Who Is the Real Daughter of Marshalls

Yvonne's blade cut into my skin again and again, each slice accompanied by a bitter, venomous word. Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the blood, but I had become numb to the agony. My body hurt in so many places I could no longer pinpoint where the pain was coming from.

I could barely breathe, yet despite everything, Yvonne and her group of friends had no intention of letting me go. Instead, they began rampaging through the entire estate, smashing everything in sight.

The sound of shattering glass cut through my fog of pain, but it wasn’t until I forced my eyes open that I saw what truly made my heart drop: Yvonne stood holding framed pictures of my adoptive parents, their faces frozen in time.

"These are your parents, aren’t they?" Yvonne sneered, her voice dripping with mockery. “Do they know their daughter’s such a shameless tramp? Seducing someone else’s man?”

With a cold laugh, she raised the pictures high above her head and, with deliberate malice, smashed them against the floor.

"No!" I screamed inside, but my voice wouldn’t come. My body strained against the hands pinning me down, but I was helpless—powerless to stop the nightmare unfolding before my eyes. All I could do was watch helplessly as the pictures of my adoptive parents, encased in glass, shattered into countless pieces.

Just then, something inside me snapped. Hatred like I had never felt before coursed through my veins, overwhelming me. I wanted to tear Yvonne apart, to make her feel even a fraction of the pain she was causing me.

But all I could do was sob, my voice hoarse and weak as I lay sprawled on the ground, broken and beaten.

Yvonne’s voice rang out again, triumphant and callous. “Ladies, keep smashing! Let’s see what else this shameless woman treasures.” She laughed, drunk on power, her eyes gleaming with madness. “Today, I’m doing her parents a favor by teaching their disgrace of a daughter a lesson.”

As her words fell, Yvonne and her group rushed upstairs, destroying expensive antique vases and priceless paintings, smashing and ripping everything apart. Finally, one of them hesitated and spoke up, “Yvonne, aren’t we going too far? Everything here belongs to your boyfriend. If we break it all, won’t he be upset?”

Yvonne, hearing this, showed no concern and scolded coldly,“Lily, have you forgotten how we dealt with your husband’s mistress? Sluts like her deserve no mercy. In fact, I’m already going easy on her!"

She tossed her hair, smugness radiating from her. “Besides, my boyfriend is the CEO of the Evans Corporation. He won’t care about a few broken trinkets. Plus, I’m going to be his wife. He won’t mind."

As soon as her words dropped, the other women immediately chimed in with their agreement. Here, in San Francisco, no one dared to challenge the Evans family. They feared Wyatt more than they feared their own consciences.

With this, Yvonne and her friends continued smashing everything in the manor before returning to where I lay. I was sprawled on the ground, and the next moment, something white and powdery fell before my blood-covered eyes.

Is this…?

I stared blankly at the scattered white powder, then looked up to see Yvonne holding the urn containing my adoptive parents’ ashes!

A primal scream tore from my chest. With a surge of strength I didn’t know I had, I ripped free from the women restraining me and lunged at Yvonne, my hands reaching for the urn. But before I could grab it, she kicked me hard in the stomach.

Pain exploded through my abdomen, so intense it nearly blacked me out. I crumpled to the ground, clutching my stomach as the taste of blood filled my mouth. I spat it out, gasping, unable to even scream.

Then, I felt something warm and wet trickling down my legs.

"She's bleeding! She's bleeding!" A horrified voice shrieked.

"Is she pregnant? Oh my God!"

A deadly silence followed, broken only by Yvonne’s shocked gasp. “What?! This slut is carrying Wyatt’s child?!”

Her eyes widened with rage, and in a heartbeat, she was on me again, towering over me like a storm about to unleash its fury. “You whore! You seduced Wyatt and had the audacity to carry his baby?! I’ll kill you!”

Her hand raised the knife once more, aiming for my stomach, ready to end everything.

But then, someone grabbed her arm. One of the horrified women pleaded, “Yvonne, stop! You’ll kill her!”

“Yeah,” another chimed in, pale with fear. “This is enough. The baby’s gone. I think she already learned her lesson now. She won’t dare mess with Mr. Evans again.”

Yvonne hesitated, her breath ragged with fury. I could see the murderous intent in her eyes waver, but the madness hadn’t left her. Reluctantly, she lowered the knife.

By then, I was too weak to even move. Blood pooled around me as I lay there, every breath a struggle. The voices around me became distant echoes, and the room spun, blurring into darkness.

Before I closed my eyes, I faintly heard Yvonne talking to someone.

“Wyatt, guess who I’m with right now?” Her tone dripped with malicious glee.

“Who is it? And where are you?” From the other end of the line came a familiar, cold voice—Wyatt’s voice.

Yvonne smirked, stepping on my chest, her eyes filled with cruel delight as she held her phone toward me. “Look, Wyatt. Don’t you recognize this woman?”

My body trembled as I struggled to raise my head, but when Wyatt’s voice came through again, it wasn’t the recognition I was hoping for.

"Why should I recognize some disfigured, ugly woman?" Wyatt's voice was dismissive, cold. "Yvonne, stop wasting time with irrelevant people and come home."

His words hit harder than any slap, any knife. Irrelevant? My heart shattered anew, the pain in my chest spreading like wildfire.

This was the man who claimed to love me? The man who had done everything in his power to make me his? And now, as his twisted substitute brutally murdered the child in my womb, he remained indifferent—cold, even.

Yvonne, sensing the apathy in Wyatt’s tone, pouted like a spoiled child throwing a tantrum. Then, with a sly grin, she stripped me of my clothes, baring my broken body, and then casually pulled out her phone. She began snapping pictures of me, showcasing the wreckage of the manor around me like some grotesque trophy.

“Wyatt, take a closer look,” Yvonne's voice was sickeningly sweet, dripping with arrogance. "Do you really not recognize this place?"

The other side of the call suddenly fell silent.