False Accusation, Transformed Return
It was the dead of winter. My hands were soaked in ice-cold water, swollen, red and numb, yet I kept scrubbing mechanically, repeating the same motion over and over again.
One cent per dish.
If I finished this whole tub, I could afford a piece of bread from the 7-Eleven.
A single piece of bread was my only meal for the day.
Just as the red basin was about to be emptied, I heard someone call my name.
It was James Anderson.
Dressed in a tailored suit, he stood in stark contrast to the filth of the alley.
I froze, my hands stiff in the freezing water. I stared in disbelief as his tall figure came closer. But there was no sense of relief, no feeling of being saved from my suffering. Instead, it felt like a lifetime had passed since we last met.
"Time to come home."
He stood before me, looking down from above.
I didn't move. I just stared at him, and in the reflection of his eyes, I saw myself, wrapped in a tattered cotton jacket, hair unkempt, face gaunt and weary.
There was a stark contrast between us.
Seeing that I wasn't responding, James grew impatient and reached out to pull me up.
I flinched, my hands slipping, and a porcelain plate tumbled from my grasp.
The moment it shattered, my body reacted before my mind could catch up. I curled up on the ground, clutching my head, and frantically begged for mercy.
Three years of beatings had conditioned me to react this way.
Just the mere thought of a fist landing on my body sent uncontrollable shivers down my spine. Tears and snot streamed down my face as I choked out desperate pleas.
"Don't hit me. I was wrong. I was wrong... I won't do it again..."
James stiffened.
"Chloe, who are you putting on this act for? You were only abroad for three years."
His voice carried anger as if he was certain I was pretending.
If this were in the past, I would have panicked at his misunderstanding and desperately tried to explain myself.
But now, I could say nothing except for those same broken pleas. Terror had hollowed me out. I was so afraid that I collapsed onto the ground, frantically trying to piece the shattered porcelain back together.
My hands trembled as I worked in haste. The jagged edges soon sliced into my already swollen fingertips, fresh blood seeping out and mixing with the murky water.
But I felt nothing. All I could think about was avoiding a beating.
Breaking a plate meant more than just pain. It meant I wouldn't get paid.
No money meant no bread. No bread meant another night of hunger.
The cold, the hunger, the pain... I had endured them too many times over the past three years. Even just thinking about it now made my stomach clench with fear.
I had no recollection of how James took me away. Even when I was seated on the plane heading back home, my body still trembled uncontrollably.
People around us were staring.
Their expressions varied.
After all, in the pristine luxury of the first-class cabin, my tattered, beggar-like clothing was a jarring sight. Even the blanket draped over my shoulders looked far more valuable than I did.
Even the flight attendant, as she approached with a tray, couldn't hide the trace of pity in her eyes.
"Miss, would you like a cup of hot coffee?"
The rich aroma stirred my senses. I lifted my head, my gaze landing on her warm, friendly smile. Almost instinctively, I reached out, only to have my hands fully exposed to the light. Red, swollen, covered in frostbite.
Gone was the delicate, smooth skin from three years ago. My fingers were rough and cracked, my hands withered like aged bark. The flight attendant gasped in shock.
I flinched instinctively, quickly pulling my hands back and curling into my seat, shaking my head frantically. "No... I don't want it. I don't want it..."
The air around us grew heavier.
In the end, the flight attendant still placed the coffee on the tray in front of me. Before leaving, she shot James a conflicted glance and muttered under her breath, "Looks decent enough, but it turns out he's just a heartless sc*mbag."
James was speechless.
I paid no attention to her words. My focus remained solely on the steaming cup of coffee, my throat constricting as I swallowed hard.
In the past three years, even a single cup of water had been a luxury. Countless times, I had been forced to chew on cold, rock-hard bread, swallowing it dry with nothing but my own saliva.
"If you want to drink it, just drink it. It's instant coffee, not some rare delicacy."
James's voice was laced with disdain. His sharp gaze studied me, his features as refined and composed as ever, but his words cut straight to the bone.
"Chloe, it's only been three years. How did you turn into such a pathetic mess?"
"Pathetic? Could dignity fill an empty stomach?" I thought.
I wanted to say something, but my throat was too tight.
The man sitting beside me was the very reason I had ended up like this, yet I didn't dare utter a single word of blame.
Not because I still loved him. But because I was utterly terrified.
Three years ago, he abandoned me on the streets of a foreign country. No passport. No money. That very night, I was almost trafficked to a red-light district.
I barely escaped. With no identity, I had crawled through the cracks of society like a rat hiding in the sewers.
I had worked as a garbage collector. I also scrubbed sewage tanks and cleaned glass on high-rise buildings. At my hungriest, I had even barked like a dog on the streets just to amuse passersby in exchange for a few coins.
During that time, my only dream was to go home. I swore to myself, if I ever got back, I would never love James again.
So now, of course, I wouldn't dare to offend him.
I never wanted to return to that dark place again. The mere thought of it made me tremble all over.
"Yes. I'm pathetic," I whispered in agreement.
Even as I stared at the coffee, all I could do was lick my dry, cracked lips. I didn't dare to take it, cowering like a well-trained dog.
But James didn't look pleased with my obedience. His expression darkened even further. In his eyes, there was something unfamiliar, an emotion I couldn't decipher.
I didn't understand. And even if I did, I wouldn't dare to acknowledge it.
As soon as we landed, James didn't take me home. Instead, he took me to a hospital.
In the psychiatric ward, I stiffened at the entrance, my gaze shifting to James in horror. My voice trembled, on the verge of breaking.
"James, I swear I don't love you anymore. I just want to go home. Please, don't send me to a mental hospital."
I didn't dare to struggle. All I could do was clutch his sleeve, pleading softly.
James seemed to hear the fear in my voice. He slowly pried my fingers off, then flipped his grip to clasp my wrist instead.
When he grabbed my wrist, he seemed momentarily uncomfortable, perhaps due to how bony it felt. But the hesitation lasted only a second before he firmly shoved me into the consultation room.
Inside, a man in a white coat stood waiting. Thin-rimmed gold glasses framed his face, and something about him felt familiar.
When he saw me, his eyes lit up behind his lenses. His voice was gentle, reassuring.
"Ms. Lewis, long time no see."
I froze, surprised that he knew me. But before I could react, James threw me onto the examination table.
Being so thin, the impact sent pain shooting through my bones. But I didn't dare to make a sound. Over the past three years, the most important lesson I had learned was to endure beatings in silence.
Once they got tired of hitting me, they would eventually stop.
"Run some tests on her. I think there's something wrong with her brain."
I heard James coldly speak to the doctor.
Then both men turned to look at me. Their gazes were scrutinizing, assessing. I instinctively curled in on myself.
I wanted to protest that there was nothing wrong with my mind. If anything, my body needed a real examination.
I was hurting. So badly.
But I didn't dare to speak up. So, I cooperated with the kind-looking doctor, answering the questions he asked, though there were many I couldn't answer. Still, he was gentle. Whenever I hesitated, he simply wrote the correct answer down for me.
So, the diagnosis was that there was nothing wrong with my mind.
I let out a breath of relief, thinking that this meant James had no reason to lock me in a psychiatric hospital and would finally take me home.
But I never expected that the moment the doctor and I stepped out of the consultation room to deliver the results, James looked even angrier.
"Chloe, it looks like three years weren't enough to teach you a lesson. You still love lying!"
James grabbed my collar, lifting me effortlessly like I was nothing more than a rag doll. Years of malnutrition had left me too weak to resist. Seeing his face twisted in rage, I burst into tears on the spot.
"I'm sorry! I won't do it again! It was my fault!"
I instinctively apologized, pressing my hands together in a pleading gesture, not even daring to ask what lie I had supposedly told this time.
It didn't matter.
It was always my fault.
Yes, I was a liar!
At twelve, I spread rumors that the senior girl he liked was cheating, driving her to depression until she dropped out.
At fifteen, I framed a girl who had a crush on him for stealing his mother's expensive jewelry, almost sending her to prison.
At eighteen, I sent him a message claiming I had been in a car accident. He rushed to my side at full speed, only to miss his grandfather's final moments.
Back then, I had been arrogant, and unwilling to admit my wrongdoings. I denied everything.
Then, the night I pushed his secretary down the stairs at a banquet, he didn't even bother to question me. He simply had me packed up and thrown into a foreign country overnight.
He said he wanted me to learn my lesson.
I glared at him defiantly and snapped, "James, you don't believe me. You'll regret this!"
But three years passed.
And the only one who regretted anything was me.
I didn't want to go back to living in underground tunnels. I couldn't stand another night in those pitch-dark, filthy corridors, the stench of urine and rotting garbage choking the air. The rats were huge, bigger than cats. They scurried through the shadows, their beady eyes glowing red in the darkness...
"James, if you're that unsatisfied, then just lock me in a psychiatric hospital! I'll go willingly... Don't send me back abroad..."
My body trembled violently as I sobbed, my vision blurred with tears. Through my haze of desperation, I thought I saw James hesitate, his face softening for just a fraction of a second.
"An illusion. It has to be an illusion," I thought.
If these three years had taught me anything, it was to recognize reality.
"Chloe, do you really think pretending like this will make me believe you're mentally ill?"
His voice was sharp, filled with fury.
I didn't understand.
I stared at him, wide-eyed in terror, looking at his handsome yet furious face. I didn't know how to respond, whether I should agree or deny it.
Tears continued streaming down my face, my sobs silent but relentless. It felt like two roaring turbines had taken over my ears, their deafening hum drowning out all rational thought.
Breathing became harder and harder, as though an invisible hand was tightening around my throat, cutting off my air. My mind grew hazy from the lack of oxygen, and even James's face before me began to blur...
"James, she just got back. Maybe she's still adjusting," the gentle doctor finally spoke up.
James finally let go of me.
The moment he let go, I darted away, rushing to the bench by the door. I crouched beneath it, wrapping my arms tightly around myself. Only like this could I feel even the slightest sense of security.
"Thomas, are you sure Chloe is mentally sound?"
In my daze, I heard James' voice.
Then, Thomas responded, "Psych evaluations don't lie. But I can prescribe some sedatives to help her calm down."
Even though I wasn't mentally ill, James still had me loaded up with medication.
Taking me back to the Anderson Villa, he ordered the servants to ensure I took every pill, every day, without fail.
One of the maids hesitated when she saw the amount of medicine, then glanced at me, the broken, ragged shell of a person following silently behind James.
"Mr. Anderson, Ms. Lewis's condition..."
"If she likes pretending to be sick, then let her pretend all she wants," James said coldly.
I trembled. I wanted to say I wasn't faking it, but after licking my cracked lips, I swallowed the words back down.
When I stepped inside the house, the familiar surroundings felt surreal, like a dream I had long since abandoned.
I wasn't an orphan. But my parents' work had always kept them away. Since childhood, I had been passed between relatives like an unwanted burden, until I was ten, when James' father and mother brought me to live at the Anderson Villa.
They treated me well. To outsiders, I was practically regarded as their little daughter.
But when I was sixteen, James' parents were tragically killed in a plane crash.
James had only just turned eighteen. Under the orders of his grandfather, he took over the Anderson Group.
For a long time, the villa was just the two of us. This place held more meaning for me than anywhere else.
Maybe because I was back somewhere familiar, the suffocating tension inside me loosened a little. James, however, finally seemed to register just how filthy and wretched I looked compared to the maid.
"Go clean yourself up," he ordered.
And so, after three long years, I finally got to take a hot shower again.
Even the cheapest motels abroad had been beyond my reach. Once my skin itched unbearably, I had no choice but to sneak into public park restrooms with a bucket of cold water, using a rag to scrub myself clean.
But after nearly being assaulted by a homeless man in one of those restrooms, I never dared to do it again.
Now, as I stood beneath the steaming water, staring at the scars littering my body, my eyes burned.
A clean space. Clean clothes. A warm meal
These were things I hadn't even dared to dream of for three years.
An hour later, I stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. I went to open my wardrobe, searching for something to wear. But before I could pull it open, I heard movement at the door.
I turned around and found myself face-to-face with a woman.
I knew her.
Aurora Baker, James' secretary.
The very reason I had been thrown abroad three years ago.
Back then, I had pushed her down a flight of stairs at a banquet in a fit of rage. She had broken a leg. There were too many witnesses. I couldn't deny my guilt.
But looking at her now, she seemed perfectly fine.
My gaze lingered on her long, flawless legs beneath her short skirt.
"Ms... Ms. Lewis?"
Aurora looked at me, her face filled with shock, and in her eyes, there was even a hint of jealousy. But as I stared back at her, the arrogance and defiance I once held were nowhere to be found.
All that remained was confusion.
"You..."
I opened my mouth, instinctively wanting to ask what she was doing there.
But she suddenly spoke up, her voice filled with righteous indignation.
"Ms. Lewis, what are you doing in my room?"
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