Misdirected Vengeance
I sat on the sofa, my fingertips clutching the ice-cold glass.
On the television screen, Zane Frank's wedding was being broadcast live.
He stood at the end of the red carpet, dressed in a white suit.
The bride, Wendy Churchill, linked arms with her father; the tiny diamonds on her gown shimmered.
The look in Zane's eyes as he gazed at her was a tenderness I had never witnessed before.
For eight years, I had been his captive cultural relic appraiser, the so-called "canary" he kept.
He once told me that my hands, skilled in appraisal, were more precious than any jewel.
Yet now, those very hands gently intertwined with Wendy's fingers.
The camera zoomed in, and Wendy's smile shone with a rare brilliance.
I remembered how she had betrayed Zane three times before, and each time, he forgave her without hesitation.
My chest felt as if pierced by countless needles, aching unbearably.
I sprang to my feet, knocking the vase off the coffee table.
The water seeped across the carpet, but I strode straight toward the study.
On the top shelf of the bookcase stood the sculpture of the "Symbiotic Jade."
It was the token he had given me eight years ago, saying we were like two halves of jade—each incomplete without the other.
I dragged a chair over and violently swept the sculpture to the floor.
The sound of jade shattering echoed sharply through the silent villa.
My fingertips were sliced by the fractured jade, droplets of blood falling onto the shards.
At that moment, the doorbell rang.
It was Michael, Zane's assistant.
He handed me a document folder, his voice deferential: "Miss Anderson, Mr. Frank said that for next week's cultural relic transaction, they still need you to handle the appraisal."
I stood there stunned—he had just married another, yet he still entrusted me with this crucial deal?
I took the document folder, my fingers trembling.
Inside was an appraisal report on celadon from the porcelain era.
Zane never entrusted core matters to outsiders.
This wedding might not be as simple as it seems on the surface.
I clenched the document folder tightly, droplets of blood seeping into the kraft paper.
Doubts in my heart began to grow wildly like tangled vines.
I didn't return to the villa; instead, I took my suitcase and checked into a hotel.
The next morning, I went to the alleys of the old town.
There used to be a breakfast stall I often visited here, but now only ruins remained.
An elderly scavenger squatted in a corner, sorting through scraps.
I walked over, hoping to buy a bottle of mineral water.
The old man looked up at me and suddenly froze.
"Cindy? Are you Cindy Lester?" His voice trembled.
I frowned.
Who is Cindy Lester?
My name is Julia Anderson, and I have been called that since I can remember.
"Sir, you have the wrong person." I handed him the money.
But the old man grabbed my wrist, his eyes bright with excitement: "I can't be mistaken! You lived at the end of this alley as a child, and your father was a police officer..."
Before he could finish speaking, a sudden dizziness washed over me.
It's been happening a lot lately, probably because I haven't been resting well.
I tore my wrist free from the old man's grip and staggered backward.
The world spun wildly, and I collapsed to the ground.
When I woke, I was already lying on a hospital bed.
The acrid scent of disinfectant stung the air.
By the bedside sat a man — Zane Frank.
He wore no suit, only a black sweater.
His sleeves were rolled up, revealing a scar on his wrist.
It was from last year, a cut caused by porcelain shards during the appraisal of cultural relics.
"Awake?" He handed me a cup of warm water.
I didn't take it, instead turning my head to gaze out the window.
He never stooped to come to places like hospitals, nor did he ever care for anyone.
"Where is Wendy?" I asked.
"She fell down the stairs and injured her leg during the wedding dress fitting yesterday." His tone was flat.
A jolt ran through me.
How could she have fallen down the stairs during a wedding dress fitting?
"Is the wedding canceled?" I pressed him.
Zane only smiled: "No, just replace the bride."
I stared at him in shock.
He produced a velvet box, revealing a diamond ring inside.
"Charles will take my place and marry you."
Charles was his most trusted henchman, ruthless and cold.
I gripped the quilt tightly, my nails digging into my palms.
"Why me?"
"No one can replace your skill in appraising cultural relics." He stood up, saying, "Tomorrow, we go to the wedding dress fitting."
After he left, I stared blankly at the ceiling.
The next day, before the mirror at the wedding dress shop.
Clad in a pure white wedding gown, I felt like a puppet on strings.
Suddenly, the door was pushed open.
Wendy entered, leaning on a cane, her face ashen.
"Julia, don't be foolish." She came to my side, lowering her voice, "You are not Julia Anderson; you are Cindy Lester."
My entire body froze.
"Your father was Gavin Lester, an undercover police officer who died in the line of duty ten years ago."
"And Zane Frank was the man who abducted you back then."
Her words struck me like a thunderclap, leaving my head reeling.
I looked at myself in the mirror — at once strange and familiar.
Fragments of childhood suddenly flashed before me — a dark carriage, a man's laughter, and my father's desperate calls.
All this time, I had lived right beneath my enemy's roof.
The wedding was held in a church on the outskirts of town; I wore my wedding gown, my arm entwined with Charles's.
His hand was cold, his knuckles white.
The church was packed, most of them Zane's business associates.
Zane stood beside the priest, his gaze sweeping the room coldly.
Halfway through the ceremony, a sudden gunshot shattered the silence.
The bullet grazed my ear and struck the pillar behind me.
Chaos erupted among the crowd in an instant.
"Protect Miss Anderson!" Charles pushed me behind the altar.
More gunshots rang out.
I peered out to see Charles lying in a pool of blood.
A bullet pierced his chest, his eyes still open.
Wendy suddenly rushed forward, placing herself before me.
"Run!" she screamed.
A bullet tore into her back.
She let out a muffled groan and collapsed into my arms.
"Wendy!" I held her tightly, my hands stained crimson with her blood.
Zane hurried over, pulling me behind him.
"Michael, secure the scene!" His voice was cold and composed.
Amidst the chaos, I saw several men in black carrying a wooden box, slipping out through the side door.
The box's dimensions were just enough to hold a large cultural relic.
Then, it hit me.
This shooting was orchestrated by Zane.
He exploited the chaos to smuggle cultural relics and even managed to frame his competitors.
Wendy was rushed to the hospital for emergency treatment.
I sat on the bench outside the ward, my heart a turbulent whirl of emotions.
She clearly knew of Zane's conspiracy, yet she still wanted to protect me.
Early the next morning, a nurse hurried in: "Miss Anderson, Miss Churchill's ward is on fire!"
I rushed into the corridor and saw thick smoke pouring from the ward.
After the firefighters extinguished the blaze, only scorch marks remained inside the ward.
Wendy has disappeared.
I sifted through the ruins and found a burnt notebook.
Flipping through a few pages, I discovered a photograph tucked inside.
The photo showed the back of a man, bearing a crescent-shaped scar on his lower back.
Written in the notebook: "Zane's follower, crescent scar, involved in a kidnapping case ten years ago."
My heart tightened sharply; Zane has an identical scar on his lower back.
It was him—the man who kidnapped me all those years ago.
After Wendy vanished, Zane took me to a villa deep within the mountains.
This place is called the Ethereal Villa, surrounded on all sides by dense woods.
There is no internet and no signal in the villa; it feels like a cage.
I was kept under house arrest; each day, aside from eating and sleeping, I spent appraising the cultural relics Zane brought.
He would occasionally join me for meals, speaking little.
Then one day, he suddenly took out a ring.
"Julia, let's get married." He gazed into my eyes.
I was stunned—he well knew that I already knew the truth.
"Do you think me a fool?" I sneered coldly.
"I know you hate me." He sat across from me, "But you can't leave me. Your appraisal skills only have value here, with me."
I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. He was right—these past years, my entire life has orbited around him and the cultural relics.
Without him, I don't even know where to go.
The next day, he brought back a cultural relic, saying it was a gift for a foreign client and asked me to appraise it carefully.
The relic rested on the table, its patterns exquisitely detailed.
I slipped on gloves and slowly stroked the body of the vase.
As my fingertips touched the base, suddenly, a memory stirred within me.
Last year, while appraising a batch of ancient artifacts, I secretly hid a miniature communicator behind my waist.
At the time, I merely felt uneasy—never imagining it would come in useful now.
Feigning interest in the cultural relics, I quietly adjusted the communicator's frequency.
"Hello? Is anybody there?" I lowered my voice.
A rustling sound emerged from the communicator.
"This is the City Police Department. May I ask who is speaking?"
My heart leapt with joy as I quickly reported the location of the Ethereal Villa and Zane's smuggling of cultural relics.
I hung up the communicator and tucked it back into my waist.
Zane happened to walk in at that moment: "Is the appraisal finished?"
"Soon." I forced myself to remain calm.
In the afternoon, the wail of sirens echoed outside the villa; Zane's expression changed abruptly as he suddenly turned to look at me.
"Did you call the police?" His gaze was fierce.
The police stormed in and restrained Zane.
I breathed a sigh of relief, believing it was all over.
But unexpectedly, the police also took me into custody.
"Ms. Anderson, you are accused of masterminding the smuggling of cultural relics."
I was stunned, then turned to look at Zane, who wore a mocking smile at the corner of his lips.
I finally understood that he had long since prepared a fallback plan.
All the transaction documents bear only my signature.
He shoved all the blame onto me.
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