Chapter 4

But as soon as I was the only one left in the room, all the warmth faded from my face, leaving nothing but cold, hard rationality.

I started searching online for the early symptoms of radiation sickness: dizziness, nausea, fatigue, hair loss, skin rashes. I carefully noted each symptom and how it would show up, storing everything in an encrypted memo.

I bought a high-definition voice recorder disguised as a pen and casually placed it right in the most obvious pen holder in the living room, acting like nothing was out of the ordinary.

I also consulted my lawyer friend, getting a detailed breakdown of what counts as assault, what kind of evidence I'd need, and how heavy the sentence could be.

I was weaving my net of revenge, bit by bit, with my own hands. 'Ronald, and that maverick, neither of you is getting away.'

With everything ready, my "patient" persona went live.

That night, when Ronald came home, I was curled up weakly on the couch, face pale, lips bloodless.

"Belle, what's wrong? Not feeling well?" Ronald asked, hurrying over and reaching out to check my forehead.

His hand was warm, but his heart was colder than Siberian permafrost.

I shook my head weakly, my voice barely audible. "It's nothing, just a little dizzy and nauseous. Probably just been too tired lately."

The spy pen in the living room's pen holder was quietly recording every 'sweet' word between us.

A glimmer of excitement flashed in Ronald's eyes, though his voice sounded even more worried. "You're always pushing yourself too hard. Don't work yourself to the bone.

"Lie down, I'll get you some hot water."

Ronald brought the hot water over, gently helped me sit up, and spoon-fed me, one sip at a time.

If I hadn't seen that post with my own eyes, I might've really believed he was the man who loved me deeply, someone I could spend my whole life with.

"I'm fine, really. Just need some sleep." I forced a pale smile at him.

From that day on, my "condition" started getting worse right before his eyes.

During meals, I'd suddenly cover my mouth and rush to the bathroom, pretending to gag.

I'd wake up in the middle of the night, acting all panicked, and tell him I kept feeling anxious and exhausted, barely able to sleep at all.

I even "accidentally" left my comb out, showing it was full of way more hair than normal.

Every detail was meticulously staged to fit the textbook symptoms of chronic low-level radiation poisoning.

Ronald's "concern" kept pace with my worsening "illness."

He bought all kinds of tonics and supplements, watching me take them every day.

He even started telling me to quit my job, promising he'd support me forever.

Every time, his words sounded so genuine, so moving, they almost had me fooled into thinking he truly loved me.

And that tiny voice recorder was catching every single word, not missing a thing.

Ronald said, "Belle, your health comes first. We can always make money later. Just quit your job. Let me take care of you.

"Seeing you like this hurts me more than you know.

"No matter what, I'm not going anywhere."

What beautiful lies. If this recording ever gets played in court, together with that report showing radiation levels a hundred times over the limit, the impact would be absolutely devastating.

On Saturday afternoon, Ronald brought his "junior," Polly Cantrell, back to our cramped little rental.

Polly was his professor's daughter. She was the woman he mentioned in his post, the one who could "pave the way" for him.

"Polly, this is my girlfriend, Belle Slater. Belle, this is my professor's daughter, Polly." Ronald introduced us, not leaving any room for misunderstanding.

Polly was dressed in a designer white dress, her posture radiating an air of superiority, like a proud swan.

Polly looked at me with a polite yet distant smile, her eyes filled with undisguised scrutiny. "Hi, Belle," she said.

Her gaze immediately locked onto the fake glow-in-the-dark bracelet on my wrist.

Then her eyes slowly drifted up to my face, showing a blend of curiosity, disdain, and pity.

"Belle, you don't look so good. Are you feeling unwell?" Polly asked, pretending to care.

I gave a weak smile, playing my part. "It's nothing, just feeling a bit tired lately."

Ronald jumped in right away, his voice full of doting affection. "She's always like this, never knows how to take care of herself. I've told her so many times."