Chapter 1

Just that very morning, Giselle Whitman had been forced to undergo electroconvulsive therapy. By afternoon, she was discharged, and someone was there to take her home from the psychiatric hospital. As she stood at the entrance of the psychiatric hospital, Giselle couldn't help but squint. Six months of living in darkness had left her unaccustomed to the glaring summer sunlight. The window of a gray Aston Martin parked across the street rolled down slowly, revealing the flawlessly handsome profile of her husband, Gavin Farrell. Giselle swallowed, her eyes rimmed red. She didn't move. Gavin shifted his gaze toward her and said frostily, "It's been six months and you still haven't learned to be good, Giselle? Come here." Giselle stared at the man she had been in love with for the past 15 years, watching as rage surfaced in his eyes. Though immense grievance surged within her, she forced it down sharply. She had let go of him. From today onward, she no longer loved him. The Gavin she loved had long since rotted away. He had rotted on the day her stepsister, Chantelle Whitman, walked back into the Whitman family. Giselle pulled open the passenger door expressionlessly, and the first thing she saw was the seat cover on the passenger seat. It was a soft pink and had a label that read "Darling Chantelle's Designated Seat". A wave of dizziness hit Giselle, and she felt her knees go weak. As her stomach churned incessantly, a pang of nausea came over her. She crouched by the roadside and threw up miserably, almost coughing up bile. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes. Just how disgusting could they get? Half a year ago, after she saw Chantelle send Gavin explicit photos, Giselle slapped Chantelle. As a result, Chantelle had an attack and was sent to the emergency room. To make it up to Chantelle, Giselle had been forced to apologize. Naturally, Giselle would rather die than do that. Hence, her own father, David Whitman, her four cousins, and Gavin resolutely had her locked up in a psychiatric hospital. For the past six months, she had suffered all kinds of torment there. From electroconvulsive therapy, whippings, and humiliation to deprivation of food and clothes, Giselle had been through it all. Not a single person had come to visit her for the 180 days she'd been locked in the psychiatric hospital. So it turned out that in the days that she'd been gone, Chantelle had already taken her place. Giselle felt utterly disgusted. It felt as bad as if her toothbrush had been used to scrub a toilet and then placed back in her cup. Gavin got out of the car, opened a bottle of mineral water, and handed it to her. Her mouth tasted bitter and foul. She took the water and rinsed her mouth vigorously. As Gavin stood behind her, his deep gaze was fixed on her back. She had always been slender, but because of her petite frame, she had a soft plumpness. Whenever she ate something she liked, she would eat a lot, then grab his hand and place it on her belly. The delicate softness was a sensation that Gavin had etched in his memory. But now, as Giselle crouched on the ground, the simple white T-shirt she wore, with its edges already yellowed, clung tightly to her back. It outlined her spine, making each bone stand out clearly. She had visibly lost a lot of weight. At five feet and seven inches tall, she probably weighed less than 90 pounds. Gavin's heart twisted violently, wrenching with excruciating pain. How had the woman he once cherished wasted away to such a state? He reached his hand out, wanting to tell Giselle that as long as she no longer made things difficult for Chantelle, they could still be as close and happy as before. They could still be the perfect match in everyone's eyes. But just as his hand was about to fall on her shoulder, Giselle, who was still crouched on the ground looking forlorn, suddenly rasped, "Gavin, let's get a divorce." When Gavin heard that, the fingers on his outstretched hand trembled. He silently withdrew his hand. His gaze turned sinister, and his tone was sharp and cold as he hissed, "Giselle, I won't take those words seriously, and you only get to say them once." Giselle smiled. "Gavin, let's get a divorce. I won't ask for any of your assets. All I want is Poppy. You just have to pay child support on time. I don't want to live my life with you anymore. I'll step aside for you and Chantelle." At that, Gavin yanked at his necktie irritably to loosen it. With his brow slightly furrowed, he said, "We'll talk about this at home. Get in the car." Giselle slowly got up from the ground. Gavin grabbed her wrist, his palm warm against her icy skin. He stared in disbelief at the wrist in his hand. It was so thin it felt like he could easily break it with a snap. A pained expression flashed in the depths of his eyes. Giselle saw it. But she found it laughable. What was Gavin feeling sorry for? Why was his heart aching for her? Did he even deserve to feel remorse? Had he not been the one who had sent her to the psychiatric hospital himself? Had he not been the one who personally instructed the doctors to make her learn her lesson? Had he really not known what sort of place a psychiatric hospital was? Giselle got into the back seat. Not a single word was exchanged throughout the entire journey. She was exhausted. The electroconvulsive therapy from that morning still made her muscles twitch occasionally. It was beyond her control. Fortunately for her, the electroconvulsive therapy that morning had been considered mild. They probably hadn't applied a very strong current because they knew someone was coming to take her home. In the past, every time they performed electroconvulsive therapy on her, she would suffer from urinary incontinence. Such scenes of the daughter of the Whitman family, the lady of the Farrell family, lying in a mess of filth, convulsing uncontrollably, had undoubtedly been recorded on the phones of countless people. Giselle's silence throughout the journey made Gavin uncomfortable. When they finally reached Crownridge Estate, the car had barely stopped, and Giselle hadn't even gotten out of it when she saw her daughter, Penelope Farrell, playing on the swing in the front yard with Chantelle. Penelope was happily pushing Chantelle, who was sitting on the swing. A gentle breeze ruffled the hem of Chantelle's skirt around her calves as Penelope's peals of laughter resounded through the yard. Giselle hurriedly pushed the car door open and stumbled out. She ran to the gate of Crownridge Estate, her fingers trembling as she pressed her fingerprint against the scanner, but it kept showing an error. Gavin walked up from behind her, resting one hand on her waist and pressing the thumb on his other hand on the scanner. He casually explained, "The lock was changed recently. We'll get your fingerprint registered later." Giselle pushed Gavin away and ran toward Penelope. During her six months in the psychiatric hospital, Penelope was the only one Giselle couldn't stop worrying about. Ever since Penelope was born, Giselle had taken a hands-on approach to raising her. She would personally pick out even something as trivial as a pair of socks, insisting on giving Penelope only the best. 180 days had Giselle missing Penelope to the brink of madness. The director of the psychiatric hospital had once told her that if she got on her knees and apologized, he would bring her home to see Penelope. Giselle knew that it was more likely than not a lie, but for the slim chance that she might get to see Penelope, she still did as she was told without the slightest hint of hesitation. As a result, her actions were recorded, and she ended up being mocked and beaten up by the director and the staff. Penelope was Giselle's life. The closer she got, the more cautious Giselle's steps became. Even her breathing slowed. When she finally stood behind Penelope, Giselle choked out, "Poppy, Mommy's home." Penelope froze for a fraction of a second before she whipped around sharply. The moment her gaze landed on Giselle, Penelope shrieked, "Quick, Mommy Chantelle! Protect me! The madwoman is back!"