Alice rubbed her aching wrist, a satisfied grin spreading across her face before she sauntered away.
Before long, the servants had stripped Irene down to her skin, leaving only a thin layer of silk lingerie to shield her modesty.
Unable to fight back, Irene squeezed her eyes shut and stopped resisting.
She let them do whatever they pleased.
She understood all too well that staying alive was now her only priority.
Two maids held her up on either side, guiding her toward the door.
After all, Irene had once been Lennon's wife.
Despite their disdain for her, the servants still couldn't bring themselves to openly mock her misery.
Along the way, Irene saw no one but the maids escorting her.
Meanwhile, the butler rapped on the door of the study.
"Enter," Lennon's voice called from inside.
The butler stepped in and said, "Mr. Marshall, Ms. Morgan has been dealt with as you instructed."
Lennon was skimming through a contract and didn't look up. "Did she say anything?"
"No," the butler responded.
Lennon's lips curled into a sneer as he recalled Irene's desperate words from earlier. Closing the folder, he ordered coldly, "Tell them to throw that woman as far away as possible. I don't want her filth anywhere near my property."
The butler was taken aback but nodded. "Understood, sir," he said, albeit hesitantly.
In a cramped basement on the outskirts of the city…
"No!" Irene jolted awake, shooting upright and gasping for breath.
Her chest heaved as she stared ahead in terror.
At that moment, the door creaked open.
Seeing that she was conscious, the man placed the medicine he had been holding onto a nearby table and approached the bed.
"Ms. Morgan, you're finally awake," he said, his expression filled with concern.
Irene's eyes narrowed warily, her breathing steadying.
The man looked familiar, but she couldn't quite place him.
Despite racking her brain, she couldn't remember his name.
She glanced down at her body, the memory of being cast out of Lennon's house — half-naked and barely clinging to life — flashing vividly through her mind.
Now, here she was, still breathing, dressed in a garish yet tidy floral shirt paired with matching pants.
"Who are you?" Irene's voice was raspy, her eyes guarded as she regarded the man.
"We've met before, though you were just a child then. It's understandable that you wouldn't remember me. I'm Andy Torres, your mother's attorney," he said, offering her a gentle smile.
Andy? Mom's lawyer?
Irene vaguely recalled that her mother had a lawyer.
"Did you rescue me?" she asked.
"Yes. When I called your phone, a passerby answered and said you'd collapsed. Don't worry, I didn't see anything. The man who found you covered you with a coat. I brought you to my car and brought you here," Andy explained.
"Then these clothes..." Irene gestured at the floral shirt and pants.
"I asked an elderly neighbor to change you."
Relief washed over Irene, but her expression remained tense.
"You said you called me. Why?"
Her mother had died when she was thirteen. Andy claimed to be her mother's lawyer, but Irene hadn't seen him for years. Why was he here now?
Andy rose, left the room, and returned moments later holding a document. He handed it to her.
"This is your mother's last will and testament," he said.
"My mother's will?" Irene's eyes narrowed with skepticism.
If she remembered correctly, her mother had died so suddenly that there had been no time to draft a will. Otherwise, her irresponsible father and his mistress wouldn't have so boldly taken over everything.
"Yes. She entrusted me to witness her will while she was alive. She instructed me to reveal it to you on your 24th birthday," Andy continued.
Now that he mentioned it, Irene remembered — today was her birthday, the same day as her divorce from Lennon.
"The will clearly states that you inherit all your mother's assets, including fifteen percent of the Morgan Group's shares and the villa she resided in," Andy said, his voice calm and steady.
Irene flipped to the last page and saw her mother's name, Elisa Morgan, scrawled across the bottom in familiar, looping handwriting.
"How long was I unconscious?" Irene asked, her eyes still on the document.
"Three days."
Irene closed the will and swung her legs off the bed, determination hardening her features.
"In that case, they've had three days too many to enjoy what isn't theirs," she muttered before striding to the door.
"Miss Morgan, where are you going?" Andy called after her.
Irene stopped, looking back at him with a wry smirk as she clutched the will tightly.
"Where else? I'm going to take back what's mine."
Without another word, she swung open the door and marched out, Andy trailing behind her.
In the Riverside Villa District, north of the city, Irene and Andy stood in front of the Morgan family estate. They had rung the doorbell repeatedly, yet no one had answered.
Annoyed by the incessant ringing, the housekeeper finally flung open the side door, her face twisted in a scowl.
"Who the hell is it? A debt collector or what? Stop pressing the bell!" she snapped.
But the moment she saw Irene standing there, her expression shifted to one of shock.
A slow, mocking smile spread across Irene's lips.
"Well, in a way, we are here to collect a debt," she said.
"You... it's you!" the housekeeper stammered, her face paling.
"What's wrong, Viola? You act like you don't recognize me after all this time," Irene said, taking a step forward.
Viola's throat bobbed nervously as she swallowed. Something about Irene's presence felt ominous, like a storm about to break.
"M-Miss Irene, you're back," Viola muttered, unable to look her in the eye.
"Yes. And this time, I'm staying. Go prepare my room, Viola," Irene commanded.
Viola hesitated, biting her lip. Irene's bedroom? Alice had taken over that room long ago. But something about the way Irene looked at her made Viola shiver. This was not the same timid, broken girl she once knew.
"W-Who's home right now?" Irene asked, glancing around the yard. Everything was exactly as it had been two years ago.
"Your father, his wife, and Alice. They're all inside," Viola said, her voice barely a whisper.
"Perfect," Irene said, pushing past Viola and striding through the garden toward the front door.
Inside the living room, Alice twirled in front of a mirror, admiring the diamond necklace around her neck.
"Mom, which one looks better on me? This one or the other one?" she asked, fingers dancing over the glittering stones.
"The other one is more expensive, dear. You're attending Mr. Marshall's banquet, so you should wear the pricier piece," her mother said, picking up a sapphire necklace and draping it around Alice's neck.
Alice's eyes sparkled as she touched the cool blue gem, her lips curling into a smug smile.