Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Stop following Ethan Bennett! Can't you see you two have broken up? Have some self-respect!"

I froze, staring at the furious woman standing by the community fountain, 不知所措. Her voice was so loud, like a walking megaphone. People around us stopped and cast strange glances our way. I was so embarrassed I wanted to dig a hole in the ground and crawl into it.

I fumbled for words, finally stammering out, "Y-you... don't get me wrong. I just want to know if Ethan Bennett is doing okay."

"You come to this neighborhood every few days just to check on how he's doing? Don't worry—Ethan Bennett is doing great without you. He no longer has to go pick you up from bars in the middle of the night, he doesn't have to get dragged into fights to back you up, and he doesn't have to get beaten up by some thugs for no reason during meals!" The woman spoke triumphantly, word by word. Only then did I realize how hard Ethan Bennett's life had been with me.

I looked at her face—clearly a pure, cute-looking face, yet now twisted with disgust and hatred. I didn't dare meet her eyes, asking tentatively, "Are you his first love?"

Even though I had seen this woman entering and leaving the neighborhood with Ethan Bennett many times, I had clung to a thousand excuses to deceive myself: that Ethan Bennett still loved me, that he had just made up an excuse to take a temporary break from me—until I heard her admit it herself.

I fixed my gaze on her mouth, hoping for an answer, at least the part I wanted to hear.

The woman spoke impatiently, "Yes, I'm the first love Ethan Bennett told you about—Clara Winslow. I..."

That single word "yes" was enough. I didn't need to hear anything else. Before she could finish, my emotions surged inside me. Unable to control myself, I raised my hand and slapped her across the face. She stumbled and fell to the ground, caught off guard by the blow.

I hated her. She had stolen Ethan Bennett from me. If she hadn't come back, none of this would have happened. Ethan Bennett wouldn't have left me, and we would still be the model couple everyone admired.

"You crazy woman! Why did you hit me?" She stared at me in shock, surely confused by how the timid woman from a moment ago now glared at her with murderous intent, like a cold, emotionless executioner. Clara Winslow covered her face and burst into tears, all her earlier arrogance gone.

A group of elderly women who had been watching the commotion pulled me away, while others helped Clara Winslow to her feet. Hysterical, I screamed at her like a shrew, "Why did you have to come back and ruin everything when we were doing so well? Do you know we were almost married? Congratulations on stealing my man! Not only did you take my place, but now you won't even let me catch a glimpse of him! I just want to see if he's okay, and you won't even let me do that!"

"You two were going to get married?" Clara Winslow looked at me in confusion, her hand still on her cheek. Before Clara Winslow had come back, Ethan Bennett had proposed to me.

The elderly onlookers began to criticize Clara Winslow for her "indecent" behavior. Words cut deeper than knives, and Clara Winslow was drowned out by their accusations, unable to defend herself. Having achieved my goal, I quietly slipped away from the crowd.

It was this incident that sparked the hatred between Clara Winslow and me. Ethan Bennett even took me off his blacklist just to yell at me. But instead of getting angry, I felt happy—because he was finally willing to talk to me again.

A few weeks later, I never expected that an ordinary working woman like me would become a trending topic online.

A post portrayed me as a woman involved in gang life, working as a hostess in a bar who sold her body for money, bragging about "easy cash." It also claimed I bullied the weak, formed cliques, and beat up minors—accompanied by several obviously photoshopped pictures. The post painted me as a monster, all lies made out of thin air. Ridiculously, people believed it. Some even pretended to be "victims" in the comments to make the post seem more credible. What I couldn't understand was how this post had become so popular.

I admit I've gotten into fights to stand up for my friends, and I've gone to bars to hang out with drinking buddies—but I never sold my body for money. Luckily, I was born into a good family; they never let me go hungry or want for anything. I had no reason to grovel for a meager living.

Since my mother gave birth to me later in life, my whole family doted on me, spoiling me in everything I did. That made me grow up to be arrogant and unruly. But despite my stubborn streak, I had never done anything truly evil. I never bullied the weak, let alone minors. I wasn't some "gang sister"—I just had a lot of friends. Though now, where were those friends? When trouble came, they scattered like birds. Not a single one dared to speak up for me or tell the truth.

I was exposed to the public eye—my contact information and home address were leaked.

I received countless harassing calls and threatening text messages. Strangers banged on my door, pried at my locks, and smashed my windows in the middle of the night. I lived in constant fear, too scared to stay in my own home. My friends didn't dare take me in either; they couldn't wait to cut all ties with me. That's what some so-called friends are like: when you're down on your luck, they're ready to stab you in the heart with a knife—and then make you admire the hilt.

I found a shabby inn to stay in, going out fully disguised like a celebrity. But even then, people still recognized me. I was spat on in the street and chased by mobs.

I had no idea how things had spiraled so out of control. I frantically tried to defend myself in the comments under that post, but my messages never got as many views as the insults hurled at me. People clamored to "stand up for justice" based on the lies they saw, each one hiding behind their screens to morally condemn me, to hold me hostage with their so-called righteousness. They had no idea that I wasn't the one in the wrong—they were.

My company fired me because of the damage to its reputation. I lost my job, and because of this false scandal, I couldn't even find a new one.

What was even more hateful was that this incident affected my parents too!

My parents, both in their sixties, received threatening calls. They got dead chickens and countless razor blades in the mail. They should have been enjoying their golden years in peace, but instead, they were so terrified by those mindless onlookers that they didn't dare step out of their house.

My family has been in business for generations; we value our reputation more than our lives. Now my parents were retired, living in their hometown to enjoy their old age. In such a small rural community, they wanted nothing more than peace. But because of me, I had brought shame upon my entire family.

My father was so enraged by this incident that he fell ill. The onlookers gathered at our door, blocking my parents and preventing them from leaving—making my father miss the critical window for medical treatment. He suffered a stroke and became bedridden, a vegetable to this day. My mother told me this over the phone, sobbing uncontrollably. I couldn't even imagine how helpless she must have felt. All I could do was slap myself, hating my own filial piety, begging my mother to forgive me for not being able to go back and see my father.

Because of my powerlessness, I gained another stain on that post—they "condemned" me for not going back to see my sick father, calling me unfilial. My mother couldn't bear the pressure anymore. I begged her to announce to the public that she had cut off all ties with me. Only by sacrificing myself could I protect my already crumbling family.

In just one month, because of that post—those made-up lies—I had lost everything!

I was afraid to go out, afraid to socialize, afraid to hear any news. My mental health deteriorated severely. I became paranoid, always thinking someone was out to harm me. I developed paranoid delusions and severe depression.

When my symptoms flared up, I lost control of my bodily functions and would fly into uncontrollable rages. I would sneak back to my old neighborhood at night, sit on the windowsill of the 10th-floor balcony, feeling empty inside as I stared at the night sky. At dawn, I would drag myself back to the inn. During my episodes, I did even more strange and terrifying things. I had no idea why I acted that way.

During that time, my friend Tyler Hayes took care of me, like a nanny cleaning up the mess and filth I left all over the room. Time and time again, he pulled me back from the brink of death.

He spoke up for me online, took me to get treatment, called the police, and hired a lawyer to fight for my rights. He endured the flood of rumors and lived in fear every night. Yet he stood firm like a warrior, unafraid to swim against the tide—just like how I had stood up for him in college when he was being bullied by our classmates.

Only those with scars of their own can truly understand how much another person's wounds hurt.

The police told me that the account used to post the slanderous article had been bought on a platform, with no traceable information. The post's popularity had been boosted by paid trolls; half of the comments came from anonymous troll accounts. So the police couldn't find the culprit.

However, the authorities did issue a statement, deleting the post and releasing a notice. But even so, my life remained shrouded in darkness for a long time. It's easy to splash mud on someone, but incredibly hard to clean it off. Once you're stained, a large part of your life is tarnished. It felt like I had been knocked unconscious and beaten with sticks. Even though I woke up, my body was covered in injuries.

And those wounds might take a lifetime to heal—if they ever do.