Chapter 1

My mother was killed in a hit-and-run. My husband, Haywood, told me to drop the investigation.

Then my father died because Haywood froze my assets, refusing to pay for his life-saving surgery.

"My mother was murdered!" I screamed at him. "You want me to just... forget that?"

He told me he knew who the driver was and threatened to ruin me if I didn't stop. He used his power to destroy my career, publicly shame me, and even had me thrown into a cellar full of venomous spiders, leaving me for dead.

The final blow came when he forced me to lie on a live stream at my mother's grave, confessing to crimes I didn't commit. As I collapsed, he had his men scatter her ashes into the mud.

I lost everything. My family, my dignity, my truth.

They thought they had broken me. They were wrong.

As I boarded a flight out of New York, I hit 'Go Live' on a global stream. "My name is Celina Alvarado," I began, my voice steady. "And I'm here to tell you everything."

Chapter 1

Celina POV:

The world blurred around me, a watercolor smear of green grass and gray headstones. My mother was gone. Just like that. One moment, she was humming a lullaby over the phone, the next, a cold voice delivered the news. Hit-and-run. Cemetery at night felt emptier, colder than I ever imagined. The damp earth beneath my knees mirrored the chill in my bones. I was alone, truly alone, for the first time. The silence screamed.

I traced the cold letters on her freshly placed headstone. Her name. My name. Our shared history, now a solitary monument. My fingers brushed against the vintage locket I wore, cool metal against my skin. It was hers. She gave it to me on my last birthday, filled with a tiny, faded picture of us. A silent promise that she'd always be with me. Now, it was all I had left of her.

The first few days were a haze of tears and hollow condolences. But grief quickly solidified into something sharper, something harder. It was a need for justice. They said it was an accident. They said the police were investigating. I knew that wasn' t enough. My mother deserved more than an anonymous death. She deserved an answer.

I reached out to every lawyer I knew. Every single one. My determination was an armor against the crushing weight of sorrow. I would find who did this. I would make them pay. They couldn' t just take her from me and walk away.

That' s when Haywood stepped in. Not with comfort, not with a hug, but with a cold, steel-edged threat. "Celina, you need to drop this," he said, his voice flat, devoid of warmth. We were in his opulent study, surrounded by dark wood and leather, a room that always felt more like a fortress than a home. His words hung in the air, heavier than the expensive art on the walls.

"Drop what?" My voice was raspy, still raw from crying. I looked at him, searching for even a flicker of empathy. There was none. His eyes were like polished stones.

"The lawsuit. The investigation. All of it." He leaned forward, his expensive suit jacket creasing. "You're making a spectacle. It's bad for my company. Bad for our family name."

My breath hitched. "My mother was murdered, Haywood! Hit and run! You want me to just... forget that?" The locket felt heavy against my chest, a physical ache.

He sighed, a sound of profound annoyance. "Your mother was dear to you, I understand. But these things happen. Pursuing it will only bring more trouble. Unnecessary trouble."

"Unnecessary?" I stood up, my knees protesting. "What is wrong with you? My mother is dead! Someone needs to pay!"

He stood too, towering over me. His voice dropped, becoming dangerously low. "Celina, listen to me. I know who was driving. And you will not pursue this."

My blood ran cold. "You... you know? Who?" A name formed on my tongue, but I couldn't voice it.

"That's not important. What's important is that you stop. Now. Or there will be consequences. For your family. For your career. For everything you hold dear." His gaze drilled into me, unwavering, chilling. He mentioned my father's struggling small business, the news anchor job I'd worked so hard for. He knew exactly where to aim.

A wave of nausea washed over me. This wasn't the man I married. This was a stranger, a predator. "Why, Haywood? Why are you protecting a killer?" I whispered, my voice barely audible.

His jaw tightened. "Because it's complicated. And you, Celina, are not worth the complication."

I stared at him, my heart shattering into a thousand pieces. The man I loved, the man who promised to cherish me, was protecting the person who took my mother' s life. The betrayal was a physical blow. It felt like my lungs were collapsing.

"Complicated?" I choked out the word, tears streaming down my face. "My mother is gone! And you call this complicated?"

He looked away, dismissing my pain. "Your grief is clouding your judgment. Think about what you're doing. Think about the harm you could bring to others."

I felt a cold, hard resolve begin to form in my chest, pushing past the grief. If he wouldn't help me, if he would actively obstruct me, then he was just as guilty. He had chosen a side, and it wasn't mine.

"I will not stop, Haywood," I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. "I will find them. And I will make them pay."

He turned back to me, his eyes now blazing with a dangerous fury. "You think you can defy me, Celina? You will learn your place."

I left his study that night, not with tears, but with a burning certainty. I would pursue justice. Even if it meant losing everything. Especially if it meant losing him.

The next morning, my calls to lawyers went unanswered. The police department informed me they had received new information, and the case was being deprioritized. My once-promising career as a news anchor started to unravel as lucrative sponsorship deals were mysteriously withdrawn. Haywood's influence was a suffocating blanket, cutting off my air supply.

I started to collect evidence. Patiently. Meticulously. Every dismissed lawyer, every blocked call, every cancelled deal. I bought a small, discreet digital recorder. I started leaving it on.

I slipped out of the house one afternoon, a cold dread clinging to me like a shroud. My lawyer, a kind, older woman who still answered my calls, looked at me with pity. "Celina, are you sure about this?" she asked, her voice soft. I nodded, my resolve unwavering. I placed a document on her desk, carefully concealing the crucial details.

"He'll sign it," I told her, my voice unnervingly calm. "He always does, as long as he thinks he's getting something in return."

I needed to be free. Free to fight. Free to breathe. And to fight, I needed to play Haywood's game.

-

The torment started subtly. My severe arachnophobia, a secret I had only shared with Haywood, became his chosen weapon. Small, harmless spiders would appear in my bedroom, in my shower, in the places where I felt safest. Then the spiders grew. Bigger. Hairier. Each night, I would wake up screaming, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding like a trapped bird. He would pretend to comfort me, his touch cold, his eyes devoid of concern. He was enjoying it.

One evening, after another staged "spider attack," he cornered me in the living room. "You still haven't learned, have you?" he sneered, his voice a low growl. He was holding something in his hand. My mother's locket. He must have taken it from my dresser.

"Give it back!" I lunged for it, a raw cry tearing from my throat. It was all I had left.

He held it just out of my reach, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "This? This sentimental trash? You want it? Drop the case. Now."

My vision tunneled. "Never," I spat, tears blurring my sight.

He laughed, a chilling sound. "Then it's mine." He crushed it in his hand, the delicate silver bending, the tiny picture of my mother tearing. He threw the mangled metal to the floor, watching me crumple with it. The world went dark.

I don' t know how long I lay there, clutching the broken locket, my body shaking with silent sobs. The next morning, a bruised and battered Haywood arrived home, claiming he had been jumped. He blamed me, of course. For my defiance. For my stubbornness. He said I brought this trouble upon us.

Then, the true horror began.

I was leaving the supermarket, my mind still reeling from the latest veiled threats, when a black van screeched to a halt beside me. Rough hands grabbed me, shoving a cloth over my mouth. The world spun. Darkness.

I woke up in a dank, musty basement, my head throbbing. The air was thick with the smell of mildew and fear. My wrists were bound tightly to a rusty pipe. A figure emerged from the shadows. It was Keith Tran. The hit-and-run driver. His eyes were wild, his smile grotesque.

"So, the little news anchor wants justice, huh?" he slurred, his breath reeking of alcohol. He took a step closer. My heart hammered against my ribs, a desperate drum against inevitable doom. "You think you can mess with my family? My sister? You're going to regret it."

He lunged, his hands grasping at my clothes. Panic, cold and sharp, ripped through me. I screamed, thrashing against my bindings, but the sound was swallowed by the thick walls. He laughed, a chilling, triumphant sound. His fingers fumbled with the buttons of my shirt.

This cannot be happening.

My mind raced, every instinct screaming for survival. I found a loose jagged edge on the pipe, a sliver of metal. With desperate, raw strength, I began to saw at the ropes. The pain was excruciating, but the thought of my mother, of the justice she deserved, fueled me. The rope frayed. I pulled harder.

He was above me, his heavy weight pressing down. His face was too close, his breath hot and foul. I could feel the thin fabric of my shirt tear. Just as his lips brushed my neck, the rope snapped. I roared, a primal sound of fury and terror, and kicked him with all my might. He sprawled backward, momentarily stunned.

I scrambled to my feet, my bloodied wrists throbbing. My eyes darted around the room. A small, grimy window high above. It was my only chance. I grabbed a loose wooden plank, its edge splintered and sharp, and with a desperate surge of adrenaline, I smashed the window. Glass shattered.

Keith was up again, lunging for me. I swung the plank, catching him across the face. He cried out, stumbling back, clutching his nose. Without a second thought, I pulled myself through the jagged opening, ignoring the fresh cuts on my skin. I landed hard on the damp ground outside, tasting blood and dirt. I ran. Ran until my lungs burned, ran until my legs gave out, ran until I collapsed on a deserted street, safe for now, but trembling with a terror that would forever haunt my dreams.

The next day, still reeling from the assault, I received a call from Haywood. His voice was laced with a terrifying calm. "Celina. We need to talk. About your mother's grave." My blood ran cold again. "Meet me at the cemetery. Alone."

At the cemetery, the air was thick with unspoken threats. Haywood stood by my mother's grave, a shovel leaning innocently against a nearby headstone. Anika Tran was there too, clinging to Haywood's arm, her eyes wide and innocent, but with a flicker of triumph I couldn't miss.

"Anika tells me you tried to seduce her brother," Haywood said, his voice flat, emotionless. "That you lured him, then attacked him." Anika nodded, sniffling into Haywood's shoulder. Lies. All of it.

"That's a lie," I choked out, my voice raw. "He kidnapped me. He assaulted me!" My wrists still bore the angry red marks of the ropes.

Haywood ignored my plea. "You will go live, Celina. Right now. You will confess everything. That you seduced Keith. That you attacked him. That you made it all up." He pointed to an array of lights and cameras, already set up beside my mother's tombstone. A live stream.

"No!" I screamed, my voice cracking. "I won't lie! I won't desecrate her memory like this!"

He picked up the shovel. "Then I will. I'll dig her up, Celina. Right now. And I'll scatter her remains to the wind."

My breath caught in my throat. My mother. No. Not her. I would do anything to protect her last resting place. Anything.

The cameras rolled. The harsh lights blinded me. My face, bruised and tear-streaked, stared back at me from a monitor. The comments section exploded, a torrent of hatred. "Slut!" "Whore!" "Desperate bitch!" I was drowning in public scorn. My mother's grave, just inches away, felt like a gaping maw.

"I... I seduced Keith Tran," I whispered, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "I fabricated the assault... I regret... everything." The lie burned my tongue, scarring my soul. My eyes were empty. I was dead inside.

The moment the livestream ended, I fell to my knees, gagging. The weight of the world pressed down on me. I had lost everything. My mother. My dignity. My truth.

Later, the internet was a wildfire, consuming my reputation. #CelinaAlvaradoScandal trended globally. My career was over. My name synonymous with depravity. My friends, family, even distant acquaintances, turned their backs. I was a pariah.

I looked at my mother's grave, the fresh earth still undisturbed. He had kept his word, in the most twisted way possible. But I hadn't protected her. I had sacrificed my truth for her peace. And in doing so, I felt like I had lost her all over again.

I remember standing there, the rain starting to fall, washing away my tears, or maybe just adding to them. I was broken. But as the last drops hit my face, a cold, unwavering resolve settled deep within me. They thought they had won. They thought they had destroyed me. They were wrong. This wasn't the end. This was just the beginning of their nightmare.

"We are done, Haywood," I whispered to the empty air, my voice raspy but firm. "Absolutely, irrevocably done." The words were a vow, a promise to myself. And to my mother.

-

Flashback:

I first met Haywood at a charity gala. He was the golden boy of New York real estate, all sharp angles and colder, sharper eyes. I was a rising news anchor, trying to make a name for myself. We talked, laughed, and then, after too many glasses of champagne, he invited me back to his penthouse. I was flattered, a little giddy.

The night blurred. I remembered the soft sheets, his strong arms, the lingering scent of his cologne. I remembered feeling cared for, desired. Then, a sudden, jarring memory: a glassy-eyed Haywood, mumbling a name that wasn't mine. Ava.

The next morning, he woke up, disoriented, clutching his head. He saw me, a flicker of surprise, then something else-recognition? No, not recognition. Acceptance. He looked at me, really looked at me, and his face changed. The coldness softened.

"I... I'm sorry," he said, his voice rough. "Last night... I had too much to drink." He paused, his eyes lingering on my face. "I'll take responsibility."

My heart fluttered. Part of me, the naive part, wanted to believe it was genuine. His words felt like a lifeline. He promised me a life of comfort, stability. He didn't say love. I told myself it would come.

We married quickly, a whirlwind romance in the public eye. For a while, I tried to convince myself I was happy. I tried to believe his occasional kindnesses were signs of affection. But then I found it. Hidden in a locked drawer in his study. A framed photograph. A woman, stunningly beautiful, with long dark hair and eyes that mimicked my own. Ava. His deceased ex-girlfriend. The twin of Anika Tran.

The realization hit me like a physical blow. I wasn't Celina. I was a substitute. A replacement. A stand-in for the woman he truly loved, the woman he had lost. The air left my lungs. My entire marriage, a meticulously crafted lie.

When I confronted him, his face was impassive. "You're being dramatic," he said, his voice flat. "Ava is gone. You are my wife." It was a dismissal, not a denial.

Then, the accusations started. Subtle at first, then escalating. "You're always asking for money, Celina. Are you trying to bleed me dry?" he'd sneer, even though I had my own career. "You're so transparent. Just like all the others." He somehow twisted every innocent action, every heartfelt gesture, into a calculated maneuver for my own gain. He accused me of being a gold-digger, of using him, of plotting against him.

"Haywood, that's not true! I love you!" I would plead, tears blurring my vision.

He would just shake his head, a cold, dismissive look in his eyes. "Love? You don't know the meaning of the word." He refused to listen, his mind made up, poisoned by his own twisted perception.

Our marriage froze over. The warmth, however fleeting, was gone. I tried to thaw it. I cooked his favorite meals, wore the clothes he liked, listened to his endless work stories. I tried to be the perfect wife, hoping to earn his affection, hoping to make him see me, Celina. But my efforts were met with a wall of indifference, a cold shoulder, an empty gaze that looked through me, not at me.

Then, Anika Tran arrived. She wasn't just Ava's twin; she was a younger, more vivacious version, with a cunning glint in her innocent eyes. Haywood, who had been cold and distant with me, suddenly bloomed. He lavished attention on her, bought her expensive gifts, and gave her a high-ranking position at his company, despite her lack of experience. He spoiled her, indulged her every whim.

Anika, in turn, reveled in her newfound power. She broke a priceless vase, smirked when Haywood simply laughed it off. She made a catastrophic financial error at the company, costing millions, and Haywood not only forgave her but fired the executive who dared to criticize her. It was a clear message. Anika was untouchable. And I was irrelevant.

-

The call came late one night. My father, frail and aging, was in the hospital. Emergency surgery. It was expensive, far more than my depleted savings could cover. My career was in limbo, thanks to Haywood. I had nowhere else to turn.

My pride clawed at me, but my father' s life was on the line. I swallowed it, walking into Haywood's study, my heart pounding. He was there, with Anika, both laughing, sipping champagne.

"Haywood," I started, my voice trembling. "My father... he needs surgery. It's urgent."

He barely looked up, a glass of amber liquid swirling in his hand. "And?" His tone was dismissive.

"I need your help. The funds have been frozen. I can't access anything."

He raised an eyebrow, a cruel smile touching his lips. "Why should I help you, Celina? You always seem to manage fine on your own." He turned to Anika, who giggled, then added, "Perhaps ask Anika. She's in charge of the company's discretionary funds now."

Anika, her eyes wide and innocent, looked at me. "Oh, Celina. I'm so sorry. The company's budget is very tight right now. Perhaps... perhaps you should ask your family?"

"My family is in dire straits because of the trouble you brought on them, Haywood!" I erupted, the control I had so carefully maintained finally cracking. "My father is dying! This is life or death!"

Haywood' s eyes hardened. "Your melodrama is tedious, Celina. If your father dies, it's because you waited too long, not because of any financial constraints from my end." His words were a physical blow, a vicious twist of the knife in my already bleeding heart.

Despair, cold and suffocating, wrapped around me. He meant it. He would let my father die out of spite. My knees buckled. I had to try. For my father.

I turned to Anika, my voice barely a whisper. "Please, Anika. My father... he's a good man. He just needs a chance."

Anika's smile was saccharine, dripping with fake sympathy. "Oh, Celina. You're so dramatic. Why don't you just sell some of those expensive watches you always wear? Or your jewelry? You always loved money more than anything, didn' t you?" Her words were laced with venom, a direct hit at Haywood's earlier accusations.

The humiliation was a burning brand. I felt their eyes on me, Haywood's cold, Anika's triumphant. My father' s face, pale and weak, flashed before my eyes. I had to. I knelt, my knees hitting the cold marble floor. "Please," I begged, my voice cracking, "I'm begging you. Just enough for the surgery. I'll pay you back. I'll do anything."

Anika laughed, a high, tinkling sound that grated on my nerves. "Look at her, Haywood! Begging! So desperate for money, even for her own family." She turned to me, her eyes glittering. "Tell me, Celina, how much do you truly care about your father? Enough to... truly humble yourself?"

My heart turned to ice. She wanted more than money. She wanted my soul. Around us, the servants scurried away, avoiding our gaze, but their presence was a silent testament to my public degradation. I felt utterly numb, stripped bare, exposed. What was dignity when a life hung in the balance?

"How about this?" Anika said, her voice dropping to a whisper, "I'll give you... this." She pulled out a few crisp hundred-dollar bills from her purse, barely enough for a single night at the hospital. She tossed them at my feet. "Is that enough, Celina? Is your father's life worth so little to you?"

My hands trembled as I picked up the paltry sum. "You promised... you said you would help!" I croaked, my voice thick with unshed tears.

Anika shrugged, a picture of false innocence. "Did I? Oh, I'm so sorry. I must have misspoken. The company is really struggling, you know. Not like you, with your lavish lifestyle." She gestured to the diamond bracelet on her wrist, a piece Haywood had bought her just last week. It was easily worth ten times the amount she had just thrown at me.

As I stared at the meager bills, a fury, cold and clear, began to burn in my chest. I looked up to argue, to fight, but as I did, Anika "tripped." Her hand, with the diamond bracelet glinting, connected sharply with her cheek. She let out a piercing shriek, clutching her face, collapsing into Haywood's arms.

"She hit me! Celina hit me!" Anika wailed, her voice surprisingly strong for someone so "injured."

Haywood' s eyes, already icy, turned to chips of granite. "Celina! What have you done?" he roared, cradling Anika protectively.

I stood there, paralyzed, the hundred-dollar bills fluttering from my numb fingers. My father. My dignity. Everything was gone, replaced by a searing, all-consuming pain.

"Get out," Haywood ordered, his voice low and menacing. "Get out of my sight. And don't ever return."

I walked out of that mansion, my heart a frozen stone in my chest. The world outside felt just as cold.

The phone rang in my pocket. It was the hospital. My father. He didn't make it. He had coded during the night. They couldn't get him into surgery without the deposit.

My legs gave out. I sank to the cold pavement, the rain starting to fall, mirroring the torrent of tears that finally broke free. My father. Dead. Because of them. Because of Haywood' s spite and Anika' s cruelty.

A police officer came to my modest apartment later that day. He looked grim. "Ms. Alvarado, we have an update on your mother's case." My breath hitched. "We've apprehended the driver. Keith Tran."

My blood ran cold. Keith. Anika's younger brother. The connection clicked into place, a horrifying, sickening realization. Haywood had been protecting him.

I went to the cemetery, alone again. Two fresh graves. My mother. My father. My life, shattered. As I buried my father's meager belongings, the simple, worn locket, now bent and broken, felt like a symbol of my own crushed spirit. But beneath the grief, a new emotion simmered. A cold, hard resolve.

They thought they had broken me. They were wrong. They had awakened a monster.

I walked out of the cemetery, the rain washing away the last of my tears. The first step was to file the divorce papers. The second, to ensure Keith Tran faced justice. The third... well, the third was going to be a masterpiece of revenge.