Wushuochun Mountain

The news infected Southport’s upper circles like a virus.

For years, Melissa, the family’s head, had kept a “cripple”—a man not only fully capable, but one who had also been maintaining a sweet, unassuming little mistress on the side. Now exposed, Melissa was so furious she planned to auction the woman’s private photos across the entire city.

Undeniably, the year’s juiciest scandal.

Several family elders called, their words sharp, accusing me of having no sense of propriety, of dragging our name through the mud.

“Melissa! Have you lost your mind? Anthony was a great asset to this family, no matter what! For some tramp, you’d make such a spectacle? Do you want the whole city laughing at us?” It was my uncle on the line—the one who’d always coveted my position.

I cut him off coldly. “Uncle, you’d do well to remember who’s in charge. I haven’t forgotten Anthony’s contributions, and I’ll settle his debts myself. As for the family’s reputation—I built it. I’ll decide how to handle it.”

After hanging up, I changed into a black silk gown and stood before the mirror, painting my lips a fiery red.

In the reflection, the woman was flawlessly beautiful, her eyes cold as ice.

The Nightingale Auction House, Southport’s largest underground den of extravagance, belonged to me.

By the time I arrived, the place was packed.

Guests wore masks of every design, yet their gazes, fixed on me, brimmed with naked curiosity and thrill.

I took my seat in the second-floor private booth, the one-way glass separating me from the clamor below.

The auction proceeded smoothly—antiques, jewelry, rare medicinal herbs—the atmosphere growing steadily hotter.

Finally, the host announced in a tone both mysterious and suggestive, “Next, tonight’s final lot. A piece of… ‘exclusive memory’ from a certain prominent figure.”

Allison’s tear-streaked face flashed onto the large screen.

Then, a series of photos began to scroll.

A wave of stifled gasps and whistles rose from below.

At that moment, the booth door crashed open.

Anthony stormed in.

He wore a black trench coat, posture straight, steps steady—not a trace of the cripple remained.

The face I’d looked at for six years, etched into my bones, was now twisted with towering rage and… something else I couldn’t quite place. Panic, perhaps.

“Melissa!” He rushed forward, planting his hands on the arms of my chair, caging me against the sofa. “Do you have to do this?”

I lifted my gaze, meeting his eyes calmly. “Do what?”

“You know what I mean!” he nearly snarled. “Stop the auction. Destroy the photos!”

“On what grounds?” I let out a soft, mirthless laugh. “Mr. Anthony, what authority are you using to order me around? As my bodyguard? That ended six years ago. As my man?” I paused, letting the words hang. “You don’t deserve that title.”

*Don’t deserve.* The phrase struck him like two sharp slaps.

His face paled instantly. The fire in his eyes dimmed, churning with something complicated.

“Melissa…” His voice softened, edged with pleading. “Don’t do this. Whatever’s between us, leave her out of it. Allison… she’s not like us. She’s just an ordinary girl. She can’t handle this.”

In that moment, my heart turned to dust.

*Not like us.*

Yes, she was different.

Pure, innocent—a delicate flower needing protection.

And me? I, Melissa, had clawed my way out of hell. My hands were stained with blood, my heart brimming with hate. No ordinary girl.

So was I just supposed to accept the betrayal? Deserve the hurt?

“Anthony.” I looked at him, enunciating every word. “Listen carefully. Anyone in this world could say that to me. Anyone but you.”

He seemed to flinch from the chill in my gaze, retreating a step.

Downstairs, the bidding had already begun, numbers climbing rapidly.

“Melissa, I’m begging you.”

He looked at me—this man who would rather have his leg broken than bow his head, the man I once believed was the proudest in the world. For that girl, Allison, he slowly, deliberately, lowered himself to one knee before me.

“Let her go.”

Something inside me shattered completely then.

Looking at him kneeling there, I was suddenly washed over by a wave of bitter, hollow amusement.

Slowly, I rose, stepped around him, and walked to the glass. Lifting the intercom from the table, I spoke coolly to the host below.

“The photos are boring.”

“Let’s try something new.”

“Bring Allison herself up here.”