Chapter 2

My fingers tightened, the sharp facets of the diamonds burying deep into my palm, bringing a sudden, piercing sting.

"Ah—!" Elena shrieked. Since the delicate chain hadn't been fully clasped, my sudden pull dragged it across her fair neck, carving a bright red welt into her skin.

"Katherine! You’ve lost your mind!" David reacted first.

He violently shoved back his tailored Savile Row chair, knocking over a high wine glass. Red wine quickly spread across the marble tabletop.

I ignored his roaring, letting my right hand swing.

The fifty-thousand-dollar diamond necklace, still carrying Elena's body heat, cut a cold arc through the air and crashed precisely into the nearby pot of French seafood bisque, which was bubbling eerily with white foam.

Sizzle—

The necklace sank instantly to the bottom, leaving only a fleeting vortex on the thick surface of the soup.

"My necklace!" Chloe’s eyes nearly popped out of her head.

She lunged forward, grabbing a silver ladle to fish into the scalding pot. Moving too fast, her body slammed into the heavy pot, causing it to rock violently. The boiling soup splattered everywhere, drenching her proud silk white dress.

The once-exquisite fabric instantly shrank and deformed under the extreme heat, leaving a massive, sticky, and hideous yellowish stain.

"Ah! My dress! It burns! Mom, are you insane?!" Chloe shrieked hysterically at me while frantically swatting at the soup on her clothes.

Elena held the welt on her neck and collapsed softly into David’s arms, her tears falling fast, her voice trembling. "David... I’m so scared... Does Kate have some misunderstanding about me... If it's because of the necklace, I really don't need it..."

"Don't be scared, Elena. This has nothing to do with you." David patted her shoulder.

When he looked up at me, every ounce of his upper-class decency had vanished, replaced by sheer violence.

David's right hand sliced toward my face with all the force he'd built from twelve years of believing I would never fight back.

For twelve years, I had always lowered my head first.

Tonight, I didn't.

I caught his wrist in midair.

His expensive Vacheron Constantin dug painfully into my palm, but I didn't loosen my grip.

Silence crashed over the dining room.

David stared at me as if he were looking at a stranger.

"Katherine... let go."

"No."

I met his eyes without blinking.

"You don't get to hit me anymore."

I shoved his arm away.

Caught completely off balance, he stumbled backward and slammed into the edge of the dining table.

His crystal wineglass tipped over.

Dark Bordeaux splashed across his custom-made Savile Row suit, running down his white shirt and silk tie.

For a heartbeat, nobody moved.

David looked down at the spreading stain in disbelief.

"Are you out of your mind?"

"For twelve years, I've cleaned up after you."

I picked up the half-empty bottle of red wine from the table.

"Tonight, clean up after yourself."

Without hesitation, I poured the rest of the bottle straight over his chest.

Red wine cascaded over his tailored jacket, soaking every inch of fabric before dripping onto the marble floor.

Elena gasped.

Chloe screamed.

"Dad!"

David lunged toward me in fury.

This time, I moved first.

As David tried to wipe the wine from his eyes, I caught his wrist for a split second.

The watch came free almost effortlessly.

I slipped it into my coat pocket before anyone noticed.

"Mom, what is wrong with you?"

Tears streamed down Chloe's face.

"You're destroying this family!"

She pointed at me with a trembling finger.

"You're a paranoid psycho!"

"You sit at home all day, you have no idea how hard Dad works to run the company! You smashed up this place, can you even afford to pay for it? This dinner, this table—which of these wasn't bought with Dad's money? You can't even afford a single new outfit!"

I looked at these two people whom I had raised with my own blood and sweat.

One relied on my former hidden network and the seed money from selling my pre-marital condo to sit in the CEO chair; the other had her elite education at Columbia University funded by my sacrifice of a multi-million dollar salary and my 5:00 AM nutritional meals.

Now they stood together, looking at me as if I were a rat in the gutter, as if I were the only parasite in this house.

"David. Chloe." I spoke, my voice soft yet crystal clear. "Remember what you said tonight."

I untied the grease-stained, worn-out apron and tossed it onto the wrecked dining table.

I didn't go upstairs for any luggage, nor did I touch a single small item belonging to this house. I simply threw my five-year-old wool coat over my shoulders, turned around, and walked calmly toward the front door in my flats.

"Katherine, don't you dare walk out that door today!" Seeing that I wasn't going to use the knife again, David assumed I had run out of leverage.

His arrogant capitalist persona snapped back instantly, and he sneered at my back. "Tomorrow, I’m having customer service freeze every single bank card under your name! Especially that primary expense card ending in 8899! Let's see how many days you can last out in the snow when you don't even have twenty dollars for a cab! The moment you walk out of this villa, don't expect to get a single dime of alimony in the future!"

Chloe spat viciously from behind. "Let her go! Dad! Don't give her a dime! Let her sober up outside so she realizes exactly who has been feeding her!"

The heavy, carved front door slammed shut behind me, completely cutting off the piercing jeers and the hypocritical scent of expensive perfume.

The winter night outside was bone-chillingly cold, the howling wind hurling fine flakes of snow right into my face.

I pulled the collar of my old coat tighter, never once looking back at the brightly lit luxury villa as I walked directly toward the end of the long street.

They thought that by freezing a credit card used for daily groceries, they could make me crawl back and beg for forgiveness like a well-trained dog.

They thought over a decade as a housewife had turned me into a useless dependent who would freeze to death on the streets without a marriage.

As I walked down the street, I pulled out my three-year-old phone.

The moment the screen lit up, hundreds of system notifications suddenly flooded the screen, vibrating so rapidly they made my palm go numb.

The notification bars for my group chats, Instagram, and TikTok were completely filled with red unread markers within seconds.

I opened the app, only to find that my ungrateful daughter, Chloe, had posted an update ten minutes ago.

It was a meticulously edited video.

The footage conveniently erased everything that had happened beforehand.

It didn't show the maid's uniform they had given me.

It didn't show David raising his hand to slap me.

It didn't show Chloe mocking me for being nothing more than a housewife.

The video began with me tearing the necklace from Elena's neck.

The next cut showed red wine splashing across David's suit as he staggered backward.

Then it ended with me walking out of the house while Elena cried in David's arms and Chloe screamed after me.

Anyone watching it would believe I had stormed into a peaceful family dinner and violently attacked them without warning.

The caption was carefully crafted, dripping with calculated victimhood:

My first day back home after graduation, I just wanted to give Mom a happy birthday. But my long-unemployed mother, driven by menopausal paranoia and jealousy toward a young, successful assistant, suddenly snapped and attacked Dad and his employee in front of everyone. We've spent years walking on eggshells around her. Please... someone help us.

In just ten minutes, the video's views had already crossed half a million. In the comment section, comments multiplied by the second:

"This woman belongs in jail."

"Poor husband. Many years married to someone like this?"

"Classic narcissistic mother."

"I hope the daughter gets a restraining order."

"If someone threw wine on me like that, I'd call the police."

"This is exactly why emotional abuse should be taken seriously."

"Protect that young assistant."

My social standing and my reputation were turned into a hated street rat overnight under the "online trial" they had co-authored.

I stopped walking, standing in the wind and snow as I looked at the screen full of malice, slowly tightening my grip on the phone.

Reading the mocking text David just sent—Deadlocking will only end badly for you. Which cheap motel are you freezing in tonight?—I looked up at the penthouse suite of the Ritz-Carlton across the street, the most luxurious hotel in the city that exclusively hosted Wall Street's elite.

They thought they had just destroyed my life.

They had no idea they had just given me a reason to take theirs.