“Mrs. Thompson, my eye hurts a bit. I need to rest.”
She nodded and went to wash the dishes.
When she came back, she saw me lying still and assumed I was asleep.
She went straight for my baby’s container.
I suddenly grabbed her hand.
“What are you doing?”
She jumped in shock.
“Ms. Summers, I thought you were asleep!”
“I’m just following Mr. Hayes’s orders. Please don’t make this harder on me.”
She shook off my hand and grabbed the container.
I lunged forward to stop her.
“Let go of it! Do you hear me?”
She slapped me so hard I fell back onto the bed.
Blood seeped through the gauze on my right eye.
“What are you doing! You’re just a caregiver — how dare you hit me?”
But Mrs. Thompson showed no fear, clutching the container tightly.
“As long as I get this out of here, my daughter’s future will be safe!”
Daughter?
I froze.
Of course — she was Zoey’s mother.
So Ethan had chosen her deliberately.
I staggered forward to stop her, but she kicked me hard in the stomach, sending me sliding across the floor.
I curled up, gagging, my lips trembling.
“Put it down! I’ve already called the police!”
Mrs. Thompson spat at me.
“Ha! Mr. Hayes will take care of it!”
Then she walked out without looking back.
I crawled back to the bed, barely breathing.
After what felt like an eternity, my phone rang.
“Thank you, Claire!”
I sneered.
“You’re thanking me too early, Ethan Hayes.”
“Claire Summers! Are you trying to ruin me?”
His furious roar echoed through the phone from the exhibition hall.
On the giant screen of the exhibition, a video was playing —
Zoey and Ethan, having sex in the studio.
When I first saw the video, my nails dug deep into my palm.
Especially when I heard Ethan moaning “Zoey” over and over, his hands groping her shamelessly.
That night, the entire exhibition went viral.
Screenshots flooded Facebook.
When Ethan stormed into the hospital room like a man possessed,
I calmly set down my book and glanced at him.
I had seen this scene before — but the roles had changed.
Years ago, when my mother was rushed into the ICU,
I had offered a huge reward for a donor, but everyone failed the match test.
When I was sitting hopelessly in the hospital,
I met Ethan, a street artist selling sketches.
He was the one match who succeeded.
I tried to pay him to settle the matter, but he refused any money — he only asked for a chance.
Maybe he truly was a struggling artist.
I gave him a little help,
and he shot to fame overnight.