On Our Wedding, He Sent Me to Prison to Save His Mistress

Back in the guest room, Helena sat motionless on the edge of the bed, her eyes fixed on her phone.

On the screen, the flight information for four days later glowed faintly—a small, distant beacon of freedom. But now, that fragile light could no longer pierce through the numb, suffocating darkness inside her.

Three years ago, she had been framed, trampled, stripped of everything.

And now—was he planning to destroy the last thing she had left? Her dignity, her innocence?

She would never let that happen again!

...

The next morning, Helena forced her aching body out of bed.

Downstairs, Laica was sitting gracefully on the very sofa Helena had once handpicked for the house. Dressed head to toe in Chanel's latest collection, she sipped her coffee with practiced elegance—like the true mistress of the house.

The moment she saw Helena, Laica set down her cup and rose with a sugary smile. "Helena, you're awake? I heard something happened to you yesterday—I was so worried! I came to check on you personally."

Helena's gaze was icy. "I don't need your fake concern."

The smile on Laica's face faltered—but only for a second. Then, it curled into a smirk, sharp and taunting.

She reached into her designer bag, took out her phone, and turned the screen toward Helena.

"Really? Then I suppose you won't need this either."

Helena's gaze dropped—and her heart stopped.

On the screen were photos from last night—her clothes torn, her face streaked with tears, humiliation captured in cruel, deliberate angles.

Every photo screamed shame.

Laica watched the color drain from Helena's face, her voice dripping with venomous delight. "I've already sent them out. Every media outlet in Boston should have received them by now."

She leaned closer, whispering like a demon savoring her victory. "Stop investigating my thesis from three years ago. Otherwise, these photos will just be the appetizer."

Her voice hardened. "I have a hundred ways to ruin you, Helena—to make sure you'll never rise again."

"Damn you, Laica!" Helena's vision went red. She lunged forward, fury exploding as she tried to snatch the phone from Laica's hand.

"Ah!" Laica screamed and dramatically stumbled backward, collapsing in an exaggerated heap. The phone clattered to the floor.

"Laica!"

A man's furious voice thundered from the doorway.

Jackson stormed in. Without even glancing at Helena, he rushed to Laica's side, cradling her protectively.

"Jackson, I... I just came to check on Helena..." Laica whimpered, tears sparkling as she trembled pitifully in his arms.

Jackson turned, his eyes cold and cutting like shards of ice. "Helena—what the hell is wrong with you now?"

"She—she sent those photos online!" Helena's voice shook with rage.

But Jackson only looked more disgusted. "Those photos were leaked by those thugs from last night! I've already handled it!"

"Laica came out of kindness, and you still slandered her?!" His voice cracked like a whip. "Apologize to her!"

Apologize?

Helena stared at him, eyes burning with disbelief and hatred. "I did nothing wrong."

"I won't apologize."

Jackson's expression hardened into fury. His patience snapped. He turned to the guards at the door, his voice like steel.

"Lock her in the basement."

"No food. No water. Let's see how long she can keep that stubborn mouth shut."

The guards grabbed her roughly. Helena didn't struggle.

She only turned her hollow, lifeless eyes toward Laica—who was nestled in Jackson's arms, smiling triumphantly.

...

Darkness. Cold. Hunger.

Time blurred.

Helena didn't know how long she'd been locked in the basement. Her lips were dry, her body weak, her stomach twisting in pain.

Just as her vision began to fade into black, the door finally creaked open.