“Hehehe, you don’t know yet, do you? The dress you’re wearing—it was actually left by my nanny. She didn’t want it, so now it's yours. A leftover, inferior remnant.”
Her words were sharp, mocking. But I wasn’t interested in the petty games she played. I turned away, my heart pounding with a growing sense of frustration.
But she wouldn’t stop. She grabbed my arm, her fingers digging into my skin.
“I know you despise me,” she sneered. “In your heart, you probably think I’m nothing but a broken shoe, don’t you? But guess what? In your husband’s heart, you’re not even worth as much as a broken shoe.”
She leaned in, her breath hot on my ear. “Do you really think he and I are just having a fling? That you’re the ‘true love’? Pfft. Let me tell you something. Your husband would rather pretend to be impotent than have a child with you.”
Her eyes glinted with malice.
“Because you’re psychotic.”
The words hit like a slap to the face. I recoiled, my body stiff with shock, but she wasn’t finished.
“Just like your mother. Your crazy murderer mother.”
I froze. The world around me seemed to fade.