Chapter 1

To save my grandmother, I married a man who hated me. He never knew I was the one who secretly saved his life with a bone marrow donation. And when my grandmother lay dying, he refused to pay for the surgery that would have saved her.

He called it another one of my "dramas," laughing as my last hope died.

But he didn't just kill my grandmother. He killed our child, too.

I was secretly pregnant, part of a billion-dollar surrogacy deal to get the money for her care. When I begged him, showing him the ultrasound, his reply was cold.

"Get rid of it."

With my grandmother dead and my heart destroyed, I finally gave up. He would always believe the lies of his mistress-my sister-who had stolen the credit for saving him.

So I terminated the pregnancy, signed the divorce papers, and paid a doctor to erase every memory of him. Now, he stands before me, a broken man begging for forgiveness, but I can only look into his tear-filled eyes and ask, "I'm sorry, who are you?"

Chapter 1

Allison Farmer POV:

The flashing blue and red lights painted my living room in a twisted dance, just like the lie that had become my life, just like the lie Christopher McDowell believed about me. Two police officers, their faces grim under the harsh glow of the squad car, stood in my doorway, their presence an invasion of the very air I breathed. My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate for escape. I knew why they were here. He always took his cruelty to new heights.

My gaze drifted to the shattered remains of my grandmother's porcelain music box. It lay on the marble floor, a thousand delicate shards reflecting the flashing lights like broken dreams. The tiny ballerina, once pirouetting gracefully, was now just a headless torso, its painted smile a mockery of my own internal agony. He had thrown it, just moments before, a casual flick of his wrist. It was a cruel reminder of how easily he could break anything I held dear.

"Allison, what the hell were you thinking?" Christopher' s voice cut through the air, sharp and cold, like a winter wind. He stood by the fireplace, his designer suit perfectly pressed, his posture radiating an arrogance that made my stomach clench. "Trying to drug me? Are you really that desperate?" His words were ice, and they pierced through me, freezing what little hope I had left. My cheeks burned with shame, not for what I had done, but for the accusations he hurled.

A sharp, stabbing pain erupted in my stomach, a familiar ache that had been my constant companion these past months. It twisted and turned, a physical manifestation of the emotional knots inside me. I pressed a hand against my abdomen, trying to staunch the invisible wound, but it was no use. The pain only intensified, reminding me of all the nights I' d spent curled up on the bathroom floor, clutching myself, praying for it to stop.

I swallowed hard, the taste of ash in my mouth. I wanted to scream, to lash out, to tell him how wrong he was, but a lifetime of holding back had taught me silence. For my grandmother, I told myself. For her medical bills. I had built walls around my heart, brick by painful brick, to withstand his attacks. But sometimes, a single word from him could crumble them all. I just stood there, my breath catching in my throat, trying to compose myself.

"Look at her," Christopher sneered, gesturing towards me with a dismissive wave, his eyes devoid of warmth. "The picture of innocence. Don't let her fool you, officers. She' s a master manipulator." His words were meant to wound, and they did. Each syllable was a fresh cut, bleeding into the open wounds he had already inflicted. He thrived on my pain, on making me feel small and worthless.

"I didn't drug you, Christopher," I finally managed to whisper, my voice hoarse. My eyes pleaded with him, searching for any flicker of recognition, any hint of the man I had once thought he could be. "It was... it was just chamomile tea. To help you relax. It was for our anniversary." The words felt hollow, even to me. He wouldn't believe me. He never did.

He let out a derisive laugh, a sound that grated on my nerves. "Anniversary? You actually thought I'd forget that you trapped me into this mockery of a marriage? Separated me from Cory?" His jaw tightened, and his eyes, usually so captivating, were now pools of icy hatred. "You're delusional, Allison. You always were." He was so consumed by his twisted narrative, there was no room for truth.

I tried again, desperate. "No, Christopher, please, just listen. It wasn't like that. Cory-"

He cut me off, his voice rising, venomous. "Don't you dare speak her name! You're not worthy! You thought you could trick me, just like you tricked everyone else into thinking you're some kind of saint. But I see through you, Allison. I always have." He took a step closer, his shadow looming over me, making me feel even smaller.

Then he turned to the officers, a chillingly calm expression on his face. "Officers, this woman assaulted me. She tried to drug me, and when I refused, she became violent. I'm pressing charges." My breath hitched. Assault? He couldn't be serious. My legs felt like jelly, threatening to give out beneath me.

"Assault?" I gasped, my voice barely audible. The word hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. My mind reeled, trying to process the sheer audacity of his lie. How could he? How could he stoop so low? The betrayal hit me with the force of a physical blow, leaving me breathless. This was a new level of cruelty, even for him.

One of the officers, a stern-faced woman, stepped forward. "Ma'am, we need you to come with us." She reached for my arm, her touch firm but not unkind. The reality of the situation crashed down on me, heavy and inescapable. I was going to be arrested. Because of him.

"No, please," I whispered, pulling my arm back instinctively. My eyes darted to Christopher, silently begging him to stop this madness. My dignity, already tattered, felt like it was being ripped to shreds. The shame was a burning inferno, consuming me from the inside out. My face flushed hot, tears stinging my eyes, threatening to spill over.

"Don't resist, Allison," Christopher said, his voice laced with mock concern, a cruel twist of the knife. "You're only making it worse for yourself. Everyone will know what you truly are now." His words were a public execution, and I was the condemned.

Before the officers could react, Christopher pulled out his phone. He dialed quickly, his gaze fixed on me, a malicious glint in his eyes. "Grandma, it's me. Allison just attacked me. She tried to drug me. I'm calling the police." My blood ran cold. Grandma. My poor, frail grandmother. He knew how much she meant to me, how delicate her health was. This was a deliberate, calculated strike.

"No!" I screamed, a raw, animalistic sound ripped from my throat. I lunged forward, my desperation overriding all sense of self-preservation. "Don't you dare! She's ill! You'll kill her!" My hands, trembling, reached for his phone, desperate to snatch it away, to stop the words that would surely break her heart, that might even break her entirely.

An officer grabbed me, pulling me back with a surprising force. My wrist twisted painfully, a sharp crack echoing in the silent room. I cried out, a strangled sob escaping my lips. The pain was immediate, searing, but nothing compared to the agony in my chest. "Please, Christopher! Don't do this! Please!" My voice cracked, tears streaming down my face, blurring my vision. My grandmother was all I had left, and he was taking even that from me.

He simply stared at me, his eyes devoid of emotion. "It's too late, Allison. She deserves to know the kind of monster you truly are." He finished the call, a smirk playing on his lips, then looked at the officers. "Take her away." His voice was chillingly calm, as if he were discussing the weather. He then turned his back on me, walking away without a backward glance, disappearing into the shadows of the mansion. The click of the door closing behind him sounded like a coffin lid slamming shut.

The officers led me out, my limbs heavy and unresponsive. My mind raced, frantic, trying to find a way, any way, to warn my grandmother. I fumbled for my own phone, my fingers clumsy with fear and pain. I had to call her. She needed to hear my voice, not his poisoned words. I had to.

By the time my aunt arrived at the precinct, her face pale and drawn, the news had already broken. She rushed towards me, her eyes filled with a desperate mixture of love and terror. "Allison, darling, what happened? Grandma... she collapsed." Her words were a dull thud against my already fractured heart. The world spun.

My carefully constructed walls shattered completely. I sagged against the cold, metal bench, hot tears pouring down my face, my body wracked with uncontrollable sobs. "He told her," I choked out, the words catching in my throat. "He told her lies. It's my fault. It's all my fault." The guilt was a suffocating blanket, heavy and inescapable.

A uniformed officer, a burly man with disapproving eyes, approached us. "Your grandmother's lawyer is here, saying you're a gold digger, making false claims to exploit her wealth." His voice was flat, accusatory. "And your sister, Cory, has already given a statement corroborating Mr. McDowell's version of events." The words hit me like a physical blow. Cory. My own sister. She had joined him in this twisted game.

"That's a lie!" my aunt cried out, her voice trembling with indignation. She clutched at her chest, her face turning an alarming shade of red. "Allison would never-" She gasped, her eyes wide with pain, struggling for breath.

Before she could finish, a swarm of reporters descended upon the precinct like vultures, their cameras flashing, their microphones shoved aggressively in our faces. "Ms. Farmer! Is it true you tried to drug your husband, Christopher McDowell, for his fortune?" A woman with a harsh voice shouted, her eyes gleaming with malice. "Sources say you're a gold-digging opportunist who trapped a powerful man into marriage!"

"My niece is innocent!" my aunt weakly declared, trying to shield me, but her voice was lost in the cacophony. She swayed, her hand still clutched to her chest, her breathing shallow and ragged. She was having another attack.

"Your sister, Cory Miller, has publicly stated that you've always been jealous of her relationship with Mr. McDowell! Is this true?" Another voice shrieked, pressing a microphone so close it almost hit my face. Their words were needles, pricking at the deepest wounds, twisting the knife further. They reveled in my humiliation, feasting on my pain for their headlines.

"Leave us alone!" I cried, trying to push past them, desperate to reach my aunt, whose face was now contorted in agony. But they wouldn't budge. They wanted a show, and I was their main act.

Suddenly, my aunt crumpled to the floor, her body seizing violently. Her eyes rolled back, a faint gurgle escaping her lips. "Auntie! Auntie, no!" I screamed, my voice raw with terror, my heart leaping into my throat. The sight of her, so fragile and broken, snapped something inside me. It was happening. What Christopher had orchestrated, it was happening.

But my desperate cries were drowned out by the relentless clicking of cameras and the cruel laughter of the reporters. Their flashbulbs flared, illuminating the scene of my aunt's collapse, turning her suffering into a spectacle. The world was watching, and it was judging.

The false accusations, the public shaming orchestrated by Christopher and Cory, spread like wildfire across every news outlet, every social media feed. My name became synonymous with greed and deceit. The stress, the humiliation, the sheer cruelty of it all was too much for my grandmother's already fragile heart. The doctors' faces, grim and apologetic, confirmed my worst fear: her condition had worsened drastically. She wouldn't make it through the night without emergency surgery, surgery I couldn't afford.