetly it made me sick.

"Fiona's baby is the only rightful successor to the Harrett family."

Fiona snuggled closer, then flashed me a smug little smile.

"Alfred, we should go try on wedding gowns."

He nodded, pulled her in closer, and walked off, cold and heartless as ever.

I stayed on the floor, frozen in place. Beatrice's pale, dying face burned into my mind. Then something clicked.

I stumbled to my feet and bolted toward the ER, ears ringing so loud I could barely hear myself think.

A few nurses stood near the door, whispering to one another. Their words hit me like a sledgehammer.

"She was only three. The poor kid didn't make it."

"The liver was completely ruptured. She was already gone when she got here. Covered in bruises."

My whole world collapsed at that moment.

"Beatrice?! No! No! No!"

My legs gave out.

The metallic taste of blood surged up my throat, and I vomited it onto the floor.

Then everything went black, and I collapsed hard onto the floor.

When I opened my eyes, the smell of antiseptic filled my nose. My mother's face floated into view, blurred and pale.

Pain in my shoulder reminded me—it wasn't a nightmare.

This was real.

"Mom—where's Beatrice?! I have to see her!"

I yanked the IV out of my hand, blood spattering the sheets.

Her face twisted with something between guilt and annoyance.

"She's dead."

I shook my head over and over. No. Beatrice was such a good girl. She would never leave me.

I tried to get up, but she slapped me so hard I fell right back onto the bed.

"Quit screaming! That little bastard is dead, so what?!"

Something inside me snapped. I stared at her in disbelief. The woman who had once been so gentle now looked like a stranger.

"Beatrice was your granddaughter!" I trembled all over, my heart about to burst. "How can you say that?!"

My voice cracked into a scream. I didn't care anymore.

"They killed her—Alfred and Fiona murdered her!"

But my mother just looked at me with disappointment.

"I worked so hard to drug Alfred and get you pregnant, so you could marry into the Harrett family and live the good life."

She lowered her voice, every word a dagger.

"And what did you do? Couldn't even keep a man. Couldn't even make it official."

The truth from three years ago hit me like a freight train. I wanted so badly to pretend I didn't hear it.

Turns out I'd never been a daughter. Just a pawn in her game to make money.

Why would they do this to me?

I knew life had been hard for my mom after my dad walked out on us.

I remembered how people used to whisper behind her back when she raised me alone.

And I remembered what she used to say, "Pamela, whatever you do, don't end up like me."

That line stayed with me for years.

Because of that, I tolerated everything—just to make sure Beatrice wouldn't grow up without a father like I did.

I swallowed pain after pain, thinking I was protecting her. But now I realize—all of this misery? She forced it onto me.

As I stood there, stunned, my mother suddenly smiled gently, so tenderly that it made my skin crawl.

"Well, Alfred never liked that kid anyway. Now that she's gone, we still have to live, don't we?

"If I hadn't been smart and asked him for 500 grand up front, we'd be starving right now!"

She waved her hand like it was no big deal. Every word stabbed through me.

"I'm warning you—most of that money's already gone. If you dare ruin Alfred's wedding, don't bother coming home."

I wiped my tears. My mind couldn't keep up anymore.

I just wanted to see Beatrice. I kept picturing her lying there in the morgue all alone. How scared she must be.

Just then, my phone buzzed.

A message from the funeral home flashed on the screen. My vision went black.

Beatrice had already been cremated...

My knees buckled. My whole body shook as I dialed Fiona's number with trembling fingers.

She picked up with that fake, sugary tone. "Hello? Pamela? What's up?"

"Fiona!" My voice cracked, raw with hate. "She was only three! She didn't understand anything—how could you be so vicious?!"

She let out a long, exaggerated sigh.

"Yeah, what a shame. You didn't even get to say goodbye."

I gripped the phone so hard my nails dug into my palm.

"You have a kid, too. I hope you die a slow, miserable death!"

But she just lowered her voice, all fake sympathy.

"Pamela, I only helped because I felt bad for you. Being a single mom isn't easy. I even picked the most expensive urn for her."

In the background, I heard Alfred's voice.

"Urn? Fiona, who are you talking to?"

The next second, the call was yanked away, and Alfred's icy voice stabbed into my ear.

"Pamela, what kind of crazy stunt are you pulling now?"

I opened my mouth, but my throat was so tight I couldn't speak.

He must've heard my silence because his tone softened like he was doing me a favor.

"I had the Silverbay Estate prepared for you."

I heard Fiona whining in the background. Then Alfred lowered his voice, a mix of threat and quiet.

"Beatrice's new school is all set, too. International, bilingual—you should start acting smart and thinking about her future."

I stared at the blood seeping into the white bedsheet and suddenly started laughing.

Before—back when Beatrice was alive—I probably would've caved right then and there. But Beatrice was already gone.

The line went silent. Then Fiona gasped like a bad actress.

"Alfred, she's losing it!"

She was right. I had lost it.

"You got her into an international school?" I laughed again.

"That's amazing, considering when she was alive, you wouldn't even pay for a regular one."

"Alfred." My voice turned calm—unnervingly calm.

"You know what she said before she died? She was still asking when Daddy would come to pick her up."

Alfred sounded irritated.

"You're making up stories again? I just video called her yesterday—she looked fine."

"Then go check!" I screamed.

I hurled the phone at the wall, then picked it up and shouted again.

"Go to that behavioral institute you picked out yourself! Go look at your daughter now—see what she looks like!"

The call cut off.

Suddenly, my mother snatched the phone from my hand.

"You're being discharged. Now get home and stay put."

And I did.

I really behaved.

For three whole days, I sat in silence, hugging the tiny white urn like it was all I had left of my soul. I didn't eat. I didn't sleep. I didn't cry.

I just sat there—grieving in a way that looked almost polite.

Until the morning of Alfred's wedding.

I looked at myself in the mirror—hair unkempt, eyes hollow, skin pale like a ghost.

Then I reached for the vanity stool and smashed it straight through the window.

Shards of glass exploded outward, slicing through my face, my arms, my legs.

Blood painted my skin in streaks, trailing all the way down to my bare ankles like a twisted bridal veil.

By noon, 999 pure white funeral wreaths arrived at the Harrett family's grand wedding—each one towering, pristine, and laced with ivory ribbons.

The guests gasped. The air froze.

And then they saw it.

Each wreath bore a single phrase, slashed in vicious, blood-red brushstrokes:

"HAPPY WEDDING."