Confess, Bitch

In an instant, every gaze in the hall felt like a physical weight, pinning me to the spot.

"Oh my God… is she really a homewrecker?"

"So that's what the CEO of VanceTech is really like?"

"She drove a man's wife to her death! That's so vicious!"

The murmurs swelled into a roar of condemnation. The university’s security guards finally reacted, trying to rush the stage to intervene.

"Who let him up here during such an important dedication ceremony? Get him down from there, now!"

But Ethan’s rage exploded. He pulled a folding knife from his pocket, its blade glinting coldly under the lights. He lunged forward, yanked me in front of him, and pressed the icy blade to my throat.

"Don't come any closer!"

The guards froze. The trustees' faces went pale with fear.

I took a deep breath, fighting to maintain a sliver of clarity amidst the chaos. I slowly raised my hands.

"I never knew your mother existed," I said carefully. "If you believe I ruined your family, we can call your father here right now. Let him tell everyone the truth."

I needed answers, too. I needed to know what was really going on.

But before I could finish, Ethan cut me off furiously.

"You've had my dad under your thumb for years! I'm not letting you hurt him again!" he roared.

"I want you to confess everything, right now, in front of all the media," he said, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket and shoving it in my face. "Read every single word of this 'public apology'! And then agree to transfer all your shares in VanceTech!"

I glanced down at it. It was a viciously worded, insulting confession that painted me as a shameless slut who had used power and her body to secure a marriage.

My face hardened, a cold fury rising in my chest. I stared at him and said, word by word.

"Never."

Ethan's expression turned savage. He had run out of patience. Then he played his trump card—he took out his phone and played a video.

The moment the video appeared, my breath hitched, my heart constricting in my chest as if squeezed by an invisible vise.

It was my daughter, Sophie. She was tied to a chair in a basement, her mouth sealed with duct tape, her small body trembling with fear.

"No!" I gasped.

"If you won't confess, I'll have her confess for you," Ethan sneered, his face filled with vengeful glee. "The little bastard born from a mistress… her blood is just as filthy."

He issued a command into his phone: "Let her get a good look."

In the video, a masked man pulled out a knife, the sharp blade hovering dangerously close to Sophie’s delicate cheek.

"Stop! No! Please, don't hurt her!" Panic consumed me, my heart hammering like it would explode. I couldn't lose her, my eight-year-old daughter.

In desperation, I choked out the words. "I'll do it… I'll confess to anything…" I cried, my voice shattering.

Ethan’s twisted smile deepened. He kicked the back of my knees, forcing me to the ground.

"Then speak," he commanded ruthlessly.

"However," he added mockingly, "to show everyone your 'sincerity,' perhaps this would be better—slap yourself for every sentence you read."