In a pitch-black, locked room drenched in dampness and despair, a woman lay motionless—her body torn with wounds, her skin caked in dried blood. Her name was Wang Zhi.
She had once believed that marrying Ling Ron would be the beginning of her fairytale. But fairytales lie.
Everything shattered the moment Shen Yue entered their lives.
Shen Yue—her best friend, her sister in every way but blood. When she had cried about her abusive husband and pending divorce, Wang Zhi hadn't hesitated. She took her in, sheltered her, offered her a new start. Ling Ron had resisted the idea, claiming it would infringe on their privacy. But strangely, he gave in.
Now Wang Zhi knew why.
It was convenient, wasn't it? To have a beautiful woman warm his bed while his wife worked the night shift to pay their bills. Convenient to betray, to lie, to use. And when the truth came out—when Wang Zhi discovered the affair—it was even more convenient to erase her.
To protect his reputation and keep his job, Ling Ron faked her death. And then… he locked her away. Five years. Five excruciating, hellish years. No sun. No voice. No hope. Only pain.
They were out there—playing the perfect couple, basking in stolen happiness—while she decayed in the dark.
Click... Clack... Click... Clack…
The sound of stilettos echoed against the stone floor. The door creaked open, and in stepped Shen Yue, the devil in silk.
"How delightful it is… to see you like this," she cooed, her eyes gleaming with perverse satisfaction.
She came often—not to offer food, not mercy—but to watch her rot. To savour every second of her downfall.
"You were never meant for joy, you know," Shen Yue whispered, crouching beside her. "How dare you smile? How dare you live a life better than mine?"
She ran a finger across Wang Zhi's jaw, now hollow and bruised. "Every time I saw you laugh, I carved another piece of my heart out. Smile? That luxury isn't for someone like you. Not when you're her daughter."
Wang Zhi wasn't an orphan.
She was the daughter of a wealthy heiress—one who had died giving birth to her. Her grandfather had been searching for her ever since. But Shen Yue got there first.
Shen Yue used Wang Zhi's blood to fake her own lineage, to infiltrate the family and claim the heiress title. The only reason Wang Zhi was still alive was because Shen Yue needed her—needed her bone marrow to save her brother. She'd intended to kill her afterward.
And now that the transplant was done, now that the brother had fully recovered, she had come to finish what she started.
Shen Yue stood and poured kerosene over the cold floor, letting the pungent stench choke the room.
"You've served your purpose," she said, striking a match.
As the flames caught and spread with wild hunger, Wang Zhi could only watch, helpless.
Tears cut through the grime on her face.
Her voice, hoarse from years of silence, croaked out a final thought.
May you both rot in the deepest pit of hell.
She didn't want to die. Not like this. Not here. Not forgotten.
If there was even a single chance… a glimmer of mercy… she wanted to meet her family, to look them in the eyes, to scream the truth. And then—she wanted vengeance.
For every cut. Every lie. Every year stolen.
But fate is cruel.
The flames danced.
The screams never came.
And Wang Zhi burned to ashes, swallowed by smoke, betrayal, and regret.