She had already fallen—there was no future left to salvage. Whatever was meant to break her and Archer apart had only been accelerated by that phone call. It just came a little earlier than expected.
With trembling fingers, Elara clutched her phone tightly and murmured into the receiver, "I understand. I'll do as you asked."
There was no pause, no hesitation. The call was cut off immediately, leaving only the hollow sound of disconnection in her ears.
Under the relentless glare of the midday sun, Elara tilted her face to the sky, willing her tears to stay hidden behind her lashes. Her body felt cold, deathly cold—despite the burning heat pressing down from above. It wasn't just pain anymore; it was numbness creeping in, smothering everything.
She barely had the strength to keep herself upright. The world felt like it was collapsing in slow motion.
She took leave from work, dragging her aching body onto a long-distance bus that carried her back to the place she once called home—hoping, perhaps foolishly, for even a flicker of warmth there.
But when she opened the door, the smell of bitterness was the first thing that greeted her.
"A shameless woman can only raise a shameless daughter!" came a venomous voice. "Look at your little slut—caught with a man in a hotel like some cheap thing!"
Her mother was on her knees, battered and hunched low to the ground. A stack of photographs was flung in her face. Her injuries were obvious—knees bruised, forehead red from repeated kowtows. The cruelty in the air was thick, suffocating.
Elara dropped her bag and rushed forward, kneeling beside her mother. "Grandma, why? What did Mom do to deserve this?"
Her grandmother's eyes were as cold as a winter river. Without warning, she hurled one of the photos directly at Elara's face.
"You dare ask?" she spat. "Your mother can't even give birth properly, and now her daughter's out tarnishing our name with this filth? These photos were delivered to our doorstep! Your face, in bed with some strange man—disgraceful!"
Elara's heart stopped. She snatched the photo from the floor and stared at the damning image. It was unmistakable—her and that man, tangled on white hotel sheets.
Her blood turned to ice.
Where did these photos come from? And who had sent them here?
She opened her mouth to explain, but the words got stuck. The photos didn't lie. The truth was there in vivid color.
Her mother tried to intervene. "Mother, please listen—Elara—"
But before she could finish, the old woman slammed the table with a roar. "Shut your mouth! You think I don't see what's going on? You raised a harlot, and now you want to defend her? Useless wench! One can't bear children, the other spreads her legs like a stray dog—what curse did our family invite into this house?"
She grabbed a ceramic teacup and hurled it at her daughter-in-law.
Elara moved without thinking. She shielded her mother with her own body.
The teacup smashed across her back, shards slicing through fabric and skin alike. White-hot pain ripped through her, but she didn't flinch.
"Elara!" her mother cried, pulling her close, her hands trembling. "Are you okay?"
Elara barely nodded, tears streaming down her face.
This pain was nothing. Her mother had endured worse for years.
Just then, the TV cut to breaking news. Photos flooded the screen.
"This morning, the heir of the Rourke Corporation, Mr. Damien Rourke, was spotted leaving a hotel with a woman. Scenes from the room suggest intimate involvement—clothes scattered, bedding disheveled—"
The image of her face flashed on screen.
The air turned to fire.
Her aunt exploded. She snatched a cane and charged, screeching, "Whore! You even made the news! You shameful beast, get out! You hear me? GET OUT!"
Elara's heart stopped. She hadn't expected it to spread this far, this fast.
She clung to her mother, shielding her again from the blows, not daring to move or speak. If she left this house now, there'd be no coming back. Not ever.
Then, the door flew open with a crash. A familiar voice rang out.
"Mom!"
Her breath caught.
Dad!
Her eyes turned toward the doorway, flooded with desperate hope. Maybe… just maybe, someone was still on their side.